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NLP Research Group 9

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

habit

How many times the word 'habit' appears in the text?

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

punch

How many times the word 'punch' appears in the text?

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

cat

How many times the word 'cat' appears in the text?

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

alleged

How many times the word 'alleged' appears in the text?

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

dreaming

How many times the word 'dreaming' appears in the text?

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

gules

How many times the word 'gules' appears in the text?

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

discouraged

How many times the word 'discouraged' appears in the text?

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

artists

How many times the word 'artists' appears in the text?

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

so

How many times the word 'so' appears in the text?

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

right

How many times the word 'right' appears in the text?

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

can

How many times the word 'can' appears in the text?

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

glass

How many times the word 'glass' appears in the text?

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

circumstances

How many times the word 'circumstances' appears in the text?

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

ne

How many times the word 'ne' appears in the text?

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

woman

How many times the word 'woman' appears in the text?

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

would

How many times the word 'would' appears in the text?

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

plodding

How many times the word 'plodding' appears in the text?

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

un

How many times the word 'un' appears in the text?

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

speaking

How many times the word 'speaking' appears in the text?

"Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.' CHAPTER 14 'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were

afterwards

How many times the word 'afterwards' appears in the text?

"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! AMEN ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY BRILLIANT CAREER*** ******* This file should be named 11620.txt or 11620.zip ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.net/1/1/6/2/11620 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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understood

How many times the word 'understood' appears in the text?

"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! AMEN ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY BRILLIANT CAREER*** ******* This file should be named 11620.txt or 11620.zip ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.net/1/1/6/2/11620 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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once

How many times the word 'once' appears in the text?

"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! 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"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! AMEN ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY BRILLIANT CAREER*** ******* This file should be named 11620.txt or 11620.zip ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.net/1/1/6/2/11620 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! AMEN ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY BRILLIANT CAREER*** ******* This file should be named 11620.txt or 11620.zip ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.net/1/1/6/2/11620 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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always

How many times the word 'always' appears in the text?

"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! AMEN ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY BRILLIANT CAREER*** ******* This file should be named 11620.txt or 11620.zip ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.net/1/1/6/2/11620 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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hurt

How many times the word 'hurt' appears in the text?

"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! AMEN ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY BRILLIANT CAREER*** ******* This file should be named 11620.txt or 11620.zip ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.net/1/1/6/2/11620 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. *** START: FULL LICENSE *** THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at http://gutenberg.net/license). Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works 1.A. 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offered

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"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! 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letter

How many times the word 'letter' appears in the text?

"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! AMEN ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY BRILLIANT CAREER*** ******* This file should be named 11620.txt or 11620.zip ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.net/1/1/6/2/11620 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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spirit

How many times the word 'spirit' appears in the text?

"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! AMEN ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY BRILLIANT CAREER*** ******* This file should be named 11620.txt or 11620.zip ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.net/1/1/6/2/11620 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! 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nine

How many times the word 'nine' appears in the text?

"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! AMEN ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY BRILLIANT CAREER*** ******* This file should be named 11620.txt or 11620.zip ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.net/1/1/6/2/11620 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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How many times the word 'two' appears in the text?

"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! AMEN ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY BRILLIANT CAREER*** ******* This file should be named 11620.txt or 11620.zip ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.net/1/1/6/2/11620 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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glad

How many times the word 'glad' appears in the text?

"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! AMEN ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY BRILLIANT CAREER*** ******* This file should be named 11620.txt or 11620.zip ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.net/1/1/6/2/11620 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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hesitation

How many times the word 'hesitation' appears in the text?

"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! AMEN ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY BRILLIANT CAREER*** ******* This file should be named 11620.txt or 11620.zip ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.net/1/1/6/2/11620 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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brothers

How many times the word 'brothers' appears in the text?

"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! AMEN ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY BRILLIANT CAREER*** ******* This file should be named 11620.txt or 11620.zip ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.net/1/1/6/2/11620 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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refusal

How many times the word 'refusal' appears in the text?

"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! AMEN ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY BRILLIANT CAREER*** ******* This file should be named 11620.txt or 11620.zip ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.net/1/1/6/2/11620 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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mockery

How many times the word 'mockery' appears in the text?

"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! 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"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! AMEN ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY BRILLIANT CAREER*** ******* This file should be named 11620.txt or 11620.zip ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.net/1/1/6/2/11620 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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afraid

How many times the word 'afraid' appears in the text?

"Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?" he asked half wistfully, half angrily. "Oh no; it isn't that. I'm really very fond of you, if you'd only understand," I said half to myself. "Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you, and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I know you care for me, I _will_ have you, in spite of the devil." "There will be a great tussle between you," I said mischievously, laughing at him. "Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I'm sure he will dispute your right." At any time Harold's sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now. He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky. "Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. You don't know what you mean when you say no." No; I would not yield. He offered me everything--but control. He was a man who meant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no, no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, must understand. "Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!" His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. I had no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way. What was the good of waiting for that other--the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me. "Syb, Syb, can't you love me just a little?" There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart. It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me. "Hal, it can never be." He dropped my hands and drew himself up. "I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out." "Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It would not be wise for you to marry me." "But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied." We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went. I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Harold would be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him. And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: DEAR HAROLD, I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not good enough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free. Good-bye, Hal! Your sincere and affec. friend, SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN. Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm. "Oh, Rory, Rory!" I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. "In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy--life? Will it always be this ghastly aloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little I The morning came, breakfast, next Harold's departure. I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing--thus on and on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or an Assyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stock diseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keep bread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but what I was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take my choice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning, aim, hope, or use? In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share of the goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none the easier to bear. My mother's voice, sharp and cross, roused me. "Sybylla, you lazy unprincipled girl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. You sit idling there, and then by and by you'll be groaning about this terrible life in which there's time for nothing but work." How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame of mind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went to the dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the whole world, and the world itself for the matter of that. "Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You've put Stanley's trousers in the boil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father's best white handkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now." Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduous toil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last straw was the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table. I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not have received more lecturing. I deserved it--I was careless, cups were scarce with us, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindingly uneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of a common cup is good for a long scolding. Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time when she was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it by years and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, and poverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy for delicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make many an oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbing interest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you could understand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hear the pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of a violin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream. Ah, thou cruel fiend--Ambition! Desire! "Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name--Desire!" To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thing is motion. No, that part of me went beyond my mother's understanding. On the other hand, there was a part of my mother--her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, her heroic struggle to keep the home together--which went soaring on beyond my understanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust. Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next and the next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after. If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but a great organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to which nought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so--what then? I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden round of grinding tasks--a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience, O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am the most suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when he is inebriated. It breaks my mother's heart to do it; it is dangerous for my brothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I have the faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if it makes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter? II The next letter I received from Gertie contained: I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or I would have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him. Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham. We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time? Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows. There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but I held my peace. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT A Tale that is told and a Day that is done "There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine; They are weary, yet uncomplaining,-- I know it, yet I repine: I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret." A. L. GORDON. 'Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899 Christmas, only distinguished from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum- and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same. What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care. "Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead; And then, we women cannot choose our lot." Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom of the past, the neck will grow inured to its yoke. Tonight is one of the times when the littleness--the abject littleness--of all things in life comes home to me. After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true--true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul? "But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall--it matters little; Now I only long for rest." To weary hearts throbbing slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest. And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight--not with the ache of a young heart passionately crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished and defeated! * * * * * Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme: I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls. Ah, my sunburnt brothers!--sons of toil and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful. And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy to be one of you--more a typical Australian peasant--cheerful, honest, brave! I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil--I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a--woman! * * * * * The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all--Good night! Good-bye! 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feel

How many times the word 'feel' appears in the text?

"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

announced

How many times the word 'announced' appears in the text?

"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

dr.

How many times the word 'dr.' appears in the text?

"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

sired

How many times the word 'sired' appears in the text?

"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

days

How many times the word 'days' appears in the text?

"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

that----

How many times the word 'that----' appears in the text?

"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

rest

How many times the word 'rest' appears in the text?

"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

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"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

midway

How many times the word 'midway' appears in the text?

"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

project

How many times the word 'project' appears in the text?

"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

kidding

How many times the word 'kidding' appears in the text?

"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

cabin

How many times the word 'cabin' appears in the text?

"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

grenada

How many times the word 'grenada' appears in the text?

"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

table

How many times the word 'table' appears in the text?

"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

buckle

How many times the word 'buckle' appears in the text?

"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

ask

How many times the word 'ask' appears in the text?

"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

sighed

How many times the word 'sighed' appears in the text?

"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

stormers

How many times the word 'stormers' appears in the text?

"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

necessity

How many times the word 'necessity' appears in the text?

"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

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How many times the word 'find' appears in the text?

"And now, Senior Capitan?" "And now," said Captain Blood--to give him the title he had assumed--"being a humane man, I am sorry to find that ye're not dead from the tap we gave you. For it means that you'll be put to the trouble of dying all over again." "Ah!" Don Diego drew a deep breath. "But is that necessary?" he asked, without apparent perturbation. Captain Blood's blue eyes approved his bearing. "Ask yourself," said he. "Tell me, as an experienced and bloody pirate, what in my place would you do, yourself?" "Ah, but there is a difference." Don Diego sat up to argue the matter. "It lies in the fact that you boast yourself a humane man." Captain Blood perched himself on the edge of the long oak table. "But I am not a fool," said he, "and I'll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my doing what is necessary and proper. You and your ten surviving scoundrels are a menace on this ship. More than that, she is none so well found in water and provisions. True, we are fortunately a small number, but you and your party inconveniently increase it. So that on every hand, you see, prudence suggests to us that we should deny ourselves the pleasure of your company, and, steeling our soft hearts to the inevitable, invite you to be so obliging as to step over the side." "I see," said the Spaniard pensively. He swung his legs from the couch, and sat now upon the edge of it, his elbows on his knees. He had taken the measure of his man, and met him with a mock-urbanity and a suave detachment that matched his own. "I confess," he admitted, "that there is much force in what you say." "You take a load from my mind," said Captain Blood. "I would not appear unnecessarily harsh, especially since I and my friends owe you so very much. For, whatever it may have been to others, to us your raid upon Barbados was most opportune. I am glad, therefore, that you agree the I have no choice." "But, my friend, I did not agree so much." "If there is any alternative that you can suggest, I shall be most happy to consider it." Don Diego stroked his pointed black beard. "Can you give me until morning for reflection? My head aches so damnably that I am incapable of thought. And this, you will admit, is a matter that asks serious thought." Captain Blood stood up. From a shelf he took a half-hour glass, reversed it so that the bulb containing the red sand was uppermost, and stood it on the table. "I am sorry to press you in such a matter, Don Diego, but one glass is all that I can give you. If by the time those sands have run out you can propose no acceptable alternative, I shall most reluctantly be driven to ask you to go over the side with your friends." Captain Blood bowed, went out, and locked the door. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands, Don Diego sat watching the rusty sands as they filtered from the upper to the lower bulb. And what time he watched, the lines in his lean brown face grew deeper. Punctually as the last grains ran out, the door reopened. The Spaniard sighed, and sat upright to face the returning Captain Blood with the answer for which he came. "I have thought of an alternative, sir captain; but it depends upon your charity. It is that you put us ashore on one of the islands of this pestilent archipelago, and leave us to shift for ourselves." Captain Blood pursed his lips. "It has its difficulties," said he slowly. "I feared it would be so." Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more." The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel. "You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?" The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes. "The question is offensive, sir." "Then let me put it in another way--perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?" "Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." It was the first sign he had shown of the least heat or resentment. Captain Blood did not directly answer. As before he perched himself on the corner of the table. "Would you be willing, sir, to earn life and liberty--for yourself, your son, and the other Spaniards who are on board?" "To earn it?" said Don Diego, and the watchful blue eyes did not miss the quiver that ran through him. "To earn it, do you say? Why, if the service you would propose is one that cannot hurt my honour...." "Could I be guilty of that?" protested the Captain. "I realize that even a pirate has his honour." And forthwith he propounded his offer. "If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent--to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. I can handle a ship in action, and there are one or two men aboard who can assist me; but of the higher mysteries of seamanship and of the art of finding a way over the trackless wastes of ocean, we know nothing. To hug the land, and go blundering about what you so aptly call this pestilent archipelago, is for us to court disaster, as you can perhaps conceive. And so it comes to this: We desire to make for the Dutch settlement of Curacao as straightly as possible. Will you pledge me your honour, if I release you upon parole, that you will navigate us thither? If so, we will release you and your surviving men upon arrival there." Don Diego bowed his head upon his breast, and strode away in thought to the stern windows. There he stood looking out upon the sunlit sea and the dead water in the great ship's wake--his ship, which these English dogs had wrested from him; his ship, which he was asked to bring safely into a port where she would be completely lost to him and refitted perhaps to make war upon his kin. That was in one scale; in the other were the lives of sixteen men. Fourteen of them mattered little to him, but the remaining two were his own and his son's. He turned at length, and his back being to the light, the Captain could not see how pale his face had grown. "I accept," he said. CHAPTER XI. FILIAL PIETY By virtue of the pledge he had given, Don Diego de Espinosa enjoyed the freedom of the ship that had been his, and the navigation which he had undertaken was left entirely in his hands. And because those who manned her were new to the seas of the Spanish Main, and because even the things that had happened in Bridgetown were not enough to teach them to regard every Spaniard as a treacherous, cruel dog to be slain at sight, they used him with the civility which his own suave urbanity invited. He took his meals in the great cabin with Blood and the three officers elected to support him: Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Dyke. They found Don Diego an agreeable, even an amusing companion, and their friendly feeling towards him was fostered by his fortitude and brave equanimity in this adversity. That Don Diego was not playing fair it was impossible to suspect. Moreover, there was no conceivable reason why he should not. And he had been of the utmost frankness with them. He had denounced their mistake in sailing before the wind upon leaving Barbados. They should have left the island to leeward, heading into the Caribbean and away from the archipelago. As it was, they would now be forced to pass through this archipelago again so as to make Curacao, and this passage was not to be accomplished without some measure of risk to themselves. At any point between the islands they might come upon an equal or superior craft; whether she were Spanish or English would be equally bad for them, and being undermanned they were in no case to fight. To lessen this risk as far as possible, Don Diego directed at first a southerly and then a westerly course; and so, taking a line midway between the islands of Tobago and Grenada, they won safely through the danger-zone and came into the comparative security of the Caribbean Sea. "If this wind holds," he told them that night at supper, after he had announced to them their position, "we should reach Curacao inside three days." For three days the wind held, indeed it freshened a little on the second, and yet when the third night descended upon them they had still made no landfall. The Cinco Llagas was ploughing through a sea contained on every side by the blue bowl of heaven. Captain Blood uneasily mentioned it to Don Diego. "It will be for to-morrow morning," he was answered with calm conviction. "By all the saints, it is always 'to-morrow morning' with you Spaniards; and to-morrow never comes, my friend." "But this to-morrow is coming, rest assured. However early you may be astir, you shall see land ahead, Don Pedro." Captain Blood passed on, content, and went to visit Jerry Pitt, his patient, to whose condition Don Diego owed his chance of life. For twenty-four hours now the fever had left the sufferer, and under Peter Blood's dressings, his lacerated back was beginning to heal satisfactorily. So far, indeed, was he recovered that he complained of his confinement, of the heat in his cabin. To indulge him Captain Blood consented that he should take the air on deck, and so, as the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, Jeremy Pitt came forth upon the Captain's arm. Seated on the hatch-coamings, the Somersetshire lad gratefully filled his lungs with the cool night air, and professed himself revived thereby. Then with the seaman's instinct his eyes wandered to the darkling vault of heaven, spangled already with a myriad golden points of light. Awhile he scanned it idly, vacantly; then, his attention became sharply fixed. He looked round and up at Captain Blood, who stood beside him. "D'ye know anything of astronomy, Peter?" quoth he. "Astronomy, is it? Faith, now, I couldn't tell the Belt of Orion from the Girdle of Venus." "Ah! And I suppose all the others of this lubberly crew share your ignorance." "It would be more amiable of you to suppose that they exceed it." Jeremy pointed ahead to a spot of light in the heavens over the starboard bow. "That is the North Star," said he. "Is it now? Glory be, I wonder ye can pick it out from the rest." "And the North Star ahead almost over your starboard bow means that we're steering a course, north, northwest, or maybe north by west, for I doubt if we are standing more than ten degrees westward." "And why shouldn't we?" wondered Captain Blood. "You told me--didn't you?--that we came west of the archipelago between Tobago and Grenada, steering for Curacao. If that were our present course, we should have the North Star abeam, out yonder." On the instant Mr. Blood shed his laziness. He stiffened with apprehension, and was about to speak when a shaft of light clove the gloom above their heads, coming from the door of the poop cabin which had just been opened. It closed again, and presently there was a step on the companion. Don Diego was approaching. Captain Blood's fingers pressed Jerry's shoulder with significance. Then he called the Don, and spoke to him in English as had become his custom when others were present. "Will ye settle a slight dispute for us, Don Diego?" said he lightly. "We are arguing, Mr. Pitt and I, as to which is the North Star." "So?" The Spaniard's tone was easy; there was almost a suggestion that laughter lurked behind it, and the reason for this was yielded by his next sentence. "But you tell me Mr. Pitt he is your navigant?" "For lack of a better," laughed the Captain, good-humouredly contemptuous. "Now I am ready to wager him a hundred pieces of eight that that is the North Star." And he flung out an arm towards a point of light in the heavens straight abeam. He afterwards told Pitt that had Don Diego confirmed him, he would have run him through upon that instant. Far from that, however, the Spaniard freely expressed his scorn. "You have the assurance that is of ignorance, Don Pedro; and you lose. The North Star is this one." And he indicated it. "You are sure?" "But my dear Don Pedro!" The Spaniard's tone was one of amused protest. "But is it possible that I mistake? Besides, is there not the compass? Come to the binnacle and see there what course we make." His utter frankness, and the easy manner of one who has nothing to conceal resolved at once the doubt that had leapt so suddenly in the mind of Captain Blood. Pitt was satisfied less easily. "In that case, Don Diego, will you tell me, since Curacao is our destination, why our course is what it is?" Again there was no faintest hesitation on Don Diego's part. "You have reason to ask," said he, and sighed. "I had hope' it would not be observe'. I have been careless--oh, of a carelessness very culpable. I neglect observation. Always it is my way. I make too sure. I count too much on dead reckoning. And so to-day I find when at last I take out the quadrant that we do come by a half-degree too much south, so that Curacao is now almost due north. That is what cause the delay. But we will be there to-morrow." The explanation, so completely satisfactory, and so readily and candidly forthcoming, left no room for further doubt that Don Diego should have been false to his parole. And when presently Don Diego had withdrawn again, Captain Blood confessed to Pitt that it was absurd to have suspected him. Whatever his antecedents, he had proved his quality when he announced himself ready to die sooner than enter into any undertaking that could hurt his honour or his country. New to the seas of the Spanish Main and to the ways of the adventurers who sailed it, Captain Blood still entertained illusions. But the next dawn was to shatter them rudely and for ever. Coming on deck before the sun was up, he saw land ahead, as the Spaniard had promised them last night. Some ten miles ahead it lay, a long coast-line filling the horizon east and west, with a massive headland jutting forward straight before them. Staring at it, he frowned. He had not conceived that Curacao was of such considerable dimensions. Indeed, this looked less like an island than the main itself. Beating out aweather, against the gentle landward breeze he beheld a great ship on their starboard bow, that he conceived to be some three or four miles off, and--as well as he could judge her at that distance--of a tonnage equal if not superior to their own. Even as he watched her she altered her course, and going about came heading towards them, close-hauled. A dozen of his fellows were astir on the forecastle, looking eagerly ahead, and the sound of their voices and laughter reached him across the length of the stately Cinco Llagas. "There," said a soft voice behind him in liquid Spanish, "is the Promised Land, Don Pedro." It was something in that voice, a muffled note of exultation, that awoke suspicion in him, and made whole the half-doubt he had been entertaining. He turned sharply to face Don Diego, so sharply that the sly smile was not effaced from the Spaniard's countenance before Captain Blood's eyes had flashed upon it. "You find an odd satisfaction in the sight of it--all things considered," said Mr. Blood. "Of course." The Spaniard rubbed his hands, and Mr. Blood observed that they were unsteady. "The satisfaction of a mariner." "Or of a traitor--which?" Blood asked him quietly. And as the Spaniard fell back before him with suddenly altered countenance that confirmed his every suspicion, he flung an arm out in the direction of the distant shore. "What land is that?" he demanded. "Will you have the effrontery to tell me that is the coast of Curacao?" He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back. "Shall I tell you what land it is? Shall I?" His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard. For still Don Diego made no answer. And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture--or not quite at a venture. Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola. Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories. "That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola." Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there. But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below. His lips writhed in a snarling smile. "Ah, perro ingles! You know too much," he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain's throat. Tight-locked in each other's arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard's feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood. The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable. But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery. He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them--a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola. But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose. This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain's shout came clattering up the companion. "Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?" Captain Blood was furiously mocking him. But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery. "Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?" "That galleon!" echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego's betrayal of them. "That galleon," Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer: "Do you know what ship it is? I will tell you. It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother. It is a very fortunate encounter. The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain." There was no trace of humour or urbanity now in Captain Blood. His light eyes blazed: his face was set. He rose, relinquishing the Spaniard to his men. "Make him fast," he bade them. "Truss him, wrist and heel, but don't hurt him--not so much as a hair of his precious head." The injunction was very necessary. Frenzied by the thought that they were likely to exchange the slavery from which they had so lately escaped for a slavery still worse, they would have torn the Spaniard limb from limb upon the spot. And if they now obeyed their Captain and refrained, it was only because the sudden steely note in his voice promised for Don Diego Valdez something far more exquisite than death. "You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!" Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner. But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed. "You underrated me." He spoke English, so that all might hear. "I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog." "Irish, if you please," Captain Blood corrected him. "And your parole, you tyke of Spain?" "You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!" Don Diego laughed in his throat. "You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again." Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally "athirst for his blood." "Wait," Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas. "In less than half-an-hour," said Blood presently, "we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns." "We can fight," said the one-eyed giant with an oath. "Fight!" sneered Blood. "Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course." "And how is that possible?" Hagthorpe asked. "It isn't possible," said Blood. "If it...." And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly. "We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty." The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance. "Bedad! ye've said it. He doesn't fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety's mighty strong in Spain." He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. "Here!" he shouted to them. "Bring him below." And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the 'tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe. In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them. "Here, Ogle, is work for you," said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; "Have that gun hauled back," he ordered. When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego. "Lash him across the mouth of it," he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. "To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft." Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon's mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him. From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor. "Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?" Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence. Approaching, they had heard Don Diego's outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of "Father!" Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety. He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error. Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply. "Peace!" he snapped. "Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all." Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise--a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances--he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master--as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself. "It is your father's treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother's flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain." He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego. "Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?" White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him. "If it is clear?" he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. "But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it--if that is what you mean--in Heaven's name let me hear it." "A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother's ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship of Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever--shall we say?--that detains him in

dispute

How many times the word 'dispute' appears in the text?

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

inspiration

How many times the word 'inspiration' appears in the text?

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

marriage

How many times the word 'marriage' appears in the text?

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

aristocratic

How many times the word 'aristocratic' appears in the text?

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

things

How many times the word 'things' appears in the text?

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

difficulty

How many times the word 'difficulty' appears in the text?

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

like

How many times the word 'like' appears in the text?

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

drove

How many times the word 'drove' appears in the text?

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

responds

How many times the word 'responds' appears in the text?

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

need

How many times the word 'need' appears in the text?

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

chapel

How many times the word 'chapel' appears in the text?

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

write

How many times the word 'write' appears in the text?

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

loved

How many times the word 'loved' appears in the text?

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

affair

How many times the word 'affair' appears in the text?

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

alluding

How many times the word 'alluding' appears in the text?

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

grabs

How many times the word 'grabs' appears in the text?

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

promise

How many times the word 'promise' appears in the text?

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

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"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

toughest

How many times the word 'toughest' appears in the text?

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

trousers

How many times the word 'trousers' appears in the text?

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them." "Never!--unless he says so." "I don't see how you are even to meet--'him,' and talk it over." "I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy." "I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one." "If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking,--so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back now." Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far," was looking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition,--though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to help her,--except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this,--but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further,--except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend." "I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us." "I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself." "I know nothing of the kind." "There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result." "I am quite sure you don't." "No; I do not;--though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Miss Rowley,--that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now." "It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do." "But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain event take place--" "It will take place some day." "Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Monkhams." After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "To-morrow, Mr. Glascock," she said, "you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet." It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation,--a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. "It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?" said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. "Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do." "I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so pleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know,--and yet not too serious." "I dare say, my love." "It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did,--narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets,--I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love,--and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, mamma." "I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been standing there instead of that American young woman." As she said this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it," said Lady Rowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man,--without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home,--home, not only to England, but to those antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing,--could hardly say a word,--toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "I will return to you the moment you send to me," were Nora's last words to her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send," said Emily. "I shall try to bear it without assistance." Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Gregg's Hotel. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death,--or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some matrimonial trap,--as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well,--and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear," she said to Dorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it." Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself to him, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off,--only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what a heaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner,--sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say,--so thought Dorothy,--more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. "If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two," said he, "how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?" In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for her. "I'm not going to be done in that way," said Brooke. "And now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she calls her own." "She is so generous, Brooke." "She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the Close." "You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter," said Dorothy, with a little pout. "So it is,--very disagreeable." "Oh, Brooke!" "Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements." As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers,--shewing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges,--she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt,--and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect,--that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the "old harridan," as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "And you don't know what it's all about?" said Uncle Barty. "I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what it is." "Will it do me or anybody else any good?" "It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you." "But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still." Nevertheless Brooke prevailed,--or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived,--and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression,--of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice,--nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said,--no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. [Illustration: Barty Burgess.] Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess," she said, "I am indebted to you for your complaisance in coming here at my request." To this he bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room." It was her room now, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there,--now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed," she said, "all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired." He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. "I do not know that I can help you," said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. "I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so long, Mr. Burgess." And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter,--only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing,--such were her words,--that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover,--she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly,--she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. "I am damned, if I do!" said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Stanbury had of

bitched

How many times the word 'bitched' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

or

How many times the word 'or' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

now

How many times the word 'now' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

necessary

How many times the word 'necessary' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

bad

How many times the word 'bad' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

fixing

How many times the word 'fixing' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

camper

How many times the word 'camper' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

must

How many times the word 'must' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

cinema

How many times the word 'cinema' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

rolls

How many times the word 'rolls' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

negative

How many times the word 'negative' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

shit

How many times the word 'shit' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

how

How many times the word 'how' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

nature

How many times the word 'nature' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

flesh

How many times the word 'flesh' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

hit

How many times the word 'hit' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

exceptional

How many times the word 'exceptional' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

true

How many times the word 'true' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

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How many times the word 'only' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

office

How many times the word 'office' appears in the text?

"Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2," early draft, by Dick Beebe BLAIR WITCH II By Dick Beebe Original Story By Joe Berlinger & Dick Beebe FIRST DRAFT (Revised) January 10, 2000 BLACK SCREEN And in that darkness, white words silently FADE UP: The following is based on actual events. Some dramatic re-creation was necessary for reasons that will become obvious. Beat. And then slowly swelling up is the sound of panicked hyperventilation--spasms of words and weeping: VOICE (HEATHER DONAHUE) I'm...scared...to close my eyes-- SMASH UP ON the teary and terrified EYES of HEATHER DONAHUE (the now ubiquitous scene from "Blair Witch Project" of her confessing to the camera): HEATHER DONAHUE --I'm scared to open them. (beat) We're going to die out here-- --then, suddenly, this image of Heather FREEZE FRAMES. And we hear the incongruously perky Voice of ABC's DEBORAH ROBERTS: DEBORAH ROBERTS (V.O.) --she'd be a much happier camper if she'd lived to see this weekend's grosses-- --abruptly, the freeze-framed image of Heather goes squeeze-boxing up into the upper left corner of the screen, revealing: That we're watching ABC WORLD NEWS SUNDAY--the date bannered at the bottom of the screen: August 1, 1999. Reporter Deborah Roberts sits behind the Anchor Desk reading TelePrompTer copy: DEBORAH ROBERTS In only its first week of wide release, "The Blair Witch Project" has taken in a whopping 36 million at the nation's box office. Not too bad for an independent film that was reportedly made for less than the cost of your average Buick-- CUT TO: News Video - Day. The Angelika Theatre, New York City. Big and bold on the marquee: "Blair Witch Project." Tracking shot away from the theatre and down the street, to see: NEWSCASTER (V.O.) --lines to see the new film stretching five blocks long down Houston Street--and this was for a 10 a.m. show-- CUT TO: Close On the long line - Two YOUNG MEN in their late teens being interviewed on camera: YOUNG MAN #1 --to get the holy sh-- (BLEEP!) --scared outta me, man, what do you think? YOUNG MAN #2 I heard last night they had people runnin' screamin' out of the theatre-- CUT TO: The last scene of BWP projected on a big screen--Heather Donahue running screaming down the stairs inside the house--and seeing Mike standing facing the wall-- WHIP BACK to see that we're inside a theatre, and the audience watching this is collectively shrieking with surprise-- --and then collectively shrieking even louder as Heather is hit from behind and goes down, camera with her. CUT TO: Another Theatre - Night - Video of an Audience exiting the film. One YOUNG WOMAN being interviewed is particularly shaken: YOUNG WOMAN ...the kid...Mike...he was turned around towards the wall 'cause that's what that guy in 1940 made all the little kids do before he killed them-- A gaggle of Male Teenagers pass by in b.g. of the shot. One of them shouts: TEENAGER Just a movie, baby! The Young Woman looks confused for a moment. Looks into the camera: YOUNG WOMAN ....no...it was real, what we saw ....wasn't it?-- CUT TO: Telecast of MARY HART on the set of "Entertainment Tonight." MARY HART --whatever you want to call it, "Blair Watch" is definitely the Cinderella story of the summer, if not the century, with now an 80 million dollar gross in just two weeks-- CUT TO: News Video of a 30ish GUY railing at the People waiting to purchase tickets to BWP: 30ISH GUY --save your money, it's all bullshit hype! Blair Witch sucks!-- CUT TO: Some STONER being interviewed on camera: STONER --all repeat business, dude--I know morons who've seen the stupid thing like three times in one day. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) How many times have you seen the film? STONER Like maybe five. But not in one (BLEEP) -ing day-- CUT TO: Critic LEONARD MALTIN holding forth on-air: MALTIN --it taps into our universal primal fears: of the boogeyman, of the things that go bump in the night-- there's something out there, you can't see it, and it's coming for you-- CUT TO: Video of more audience exit interviews. Two YOUNG MEN in their 20s: YOUNG MAN #1 --I'll tell you what was scary: trying to keep my lunch down. If that stupid camera jiggled one more time-- YOUNG MAN #2 --some guy the row in front of me actually did toss-- CUT TO: WOMAN holding a baby. WOMAN --it was just so real-- CUT TO: Solemn-looking GEEKY GUY: GEEKY GUY --it was real-- CUT TO: Dubious-looking TEENAGE GIRL: TEENAGE GIRL --you gotta be kidding me-- there's people out there think "Blair Witch" was real??-- CUT TO: Bespectacled MAN IN SUIT: MAN IN SUIT --the story of the three students was fiction. The legend of the Blair Witch is, apparently, true, however-- CUT TO: DIANE SAWYER on "Good Morning America." DIANE SAWYER --the brass tacks of the matter is, love it or hate it, "Blair Witch" has escalated from being merely another cinema success story to a genuine nationwide phenomenon--if not obsession. Profits from merchandising tie- ins going through the roof-- CUT AWAY TO: Montage of Blair Witch paraphernalia: --t-shirts and other apparel --keychains --posters --the books-The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier; Heather's Journal --the CD "Josh's Blair Witch Mix" DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --the official "Blair Witch" web- site now having received 75 million "hits" to date-- --shot of computer screen, on-line: The Blair Witch Store DIANE SAWYER (V.O.) --with that web-site, in just a matter of a few weeks, begatting dozens more web-sites, with chat rooms so packed with fans and foes you're lucky to get a cyber-word in edge-wise-- CUT TO: Computer Screen showing a Chat Room in progress--exchanges flying back and forth like lightning: GIRLGENIUS: if story true, then how come end credits list "written by"??? WARLOX: all docs are written by--somebody has to put all the pieces together like a story K-RATIONAL: that's EDITING, idiot--they made whole thing up--those were actors CHERUBIM-BO: then how come characters had same names as "actors" AK-47: you call that acting C.I.A-LIST: Congrats any U bought into big lie that BWP phony have successfully been suckered by dis-info campaign waged by U.S. govt they don't want us TO KNOW TRUTH CUT TO: Video interview with RONALD CRAVENS, Sheriff of Burkittsville. He's standing at the corner where the Union Cemetery abuts Route 17. SHERIFF --the truth is, this movie's probably been the best and worst thing ever happen to this town. The good thing--well, take a look down East Main there-- CAMERA PANS past him towards a stretch of two-lane blacktop with stores on either side. SHERIF --we've got people pouring in here like it's Times Square, some of 'em all the way from Europe, Japan. A whole lot of money being spent. The bad? He points to a white wooden post stuck in the shoulder of the road. SHERIFF There used to be a sign on it, "Welcome to Burkittsville." They showed it in the movie. Somebody wanna show me where it is now? I swear to God, these people, they're coming in and making off with every- thing isn't nailed down. There's two other signs I had to take down myself, put away for safekeeping 'til this whole damn thing's finally over. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) When did you think that'll be? SHERIFF Just pray we get to see it this lifetime. CUT TO: Video footage - Burkittsville Union Cemetery. Two KIDS wearing Ohio State jackets. Wandering around, confused, with gravestone-rubbing kits under their arms. KID #1 Can't seem to find 'em. KID #2 Gotta be around here somewhere-- right here's where Heather stood in the movie. Kid #1 looks into the camera. KID #1 We're trying to find the graves of those seven kids Rustin Parr killed. KID #2 Lotta dead kids--just can't find any died later than like 1867. Kid #1 stops, squints. The camera travels with his gaze: atop nearly every other grave marker is a black candle melted into the stone. KID #1 What do you think all these candles are for? KID #2 I wouldn't touch 'em. CUT BACK TO: Sheriff Cravens on Video. SHERIFF Nothing much we can do--just enforce the curfew. Which is dusk, for both the cemetery and the Black Hills Forest. CUT TO: Aerial shot of the Black Hills area: we see packs of people everywhere. CUT TO: The overgrown foundation of Rustin Parr's house in the middle of the woods. Manic-eyed Teenagers proudly display their souvenirs for the camera: rocks and cement slivers. TEEN #1 This is what you call "striking gold." TEEN #2 Fifty bucks a pop minimum back in Philly. CUT BACK TO: The Sheriff on tape. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) There seems to be some controversy whether or not any of this actually happened. SHERIFF That what actually happened. INTERVIEWER (O.S.) The three kids who disappeared, everything that was in the movie, the whole Blair Witch legend. The Sheriff just stares for a beat towards the Interviewer like he/she's completely insane. Then turns and walks away, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger like a headache the size of Manitoba just hit him. SHERIFF You'll excuse me-- CUT TO: An office in L.A. Big "Artisan Entertainment" logo on the wall. A well-turned out Gentleman (or Woman) who exudes "EXECUTIVE" smiles gently for the camera. ARTISAN EXECUTIVE --the only statement we feel comfortable making at this time is: we're happy the film's been such a success; we grieve with the families of Heather, Josh and Mike. Now, if you'll excuse me-- CUT TO: Dusk. Sheriff Cravens leaning on his car on a road at the edge of the forest. SHERIFF --this is the only reality I know: we're averaging about four lost rubberneckers a week up in these woods. The Sheriff puts a bullhorn to his lips; bellows into the woods: SHERIFF Get outta these damn woods and go home! There is nothing in there! SMASH TO BLACK And silence. White words again appear in the darkness: NINE MONTHS LATER Music begins to be heard under it--uber Goth: Type O Negative's "Haunted." It suddenly swells--to ear-shatter proportions. SMASH UP ON EXT. A VAN - IN MOTION - HIGHWAY - DAY Zipping fast down U.S. Route 70--West. We see the mileage signs on both sides of the median indicating where they're coming from and where they're now going: from Baltimore, towards Frederick, Maryland. (NOTE: this is shot on 16 or 35mm film, which will be the medium of "reality" for the rest of the movie.) The music that's blaring isn't underscoring--it's coming from inside the Van. As is a WOMAN'S VOICE (ANNA) shouting over it: ANNA (O.S.) You want to turn that shit down just a hair?? INT. THE VAN - CONTINUOUS TIGHT ON the Driver of the Van, a grunged-out 25 year old with shoulder-length hair, a well-worn black "Blair Witch Project" t- shirt and cap: COTTER KALLER. He yells towards the backseat: COTTER Shit? This is from "Josh's Blair Witch Mix," man! ANNA (O.S.) Down or off--you're giving me a migraine. COTTER (mutters) Christ. He turns the volume down. COTTER (petulant) Just trying to set the mood for the mission--get the "feeling." ANNA (O.S.) Only thing I'm feeling is homicidal. Cotter grumbles. Then a wicked grin hits his lips. Turns to the unseen Man sitting next to him in the passenger seat: COTTER Hold this. NICK (O.S.) What? COTTER The wheel. He clamps Nick's hand on the steering wheel, picks up the 8mm Camcorder beside him, turns around, and starts shooting into the back seat. POV OF VIDEO CAMCORDER On a not-very-happy-at-the-moment-looking Blonde Woman. ANNA TASSIO - ON VIDEO age 20. She rolls her eyes as Cotter begins narrating: COTTER (O.S.) The bitched-out babe in back here is one Anna Tassio--we met one dark and stormy night in a Blair Witch chat room, we all did-- ANNA --Christ almighty-- COTTER (O.S.) --but she was nicer then--sweeter-- she hadn't vomited twice already like today-- ANNA --it's called "morning sickness," asshole-- COTTER (O.S.) (editorial aside) --a six week bun in the oven-- NICK (O.S.) (wearily) --Cotter, just turn the camera off? Cotter responds by panning the Camcorder towards the passenger seat. We see on video: NICK LEAVITT a lanky 21 year old wearing wire-rims. COTTER (O.S.) This is her equally on-the-rag boy- friend, Nick Leavitt-- NICK --turn the camera off-- COTTER (O.S.) --they're from UMass, doing some kind of fucking term paper-- NICK --Graduate Thesis-- COTTER (O.S.) --about the Witch-- VOICE FROM BACK SEAT --she doesn't exist-- NICK --you got that right-- THE CAMERA pans again into the back seat, showing HEATHER ARENDT, 19, with a huge mane of fire-engine red hair. HEATHER --and if she ever did-- ANNA (O.S.) --which she may have-- NICK (O.S.) --bullshit-- HEATHER --she wasn't a witch--we embrace nature, not evil-- COTTER (O.S.) --thank you, Heather Arendt--and arend't we glad you're here--a real witch-- HEATHER --fuckin' A right-- NICK --Cotter-- COTTER --a Wiccan-- NICK (O.S.) --turn the goddamn camera off! The Camcorder swings back to Nick. NICK We're not making Blair Witch II here. COTTER (O.S.) I am. One big blur of a pan--Cotter's turned the camcorder on himself. He issues his manifesto: COTTER And let it be known--before we even get to Burkittsville--it's gonna be an eighteen thousand times better movie--for half the cost-- HEATHER (O.S.) --which'd be about ten bucks-- COTTER --and unlike the first one, every second of it's gonna be true! "Blair Witch: The Real Story!" NICK (O.S.) Cotter? COTTER I'm not finished. NICK (O.S.) We're all going to be if you don't hit the brakes. The Camcorder WHIP=PANS towards the windshield: The Van is about to plow into the rear of a HUGE COCA-COLA TRUCK COTTER (O.S.) Jee-zuz! Visual pandemonium as the Camcorder goes flying from his hands and down next to the BRAKE PEDAL We see both of COTTER'S FEET smash down on the pedal. Hear O.S.: screeching of the passengers--screeching of the brake shoes-- screaming of the tires as the Van swerves into the next lane--and then an angry symphony of CAR HORNS. HEATHER (O.S.) You're a complete fucking idiot, aren't you? COTTER (O.S.) Hey, Mr. Graduate Fucking Thesis here was s'posed to be driving! NICK (O.S.) You drive, I'll handle the video, okay? COTTER (O.S.) Fine. We see the view from the Camcorder as it's scooped up from the Van floor and brought back up to eye-level again. ON NICK'S FACE As he waves two fingers at the lens. NICK Bye-bye-- --and the Video zaps to black. SMASH BACK TO - FILM Where Nick can be seen tossing the camcorder into the backseat. Anna catches it, puts it in a back pack and zips it. COTTER What're you doing? NICK This isn't about us. COTTER Right. And the check's in the mail. CUT TO: EXT/INT. THE VAN - TWO HOURS LATER - DAY Doing a relaxed 35 down the narrow ribbon of Route 17. Rural farm country. The weather's turned grey--making all the 19th Century- vintage houses and barns they pass look dismal, if not a little foreboding. NICK Cheery little place. ANNA It's like traveling back in time. HEATHER The good old days: toasting marsh- mallows over a burning witch. NICK They never burned witches in this country, they hanged them. HEATHER Whatever--all I know is the persecution's going to start all over again, they keep pumping out inflammatory bullshit like this fucking movie-- COTTER --hey: check that out! Ahead of them, at a crossroads, is a sign: Welcome to Burkittsville COTTER 'Thought those all got stolen. ANNA Guess they thought it was safe to put some up again. COTTER Think again. He starts to slow the Van alongside the sign. COTTER Somebody wanna hand me that claw hammer in back-- --Nick pushes Cotter's leg back down on the accelerator. The Van jerks past the sign and down the road. NICK Get busted on your own time. We've got a schedule to keep. Cotter just glares at him. COTTER Was it every day or just semi- weekly you got your ass kicked as a kid? NICK (ignoring him) Now you can bring the vehicle to a stop: there on the left. EXT. BURKITTSVILLE UNION CEMETERY - JUST AFTER The four of them stand there by the sign to the graveyard. Anna searching the gray horizon. COTTER Why are we here? ANNA She e-mailed me yesterday this is where we should meet her. COTTER Who? NICK Whatzername--the "psychic" Anna hired. ANNA Domini. Domini Von Teer. COTTER What's she look like? ANNA No idea, just talked to her on the 'Net--she's very good. NICK So says her website. ANNA She is--she's helped solve a bunch of murders: Arizona, New Mexico-- COTTER --how old? ANNA I dunno, probably right up there, based on her resume. COTTER Then there she blows. Cotter points to THE WOODS near the far edge of the cemetery. Standing there is an old, gaunt and particularly Unattractive Woman, staring at them. COTTER Terrific--and I was afraid I wasn't going to get laid on this trip. The four of them start tromping towards her. NICK Jesus. ANNA What? NICK That's not whatzername--it's Mary Brown. COTTER From-the-movie-Mary-Brown, Trailer Park Bible Psycho? HEATHER Oh, for chrissake, she was an actor. ANNA No, the kids were actors, the townspeople were real. Her, the Sheriff, the Convenience Store guy-- NICK --whatever; that's her. FLASHBACK - B&W To the interview with Mary Brown from "Blair Witch Project." The years have apparently not been kind: she looks a good two decades younger. CUT BACK TO - THE PRESENT They're less than 20 feet now from MARY BROWN. She speaks without expression: MARY BROWN What do you want? ANNA Just came over to say hello. MARY BROWN It's five bucks for signin' something; ten for signin' a Bible; twenty, you want to take a picture with me. Any kind've conversation, that's subject to negotiation. COTTER (sotto) I don't believe this. HEATHER (sotto) I do. NICK Thanks just the same. I think we're fine. MARY BROWN Heather's not. Heather double-takes. HEATHER Me? MARY BROWN Heather. I saw her. Elly Kedward's hands were on her throat, and she was sucking out the girl's insides with her mouth. COTTER (to Heather) Heather from the movie. Mary Brown shakes her head. MARY BROWN Heather. NICK Been a pleasure meeting you; we need to go now. He hustles the other three back towards the cemetery. HEATHER I take it back--she wasn't an actor. She's a nutjob. COTTER That's what Josh and Mike said. HEATHER Shut-up. TIME CUT TO: The cemetery. Everyone spread out looking for: ANNA Domino? Domini Von Teer...?? Beat. And then, out of nowhere, seemingly just plunging right out of the earth AN ARM extends into the air not far from them. Paper-pale and stick-thin, almost skeletal. DOMINI Present. They walk over. See, lying atop a cracked granite marker, a Young Woman who can't be more than 18. Heroin-chic skinny. All in black, including her make-up--uber Goth: DOMINI VON TEER. ANNA Domini? DOMINI Yes. ANNA What're you doing there? DOMINI Trying to find the energy. ANNA Inside the grave? DOMINI To stand up--I'm exhausted. Been on the road since yesterday. COTTER You want a hand? DOMINI I want amphetamines. Cotter helps her up. COTTER Beer and weed is what I've got. DOMINI Both. Now. Anna and Heather look at the faded marker Domini's been lying on. It says: BOY KURTH May 28 '00 HEATHER Sweet place to take a nap. ANNA Strange girl. HEATHER You think so? As they walk away, Heather sees Mary Brown across the cemetery, staring at her. EXT/INT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Snaking its way down the road that wends through the Black Forest Hills. INSIDE Domini and her second beer have commandeered the shotgun seat, Nick relegated to a tight squeeze in the back seat. Dead silence. She's slightly unnerving. Finally: COTTER So, I hear you're from New Mexico! DOMINI Sometimes. ANNA Her father's Sheriff of Taos County. DOMINI Sometimes. Where are we going? NICK Ruins of the Rustin Parr house. DOMINI Guy who killed all the kids in the '40s. COTTER ("Outer Limits" tremolo) "The Voiiiiices made him do it." ANNA The Witch's voice. HEATHER She wasn't a witch. NICK Whatever. DOMINI I hear voices all the time. That pretty much kills the rest of the conversation. EXT. THE VAN - LATER - AFTERNOON Parked at the edge of the woods. Back-packs being hauled out of the rear, camping gear, video equipment. DOMINI What is all this shit? NICK We're doing dusk-till-dawn taping of all the places where there've been alleged Blair Witch "sightings" --the Parr House, Coffin Rock, Tappy Creek. DOMINI Why? NICK See what turns up--which I guarantee will be nothing. Some of the rest of the party are more hopeful-- HEATHER --or incredibly fucking naive. ANNA Hey, folklore-- NICK --myth-- ANNA --doesn't just pop out of thin air. It spins off of real events. At some point there was a Blair Witch-- NICK --or one huge attack of group hysteria. COTTER (snide) Either way, maybe there's a book in it, and they both make a ton of money. NICK (snapping) It's a serious sociological study. DOMINI The four of you really have too much spare fucking time on your hands, don't you? HEATHER And what's your excuse for being here? NICK She got paid. DOMINI (shrugs) I thought the movie was bitchin'. EXT. THE WOODS - SOON AFTER Mammoth backpacks strapped on, the five begin walks into the forest. COTTER Wait a sec! He spins and runs back towards the Van. NICK What? Through the trees, they see Cotter place a pint of bottled water on the roof of the Van. Starts video-ing it as he walks away. HEATHER He really is a fucking idiot. EXT. DEEPER IN THE WOODS - LATER - AFTERNOON Slogging up a 45-degree angled hill. This is not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary and Co.--the five of them already look exhausted. HEATHER Didn't we already do this hill? Nick is staring at three different maps at once as he walks. NICK No. ANNA You sure? NICK Yes. COTTER Terrific: an hour, we're already lost-- --and then a look of trepidation crosses Cotter's face-- FLASH TO: Footage from "Blair Witch Project"--panic, as Heather, Josh and Mike realize they've spent all day walking in a circle. NICK (V.O.) Cotter? CUT BACK TO - PRESENT Nick's glaring at him. COTTER What? NICK Look over there. Cotter looks up: less than 500 yards ahead can be seen the ruins of an Old House. COTTER Okay, but-- NICK --now there. --Nick is pointing behind him. Cotter looks. From the atop the hill he can see down to the road--and his Van with the water bottle on the roof. COTTER Oh. Cool. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - SHORTLY AFTER All the backpacks and miscellaneous tonnage is already dumped on the ground. The five of them stretch their legs, massage sore shoulders and lower backs, while sightseeing the remnants of the old house and its environs. Cotter, not surprisingly, is taping everything. POV CAMCORDER a huge bite taken out of one of the walls of the foundation, stone, brick and soil strewn everywhere around it. COTTER (O.S.) Where they found the backpacks and all the film a year later. ANNA (O.S.) Buried deep under 200 years worth of soil, ash, and compost layers. DOMINI (O.S.) Yeah, that was a cluster-fuck for the mind. NICK/HEATHER (O.S.) If it happened at all. Suddenly, the camcorder image starts shaking wildly. CUT BACK TO - FILM Cotter seen running full-tilt towards Heather, who's facing one of the interior foundation walls. He's jiggling the camera like he's got St. Vitus dance. CUT BACK TO - VIDEO We hear Cotter doing a passable Heather Donahue impression-- screeching as the shaking video image PUSHES IN right towards Heather Arendt's face. COTTER (O.S.) Mike! Miiiiiiike! Noooooo! Heather turns, scowling, and puts her hand over the lens. CUT BACK TO - FILM Heather pushing the camcorder out of her face. HEATHER You're not only an idiot, you're a goddamn child. COTTER Why does everyone here but me have have a gigantic stick up their ass? DOMINI Hey! Check this out! CUT TO - CAMCORDER POV: On one of the foundation's interior walls: a gobbledygook of tiny handprints and strange, angular glyphs. DOMINI (O.S.) Look at those marks--just like in the movie. NICK (O.S.) Ancient runes-- COTTER (O.S.) --what the fuck's a "rune"?-- CUT BACK TO - FILM Nick erasing half the marks with one sweep of his palm. NICK --chalked just hours ago by ancient adolescents. It's called vandalism. ANNA What is this? All turn. She's pointing to the large, leafy tree with branches stretching everywhere above them. COTTER Oak? ANNA No. What's it doing here in the middle of the foundation? HEATHER Growing. This place burnt down 50 years ago. Trees happen. Nick flips through a voluminous loose-leaf notebook--points out a page to Anna. NICK Look it's right here--from the Blair Witch "Dossier"--the sketch the anthropology students made of their dig when they found the backpack. The sketch shows a spindly growth in the middle of the foundation, no more than six feet high. ANNA That's a sapling--this mother's got to be three hundred years old, minimum. NICK It's a sketch, Anna--it's not to- scale cartography; the tree was not the kids' focus-- ANNA --do you agree it's that old, Nick? NICK Okay, fine, whatever, yes--it's an old tree. HEATHER Why don't you just cut it down and count the goddamn rings--who cares? ANNA Because it means the tree is older than the house. COTTER Yeah, so? ANNA So whoever built this-- --Nick rustles through the loose-leaf-- NICK --brother of Rustin Parr's maternal grandfather, somewhere after 1858-- ANNA --whoever--they built an entire house around a tree. Sticking up right through the living room. Somebody like to explain that to me? NICK The rest of the family was crazy as Rusty Parr. ANNA Oh, c'mon--even you have to admit this is weird. NICK No--this is weird. He reaches down and picks one of the now infamous wooden "stick men" off the ground. POV - COTTER'S CAMCORDER - CLOSE UP Sudden, stunned silence as the camera examines it fore and aft. And then Nick's hands are seen removing the material that secures the Stick Man's "arms" to his "torso." Torso and legs fall to the ground, leaving Nick holding a piece of-- CUT BACK TO - FILM NICK --sacred and occult Scotch Tape. DOMINI Rusty Parr had the right idea on child care. EXT. THE PARR RUINS - DUSK By flashlight, Cotter's fiddling with five vid-cams on tripods that have already been set up. Domini lies within the foundation walls staring up at the sky. Finishes the last of Cotter's beer and discards the empty. Not far from there, Heather's already got her simple one-person tent erected. Adjacent, Nick and Anna are wrestling with the nightmare of trying to put up some Barnum & Bailey-size number. NICK Your parents didn't have a bigger one? ANNA It was free--I recall that was the chief selling point for you. NICK No offense, sweetheart: fuck you. ANNA You know, Nick, you've been something of a total asshole the past few days. NICK Pardon me, I've had a few things on my mind--like putting this safari together. ANNA Like how weirded-out you are with this pregnancy thing. NICK Let's just leave it at: it was one hell of a surprise. ANNA You don't want it though. NICK Your body, your call. ANNA Why is there no "our" here? NICK Could we take this up later--like indoors, without half the world listening? ANNA You feel no need to get married or anything. NICK Anna-- ANNA --fine, later, fine. COTTER (O.S.) Sonovabitch!! All eyes turn: Cotter's standing 20 feet away with rotted wooden tentpoles and a piece of grommeted canvas that's literally mildew- disintegrating in his hands. HEATHER Nice tent. COTTER Hadn't even opened the thing since Cub scouts. HEATHER Never would've guessed. COTTER So where the hell am I going to sleep? HEATHER If you're looking at me, look elsewhere. COTTER I've got the Panasonic Portable DVD player. Beat. She stares at him. HEATHER What movies? COTTER Ask me what I don't have. INT. HEATHER'S TENT - NIGHT Heather and Cotter jammed in there like Spam, sharing a joint, and watching "Curse of the Blair Witch" on DVD: The Interview Sequence with folklorist CHARLES MOOREHOUSE, explaining the "origins" of the Blair Witch story--Elly Kedward's banishment, etc. HEATHER What I never could figure about the movie? COTTER What? HEATHER Three people: two guys, a girl-- sleeping in the same motel room, the same tent night after night. COTTER Yeah? HEATHER No fucking. COTTER No. HEATHER Made no sense. Scared out of their minds, and the greatest stress reliever in creation right at their fingertips. Nada. COTTER No sense at all. (beat) I'm a little stressed. HEATHER Try a long walk. INT. NICK AND ANNA'S TENT - SIMULTANEOUS It ain't the Ritz, but they did come prepared: air mattresses, big Coleman lanterns, a kerosene heater--and heaps of books and brimming file folders. They're sitting up in their respective mummy-style sleeping bags, studying documents, making notes-- --when this high-pitched MOANING can be heard outside the tent. Nick and Anna looks at each other. Nick grabs one of the lanterns and dashes for the tent door. EXT. THE TENT - CONTINUOUS He shines the light slowly out into the foundation ruins-- --and there's Domini, still lying on her back, staring up, cooing: DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. NICK Ah, Domini? DOMINI What? NICK You planning on sleeping out there? DOMINI Not planning on sleeping at all. She points up into the big oak in the middle of the foundation. DOMINI Oooh. Oooh. The call comes back to her from the tree: "oooh-oooh." Nick sees perched high up on one of the branches: A GREAT HORNED OWL. It's staring down at them. DOMINI I figure I lie here long enough, maybe he'll swoop down and carry

asshole--

How many times the word 'asshole--' appears in the text?