Clary was not sincere; she gave that infatuated, tolerably heavy, red-faced, fox-hunting member, own cousin to the Justice, every reason to suppose that she would lend him the most favourable ear, when he chose to pay her his addresses, and then afforded him the amplest provocation to cry, "Caprice -- thy name is woman." She had just sung "Tantivy" to him after supper, when she sailed up to Sam Winnington, and addressed him demurely: -- 

"I have come to wish you good-night, sir."

"And I to wish you farewell, madam."

"Farewell is a hard word, Master Winnington," returned Clary, with a great tide of colour rushing into her face, and a gasp as for breath, and tracing figures nervously on the floor with her little shoe and its brave paste-buckle.

"It shall be said though, and that without further delay, unless three very different words be put in its place."

"Sir, you are tyrannous," protested Clary, in a tremulous voice.

"No, Mistress Clarissa, I have had too good cause to know who has been the tyrant in this business," declared Sam Winnington, speaking out roundly, as a woman loves to hear a man, though it be to her own condemnation, "You have used me cruelly, Clarissa Gage; you have abused my faith, wasted the best years of my life, and deceived my affections."

"What were the three words," asked Clary, faint and low.

"'Yours, Sam Winnington;' or else, 'Farewell, Clarissa Gage?'"

"Yours, Sam Winnington."

He caught her so sharp up by the arm at that sentence, that some persons said Mistress Clarissa had staggered and was about to swoon; others, that the vulgar fellow of a painter had behaved like a brute, pulled her to his side as she was marching past him, and accused her of perjury before the whole ball-room. Bold men were apt at that time to seize aggravating women (especially if they were the wives of their bosoms) by the hairs of their heads, so that a trifling rudeness was little thought of. The county member, however, pricked up his long ears, flushed, fiercely stamped to the particular corner, and had a constable in his eye to arrest the beggarly offender; but before he could get at the disputants, he had the mortification to see them retreat amicably into a side room, and the next thing announced to him was, that Mistress Clarissa had evanished home, before anybody could get rightly at the bottom of the mystery.

Very fortunately, the county member ascertained the following day, before he had compromised his pride another hair's-breadth, that the fickle damsel had accepted the painter's escort the previous evening, and had admitted the painter at an incredibly early hour the subsequent morning. After such indiscretion, the great man would have nothing more to say to Mistress Clarissa, but departed in great dudgeon, and would never so much as set his foot within Redwater again; not even at the following election.

Uncle Barnet was forced to come round and acknowledge, with a very bad grace, that legislation in heiresses' marriages -- in any marriage -- is out of the question. No man knew how a marriage would turn out; you might as well pledge yourself for the weather next morning; certainly there were signs for the wise; but were weather almanacs deceptive institutions or were they not? The innocent old theory of marriages being made in heaven was the best. Clary was not such a mighty catch after all: a six thousand pounds' fortune was not inexhaustible, and the county member might never have come the length of asking its owner's price. People did talk of a foolish engagement in his youth to one of his yeomen's daughters, and of a wealthy old aunt who ruled the roast; though her well-grown nephew, not being returned for a rotten borough, voted with dignity for so many thousands of his fellow-subjects in the Commons. Uncle Barnet, with a peculiarly wry face, did reluctantly what he did not often advise his clients to do, unless in desperate circumstances -- he compromised.

Clary was made a wife in the height of summer, with all the rites and ceremonies of the Church, with all the damasks, and laces, and leadings by the tips of the fingers, and lavishings of larkspurs, lupins, and tiger-lilies proper for the occasion, which Dulcie had lost. Nay, the supper came off at the very "Rod and Fly," with the tap open to the roaring, jubilant public; a score of healths were drunk upstairs with all the honours, the bride and bridegroom being king and queen of the company: even Uncle Barnet owned that Sam Winnington was very complaisant -- rather exceed in his complaisance, he supplemented scornfully; but surely Sam might mend that fault with others in the bright days to come. It is only the modern English who act Hamlet minus the Prince of Denmark; sitting at the bridal feast without bride or bridegroom. They say hearts are often caught on the rebound, and if all ill-treated suitors spoke out warmly yet sternly like Sam Winnington, and did not merely fence about and either sneer or whine, more young fools might be saved, even when at touch-and-go with their folly, after the merciful fate of Clary and to the benefit of themselves and of society.


V. Dulcie And Will, At Home In St. Martin's Lane.

While Sam and Clarissa were fighting the battles of vanity and the affections down in the southern shire in quite a rural district, among mills and ash-trees, and houses with gardens and garden bowers, William and Dulcie were combating real flesh-and-blood woes -- woes that would not so much set your teeth on edge, as soften and melt your tough, dry heart -- among the bricks and mortar of London. These several years were not light sunshiny years to the young couple. It is of no use saying that a man may prosper if he will, and that he has only to cultivate potatoes and cabbages in place of jessamine and passion flowers; no use making examples of Sir Joshua and Vandyke, and telling triumphantly that they knew their business and did it simply -- only pretending to get a livelihood and satisfy the public to the best of their ability, but ending in becoming great painters. One man's meat is another man's poison; one man's duty is not his neighbour's. When shall we apprehend or apply that little axiom? The Duchess of Portland killed three thousand snails in order that she might complete the shell-work for which she received so much credit; Dulcie would not have put her foot voluntarily on a single snail for a pension.

It was Will Locke's fate to vibrate between drudgery and dreaming; always tending more inevitably towards the latter, and lapsing into more distant, absorbing trances, till he became more and more fantastic and unearthly, with his thin light hair, his half-transparent cheek, and his strained eyes. To prophesy on cardboard and canvas, in flower and figure, with monster and star, crescent and triangle, in emerald green and ruby red and sea blue, in dyes that, like those of the Bassani, resembled the clear shining of a handful of jewels, to prophesy in high art, to be half pitied, half derided, and to starve: was that Will Locke's duty?

Will thought so, in the most artless, unblemished, unswerving style; and he was a devout fellow as well as a gifted one. He bowed to revelation, and read nature's secrets well before he forsook her for heaven, or rather Hades. He devoted himself to the sacrifice; he did not grudge his lust of the eye, his lust of the flesh, his pride of life. He devoted Dulcie, not without pangs; and he devoted his little sickly children pining and dying in St. Martin's Lane. He must follow his calling, he must fulfil his destiny.

Dulcie was not quite such an enthusiast; she did love, honour, and obey Will Locke, but she was sometimes almost mad to see him such a wreck. It had been a sent evil, and she had looked down into the gulf; but she had missed the depths. She had never seen its gloomy, dark, dreary nooks, poor lass! in her youthful boldness and lavishness; and our little feminine Curtius in the scoured silk, with the powdered brown curls, had not merely to penetrate them in one plunge, but had to descend, stumbling and groping her way, and starting back at the sense of confinement, the damp and the darkness. Who will blame her that she sometimes turned her head and looked back, and stretched up her arms from the desert to the flesh-pots of Egypt? She would have borne anything for her husband; and she did work marvels: she learned to engrave for him, coloured constantly with her light, pliant fingers, and drew and painted from old fresh memories those articles of stoneware for the potteries. She clothed herself in the cheapest and most lasting of printed linen sacques and mob caps, and hoods and aprons, fed herself and him and the children on morsels wellnigh miraculously. She even swallowed down the sight of Clary in her cut velvet and her own coach, whose panel Sam Winnington himself had not thought it beneath him to touch up for Clary's delectation and glory. If Will would only have tarried longer about his flowers and bees, and groves and rattlesnakes: if he had even stopped short at faces like those of Socrates, Cesar, Cleopatra, Fair Rosamond -- what people could understand with help -- and not slid off faster and more fatally into that dim delirium of good and evil, angels and archangels, the devil of temptation and the goblin of the flesh, the red fiend of war, and the pale spirit of peace!

The difference which originated at Will and Dulcie's marriage had ended in alienation. Dulcie thought that Sam Winnington would have bridged it over at one time, if Will would have made any sign of meeting his overtures, or acknowledged Sam's talents and fortune: nay, even if Will had refrained from betraying his churlish doubts of Sam's perfect deserts.

But no, this Will would not deign to do. The gentle, patient painter, contented with his own estimation of his endowments, and resigned to be misjudged and neglected by the world, had his own indomitable doggedness. He would never flatter the world's low taste for commonplace, and its miserable short-sightedness; he would never pay homage to Sam Winnington which he did not deserve -- a man very far from his equal -- a mere clever portrait-painter, little better than a skilled stonemason. Thus Sam Winnington and Will Locke took to flushing when each other's names were mentioned -- sitting bolt upright and declining to comment on each other's works, or else dismissing each other's efforts in a few supremely contemptuous words. Certainly the poor man rejected the rich not one whit less decidedly than the rich man rejected the poor, and the Mordecais have always the best of it. If we and our neighbours will pick out each other's eyes, commend us to the part of brave little Jack, rather than that of the belligerent Giant, even when they are only eyeing each other previous to sitting down to the ominous banquet.

But this was a difficulty to Dulcie, as it is to most women. No one thinks of men's never showing a malign influence in this world; it is only good women who are expected to prove angels outright here below. But it does seem that there is something more touching in their having to stifle lawful instincts, and in their being forced to oppose and overcome unlawful passions -- covetousness, jealousy, wrath, "hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness."

Dulcie, with the sharpness of her little face, divested of all its counterbalancing roundness -- a keen, worn little face since the day it had smiled so confusedly but generously out of the scurvy silk in the church at Redwater -- was a sweet-looking woman under her care-laden air. Some women retain sweetness under nought but skin and bone; they will not pinch into meanness and spite; they have still faith and charity. One would not wonder though Dulcie afforded more vivid glimpses of il Beato's angels after the contour of her face was completely spoilt.

You can fancy the family room in St. Martin's Lane, some five or six years after Will Locke and Dulcie were wed, with its strange litter of acids and aquafortis, graving tools and steel plates. Will and Dulcie might have been some of the abounding false coiners, had it not been for the colours, the canvas, and the vessels from the potteries, all huddled together without attention to effect. Yet these were not without order, for they were too busy people to be able to afford to be purely disorderly. They could not have had the curtain less scant, for the daylight was precious to them; they had not space for more furniture than might have sufficed a poor tradesman or better sort of mechanic; only there were traces of gentle birth and breeding in the casts, the prints and portfolios, the Dutch clock, and the great hulk of a state-bed hung with the perpetual dusky yellow damask, which served as a nursery for the poor listless little children.

Presently Dulcie looked after the sops, and surreptitiously awarded Will the Benjamite's portion, and Will ate it absently with the only appetite there; though he, too, was a consumptive-looking man -- a good deal more so than when he attracted the pity of the good wife at the "Nine Miles Inn." Then Dulcie crooned to the children of the milk-porridge she would give them next night, and sang to them as she lulled them to sleep, her old breezy, bountiful English songs, "Young Roger came tapping at Dolly's window," and "I met my lad at the garden gate," and brushed their faces into laughter with the primroses and hyacinths she had bought for Will in Covent Garden Market. Will asked to see them in the spring twilight, and described the banks where they grew, with some revival of his early lore, and added a tale of the fairies who made them their round tables and galleries, which caused the eldest child (the only one who walked with Dulcie in his little coat to the church where he was christened) to open his heavy eyes, and clap his hot hands, and cry, "More, father, more." Will and Dulcie looked gladly into each other's eyes at his animation, and boasted what a stamping, thundering man he would yet live to be -- that midge, that sprite, with Dulcie's small skeleton bones, and Will's dry, lustreless, fair hair!

Anon while Dulcie was still rocking one of these weary children moaning in its sleep, Will must needs strike a light to resume his beloved labours; but first he directed his candle to his canvas, and called on Dulcie to contemplate and comprehend, while he murmured and raved to her of the group of fallen men and women crouching in the den -- of the wind of horror raising their hair, -- of the dawn of hope bursting in the eastern sky, and high above them the fiendish crew, and the captains of the Blessed still swaying to and fro in the burdened air, and striking deadly blows for supremacy. And Dulcie, open-eyed and open-mouthed as of old, looked at the captives, as if listening to the strife that was to come, and wellnigh heard the thunder of the captains and the shouting, while her eye was always eagerly pointed to that pearly streak which was to herald the one long, cool, calm, bright day of humanity. No wonder Dulcie was as demented as Will, and thought it would be a very little matter though the milk-porridge were sour on the morrow, or if the carrier did not come with the price in his pocket for these sweet pots, and bowls, and pipkins: she believed her poor babies were well at rest from the impending dust, and din, and danger; and smiled deep, quiet smiles at Clary -- poor Clary, with her cut velvet, her coach, and her black boy. Verily Will and Dulcie could afford to refer not only pleasantly but mercifully, to Sam Winnington and Clary that night.

"It is contemptible to lose sight of the sublimity of life even to enjoy perfect ease and happiness." That is a very grand saying; but, oh dear! we are poor creatures; and though Dulcie is an infinitely nobler being now than then, the tears are fit to start into our eyes when we remember the little brown head which "bridled finely," the little feet which pranced lightly, and the little tongue which wagged, free from care, in the stage waggon on the country road yon clear September day.


VI. Sam And Clarissa In Company In Leicester Square.

Sam and Clarissa were worshipful people now. Uncle Barnet no longer invited them to his second-rate parties; Uncle Barnet was really proud to visit them in their own home. Sam Winnington was a discerning mortal; he had a faculty for discovering genius, especially that work-a-day genius which is in rising men; and he certainly had bird-lime wherewith he could fix their feet under his hospitable table. The best of the sages and wits of the day were to be met in Sam Winnington's house; the best of the sages and wits of the day thought Clary a fine woman, though a little lofty, and Sam a good fellow, an honest chum, a delightful companion, and at the same time the prince of portrait-painters. What an eye he had! what a touch! How much perception of individual character, and at the same time, what sober judgment and elegant taste to preserve his sitters, ladies and gentlemen, as well as men and women! Cavaliers would have it, the ladies and gentlemen, like Sam's condescension at his wedding-feast, overtopped the mark; but it was erring on the safe side. Who would not sink the man in the gentleman? After all, perhaps the sages and wits were not altogether disinterested: almost every one of them filled Sam Winnington's famous sitter's chair, and depended on Sam's tasteful pencil handing down their precious noses and chins to posterity.

Sam and Clary were going abroad, in that coach, which had made Dulcie Locke look longingly after it, and ponder what it would be for one of her frail children to have "a ride" on the box as far as Kensington. They were bound for the house of one of the lordly patrons of arts and letters. They were bound for my Lord Burlington's, or the Earl of Mulgrave's, or Sir William Beechey's -- for a destination where they were a couple of mark and distinction, to be received with the utmost consideration. Sam reared smartly his round but not ill-proportioned person in his rich brocade coat, and Clary towered in the corner with her white throat, and her filmy ivory-coloured laces.

We won't see many more distinguished men and women than the members of the set who frequented the old London tea-parties; and Sam Winnington and Clary were in it and of it, while Will Locke and Dulcie were poverty-stricken and alone with their bantlings in the garret in St. Martin's Lane. What becomes of the doctrine of happiness being equally divided in this world, as so many comfortable persons love to opine? Possibly we don't stand up for it; or we may have our loophole, by which we may let ourselves out and drag it in. Was that illustrious voyage all plain sailing? Sam Winnington used to draw a long sigh, and lay back his head and close his eyes in his coach, after the rout was over. He was not conscious of acting; he was not acting, and one might dare another, if that other were not a cynic, to say that the motive was unworthy. He wanted to put his sitters on a good footing with themselves; he wanted to put the world on a good footing with itself; it was the man's nature. He did not go very far down; he was not without his piques, and like other good-natured men -- like Will Locke, for that matter -- when he was once offended he was apt to be vindictive; but he was buoyant, and that little man must have had a great fund of charity about him somewhere to be drawn upon at first sight. Still this popularity was no joke. There were other rubs. The keen love of approbation in the little man, which was at the bottom of his suavity, was galled by the least condemnation of his work and credit; he was too manly to enact the old man and the ass, but successful Sam Winnington was about as soon pricked as a man who wears a fold of silk on his breast instead of the old plate armour.

Clary had her own aggravations: with all her airs Clary was not a match for the indomitable, unhesitating, brazen (with a golden brazenness) women of fashion. Poor Clary had been the beauty at Redwater, the most modish, the best informed woman there; and here, in this world of London, to which Sam had got her an introduction, she was a nobody; scarcely to be detected among the host of ordinary fine women, except by Sam's reflected glory. This was a doubtful boon, an unsatisfactory rise in the social scale. Then Clary had nobody beyond Sam to look to, and hope and pray for: she had not even sickly children to nurse, like Dulcie. Sam would only live to future generations in his paintings. Ah, well! it was fortunate that Sam was a man of genius.

You may believe, for all the grand company, the coach, the cut velvet, the laces, and the black boy, that this world was but a mighty sorry, uneasy place to Sam and Clarissa as they rolled home over the pavement, while Will and Dulcie slept with little betwixt them and the stars.


VII. Strips Some Of The Thorns From The Hedge And The Garden Roses.

Will Locke lay dying. One would have thought, from his tranquillity, confidence, and love of work, even along with spare diet, that he would have lived long. But dreamland cannot be a healthy region for a man in the body to inhabit. Will was going where his visions would be as nought to the realities. He was still one of the most peaceful, the happiest of fellows, as he had been all his life. He babbled of the pictures he would paint in another region, as if he were conscious that he had painted in a former state. It seemed, too, that the poor fellow's spiritual life, apart from his artist career, took sounder, cheerier substance and form, as the other life grew dimmer and wilder. Dulcie was almost reconciled to let Will go; for he would be more at home in the spirit-world than here, and she had seen sore trouble, which taught her to acquiesce, when there were a Father and a Friend seen glimmeringly but hopefully beyond the gulf. Dulcie moved about, with her child holding by her skirts, resigned and helpful in her sorrow.

The most clouded faces in the old room in St. Martin's Lane -- with its old litter, so grievous to-day, of brushes, and colours, and graving tools, and wild pictures which the painter would never touch more -- were those of Sam Winnington and Clary. Will had bidden Sam and Clary be sent for to his deathbed; and, offended as they had been, and widely severed as they were now, they rose and came trembling to obey the summons. Clary gave one look, put her handkerchief quickly to her eyes, and then turned and softly covered the tools, lifted the boiling pot to the side of the grate, and took Dulcie's fretful, wondering child in her lap. She was not a fine lady now, but a woman in distress. Sam stood immoveable and uncertain, with a man's awkwardness, but a face working with suppressed emotion.

Will felt no restraint; he sat up in his faded coat with his cravat open to give him air, and turning his wan face with its dark shadow towards Sam Winnington in his velvet coat, with a diamond ring sparkling on his splashed hand, and his colour, which had grown rosy of late years, heightened with emotion, addressed his old friend.

"I wanted to see you, Sam; I had something on my mind, and I could not depart with full satisfaction without saying it to you; I have done you wrong."

Sam raised his head, startled, and stared at the sick man: poor Will Locke; were his wits utterly gone? they had always been somewhat to seek: though he had been a wonderful fellow, too, in his own way -- wonderful at flowers, and birds, and beasts, if he had but been content with them.

"I called you a mere portrait-painter, Sam," continued the dying man; "I refused to acknowledge your inspiration, and I knew better: I saw that to you was granted the discernment to read the human face and the soul behind it, as to me it was given to hold converse with nature and the subtle essence of good and evil. Most painters before you have painted masks; but yours are the clothings of immortals: and your flesh is wonderful, Sam -- how you have perfected it! And it is not true what they tell you of your draperies: you are the only man alive who can render them picturesque and not absurd, refined and not stinted. You were a genteel fellow, too, from the beginning, and would no more do a dirty action when you had only silver coins to jingle in your pockets, than now when they are stuffed with gold moidores."

"Oh, Will, Will!" cried Sam, desperately bowing his head; "I have done little for you."

"Man!" cried Will, with a kingly incredulity, "what could you do for me? I wanted nothing. I was withdrawn somewhat from my proper field, to mould and colour for daily bread; but Dulcie saved me many a wasted hour, and I could occupy the period of a mechanical job in conceiving -- no, in marshalling my visions. Mine was a different, an altogether higher line than yours, Sam; you will forgive me if I have told you too abruptly," and the poverty-stricken painter, at his last gasp, looked deprecatingly at his old honoured associate.

But he was too far gone for ceremony; he was too near release for pain. He had even shaken hands with the few family cares he was capable of experiencing, and had commended Dulcie to Sam Winnington without a single doubt. He felt, like Gainsborough, that they were all going to heaven, and Vandyke was in the company. Where was the room for misunderstanding now! Here was the end of strife, and the conclusion of the whole matter. Some other sentences Will spoke before his parting breath; and when his hearers heard him murmuring the word "garment," they fancied he still raved of his calling -- on to the end. But his mind had turned and taken refuge in another calling, and it was in reference to it that he quoted the fragment of a verse, "And besought him that they might touch if it were but the border of his garment; and as many as touched him were made whole." "Sam, have you put forth your hand?"

Thus Will Locke departed rejoicing. Dulcie, a thin forlorn widow woman, talked with a lingering echo of his elevation, of her Will's being beyond lamentation, and of herself and her boy's being well off with their faith in the future. Dulcie had a proud, constant presentiment in the recesses of her woman's heart that the husband and father's good name and merited reputation would surely find his memory out in this world yet. She had no material possessions save a few of his gorgeous, gruesome, hieroglyphical pictures, and what she had borrowed or inherited of his lower cunning in tinting, a more marketable commodity in the present mind of society.

Dulcie disposed of Will's paintings, reluctantly, realizing an astonishing amount; astonishing, unless you take into account the fact that his companions and contemporaries were not sure that he was a mere madman now that he had gone from their ranks. They wished to atone for their dislike to his vagaries by preserving some relics of the curious handling, the grotesque imagination, the delicate taste, and the finely accurate knowledge of vegetable and animal forms which had passed away.

Then Dulcie went back in the waggon to her old friends at Fairfax, and, by so doing, probably saved her sole remaining child. Dulcie did not know whether to be glad or sorry when she found that Will's boy had no more of his father's genius than might have been derived from her own quick talents, and neat, nice fingers. And she was comforted: not in the sense of marrying again -- oh dear, no! she cherished the memory of her Will as a sacred thing, and through all her returning plumpness and rosiness -- for she was still a young woman -- never forgot the honour she had borne in being a great painter's wife and companion for half-a-dozen years. Perhaps, good as she was, she grew rather to brandish this credit in the faces of the cloth-workers and their wives; to speak a little bigly of the galleries and the Academy, of chiaroscuro and perspective, of which the poor ignoramuses knew nothing: to be obstinate on her dignity, and stand out on her gentility far before that of the attorneys' and the doctors' wives; -- and all this though she had been, as you may remember, the least assuming of girls, the least exacting of wives. But women have many sides to their nature, and remain puzzles -- puzzles in their virtues as in their vices; and if Dulcie were ever guilty of ostentation, you have not to dive deep to discover that it was out of respect to her Will -- to her great, simple, single-hearted painter.

No, Will Locke's was not a life wrecked on the rocks of adversity, any more than Sam Winnington's was stranded on the sandbanks of prosperity. The one did a little to mellow the other before the scenes closed, and Will Locke was less obliged to Sam Winnington than Sam to Will in the end. Will's nature and career were scarcely within the scope of Sam's genial material philosophy; but the thought of them did grow to cross Sam's mind during his long work-hours; and good painters' hours are mostly stoutly, steadily, indefatigably long. He pondered them even when he was jesting playfully with the affable aristocrat under his pencil; he spoke of them often to Clary when he was sketching at her work-table of an evening; and she, knitting beside him, would stop her work and respond freely. Then Sam would rise, and, with his hands behind his back, go and look at that lush, yet delicate picture of the Redwater Bower which he had got routed out, framed, and hung in Clary's drawing-room. He would contemplate it for many minutes at a study, and he would repeat the study scores and scores of times with always the same result -- the conviction of the ease and security resulting from spiritualizing matter, and the difficulty and hopelessness of materializing spirit. And after these long looks into the past, Sam would be more forbearing in pronouncing verdicts on his brethren, worsted in the effort to express what was inherent in their minds; would not decide quite so dogmatically, that all a man had to do was to be sound and diligent, and keep himself far apart from high-flown rubbish, like a common-sense, sober-minded Englishman. And Sam came to be less feverishly anxious about his own monopoly of public esteem; less nettled at art-criticism; perhaps less vivacious in his talents and well-doing, but more manly and serene in his triumph, as Will Locke had been manly and serene in his failure.

Will Locke's life and death, so devoid of pomp and renown, might be beyond lamentation, after all.



Adam Home's Repentance.


I. Wild, Witty Nelly Carnegie.

"A bonny bride's sune buskit; eh, Nanny Swinton?"

"But ye're no bonny, Miss Nelly; na, na, ye cannot fill the shoon o' yer leddy mother; ye're snod, and ye may shak yer tails at the Assembly, but ye're far ahint Lady Carnegie."

"An' I've but to dance my set with young Berwickshire Home, I care not though I bide at home after all."

But Nelly Carnegie would have little liked that resource, though she now flung the powder out of her nut-brown hair, and tapped her little mirror with her fan.

In a low dark closet, up a steep stair, in a narrow, confined, dark-browed house in the Canongate of Edinburgh, one of the belles of 17 -- made her toilette. Her chamber woman, in curch and tartan screen, was old nurse and sole domestic of the high-headed, strong-minded, stately widow of a wild north-country laird, whose son now ruled alone in the rugged family mansion among the grand, misty mountains of Lochaber. Nelly Carnegie was no beauty; not fair as a red-and-white rose, like Lady Eglinton, or any one of her six daughters; not dainty, like poor imprisoned Lady Lovat; she was more like desperate Lady Primrose, flying shrieking from her mad husband's sword and pistols, or fierce Lady Grange, swearing her bootless revenge on the wily, treacherous, scared Lord of Session. She was but wild, witty Nelly Carnegie, whom no precise, stern mother could tame, no hard life at her embroidery or her spinet could subdue. She was brown as a gipsy, skin, eyes, and hair -- the last a rich, ruddy chestnut brown -- with nothing to distinguish her figure but its diminutiveness and the nimbleness of the shapely hands and feet; while her mother's lace lappets were higher by half a foot than the crown of many a manikin on whom she looked down, and her back that never bent or leant for a second on rail or cushion, was straight as an arrow, as well as long. But Nelly, in her absurd, magnificent brocade, and her hoop, that made her small figure like a little russet cask, and with busk and breast-knot and top-knot, was admired, as odd people will choose what is irregular, strange, and racy, in preference to what is harmonious, orderly, and insipid.

Nelly had a cavalier to walk by her sedan, as her mother and she traversed the rough streets. He handed her out at the old Assembly door, but she flung away his hand, and followed her mother alone within the dignified precincts, leaving a gloom and a storm on a lowering brow, unshaded by the cocked hat, then carried under the wearer's arm.

The old Assembly Rooms where potent Jacky Murray presided, where urbane Duncan Forbes won all hearts, where a gentle laird wooed in sweet numbers -- and in vain -- the Annie Laurie of that well-known old song, are now almost forgotten. Other things have passed away in company with the wigs and ruffles, the patches and snuff. The grace may remain, and the refinement be thorough where then it was superficial, but the courtliness of conscious superiority, the picturesque contrarieties and broken natural land that lay below the heaths and craters, exist but as the black gloom and red glare of the past.

There the grave responsible Lord of Session, sober in mien as Scotchmen are wont to be, sat at midnight and roared over his claret in the mad orgies of the Hell-fire Club; here the pawky, penetrating lawyer, shrewd both from calling and character, played the reckless game of a correspondence with the stage Court of St. Germains; yonder mettle beauty sailed along on her high-heeled shoes to finish the night's triumph at an oyster supper in a den behind the Luckenbooths. And there again walked an imperial dowager, who still span her own linen and struck her serving-man with her ivory cane. Truly the old Edinburgh Assembly Rooms had their secrets, and contained exciting enough elements under their formal French polish.

The regular balls at the Assembly Rooms were eras in Nelly Carnegie's life, and yet she met always the same company. She knew every face and name, and what was worse, danced nightly with the same partner. The select society was constituted at the commencement of the season, and when once the individual fan was drawn from the cocked-hat of fate, there was no respite, no room for change. Young Home of Staneholme had knowledge of the filigree circle through which Nelly was wont to insert her restless fingers, and Lady Carnegie furthered his advances; so that although Nelly hated him as she did the gloomy Nor' Loch, she received his escort to and from the Assembly Rooms, and walked with him her single minuet, as inevitably as she lilted Allan Ramsay's songs, or scalded her mouth with her morning's porridge.

Nelly's suitor was not ill to look upon, so far as flesh and blood went. He was a well-made, robust fellow, whose laced coat and deep vest showed the comely, vigorous proportions of youth. The face was manly, too, in spite of its beardless one-and-twenty, but the broad eyebrows sank, either in study or sullenness, and the jaw was hard and fixed.

Yet to see how Nelly strained her bonds, how she gecked and flouted and looked above him, and curtsied past him, and dropped his hand as if it were live coals, while the heavy brow grew darker, until it showed like a thunderstorm over the burning red of the passion-flushed cheek.

"Tak tent, Nelly," whispered a sedate companion, sensible, cautious, and canny, whose flaxen hair over its roll had the dead greyness of age, though the face below was round and dimpled; "young Staneholme drew his sword last night on the President's son because he speered if he had skill to tame a goshawk."

"Tak tent, yerself, Janet Erskine," Nelly responded wrathfully; "think twice ere you wed auld Auchtershiel."

Janet shrank, and her bright blue eye blinked uneasily, but no additional colour came into her cheek, nor did her voice shake, though it fell. "It must be, Nelly; I daurna deny my father, and mony mair drink forby Auchtershiel; and if he cursed his last wife out and in, and drove her son across the sea, they were thrawn and cankered, and he was their richtfu' head. I'll speak him fair, and his green haughs are a braw jointure. But, Nelly, do ye believe that the auld Laird -- the auld ane before Auchtershiel himself, he that shot the Covenanter as he hung by the saugh over the Spinkie-water, and blasphemed when he prayed -- walks at night on the burn bank?"

"I dinna ken; if I did not fear a livin' sorrow, I would daur a dead ane," Nelly protested, with a shade of scorn in her levity; "and ye can bide in the house on the soft summer nights. The Lady of Auchtershiel need not daunder by the burn side; she can be countin' her house purse in the still room; but if I were her, I would rather beg my bread."

"Whisht, for shame, Nelly Carnegie," was returned with a shrillness in the measured tones; "you would not; and ye'll learn yer own task, and say Yes to sour, dour Staneholme."

"I never will; I'll let myself be starved to death, I'll throttle myself with my own hands first," cried Nelly Carnegie, fire flashing in her large eyes and on her dark cheeks; and looking up in her defiance she met the glow for glow of Staneholme's star. Time-serving Janet Erskine moved off in unconcealed trepidation, and Nelly stood her ground alone, stamping her foot upon the boards, and struggling in vain against the cruel influence which she could not control, and to which she would not bend.

"He need not gloom and look at me; hearkeners never hear good of themselves," Nelly thought, with passionate vehemence; but her sparkling eyes fell slowly, and her proud panting heart quailed with a long throb.


II. A Gallant Rebuffed: Nelly's Punishment.

The next time Nelly saw Adam Home was by the landing in the Canongate, in whose shelter lay the draw-well wherein the proud, gently-born laird's daughter every afternoon dipped the Dutch porcelain jug which carried the fresh spring-water wherewith to infuse her mother's cherished, tiny cup of tea. Young Home was passing, and he stepped aside, and offered to take the little vessel from her hand, and stoop and fill it. He did this with a silent salutation and glance that, retaining its wonted downward aim, yet suddenly lightened as if it loved to rest upon the little girlish figure, in its homely tucked-up gown, the crimson hood drawn over the chestnut hair that turned back in a crisp wave from the bold, frank, innocent face. But she waved him off, and balancing her foot upon the edge-stone, saw herself reflected in the steel-like water. Then he begged with rare softness in a voice that was rough and gruff, unless it deepened with strong feeling -- 

"Will you suffer me, Nelly Carnegie? I would give my hand to pluck but a flower to serve you."

Had he tried that tone at first, before she was more than chilled by his sombre and imperious gravity, before her mother supported him unrelentingly and galled and exasperated her by persecution, he might have attracted, fascinated, conquered. As it was, she jeered at him.

"Serve me! he could do me no better service than 'mount and go.' A posy! it would be the stinging-nettle and dank dock if he gathered it."

The revenge he took was rude enough, but it was not unheard of in those days. He caught her by the wrist, and under the shadow of the abutting gable he kissed the knitted brow and curling lips, holding her the while with a grasp so tight that it gave her pain. When she wrung herself from him, she shook her little hand with a rage that quivered through every nerve, and had more of hate than of romping folly or momentary pique in its passion.

"Nelly Carnegie," said her mother, as she carefully pulled out the edge of a coil of yellow point-lace, which rested on her inlaid foreign work-table, and contrasted with her black mode cloak and white skinny fingers, and looking with her keen, cold, grey eyes on the rebellious daughter standing before her, went on, "I have word that Staneholme goes south in ten days."

Nelly could have said, "And welcome," but she knew the consequences, and forbore.

"He's willin' to take you with him, Nelly, and he shows his good blood when he holds that a Carnegie needs no tocher."

Still Nelly did not answer, though she started so violently that her loosely-crossed hands fell apart; and Nanny Swinton, who was about her housewifery in the cupboard off the lady's parlour, heard every word, and trembled at the pause.

"Your providing is not to buy," continued the mistress of the aristocratic family, whose attendance was so scanty and their wants so ill supplied that even in necessaries they were sometimes pinched; "we've but to bid the minister and them that are allied to us in the town, and Nanny will scour the posset dish, and bring out the big Indian bowl, and heap fresh rose-leaves in the sweet-pots. You'll wear my mother's white brocade that she first donned when she became a Leslie, sib to Rothes -- no a bit housewife of a south-country laird. She was a noble woman, and you're but a heather lintie of a lass to come of a good kind. So God bless you, bairn; ye'll tak the blast of wind and gang."

As if the benediction had loosened the arrested tongue, Nelly burst out -- "Oh, mother, mother! no."

Lady Carnegie, in her own person, had looked upon death with unblenching front, and had disowned her only son because, in what appeared to others a trifle, he had opposed her law. Nor did a muscle of her marked face now relax; her occupation went on without a check; she did not deign to show surprise or displeasure, although her voice rose in harsh, ironical emphasis -- 

"Nelly Carnegie, what's your will?"

"Not that man, mother; not that fearsome man!" pleaded Nelly, with streaming eyes and beseeching tones, her high spirit for the moment broken; her contempt gone, only her aversion and terror urging a hearing -- "The lad that's blate and dull till he's braggit by his fellows, and then starker than ony carle, wild like a north-country cateran; even the haill bench o' judges would not stand to conter him."

"He'll need his stiff temper; I couldna thole a man but had a mind of his own, my dear," ejaculated Lady Carnegie in unexpected, clear, cherry accents, as if her daughter's extremity was diversion to her.

"Oh, spare me, spare me, mother," Nelly began again.

"Hooly and fairly, Nelly Carnegie," interrupted the mother, still lightly and mockingly, "who are you that ye should pick and choose? What better man will speer your price? or think ye that I've groats laid by to buy a puggy or a puss baudrons for my maiden lady?"

"I'll work my fingers to the bone, mother; my brother Hugh will not see me want."

"Eat bite or sup of his victuals, or mint a Carnegie's working to me again, Nelly, and never see my face more."

The lady had lapsed into wrath, that burned a white heat on her wrinkled brow, and was doubly formidable because expressed by no hasty word or gesture.

"Leave my presence, and learn your duty, belyve, for before the turn of the moon Staneholme's wife ye sall be."

Do not think that Nelly Carnegie was beaten, because she uttered no further remonstrance. She did not sob, and beg and pray beyond a few minutes, but she opposed to the tyrannical mandate that disposed of her so summarily the dead weight of passive resistance. She would give no token of submission; would make no preparation; she would neither stir hand nor foot in the matter. A hundred years ago, however, the head of a family was paramount, and household discipline was wielded without mercy. Lady Carnegie acted like a sovereign: she wasted no time on arguments, threats or entreaties. She locked her wilful charge into a dark sleeping-closet, and fed her on bread and water until she should consent to her fate. Sometimes Nelly shook the door until its hinges cracked, and sometimes she flung back the prisoner's fare doled out to her; and then her mother came with a firm, slow, step, and in her hard, haughty manner commanded her to cease, or she would tie her hand and foot, and pour meat and drink down her throat in spite of her. Then Nelly would lie down on the rough boards, and stretch out her hands as if to push the world from her and die in her despair. But the young life was fresh and strong within her. She panted for one breath of the breeze that blew round craggy Arthur's Seat, and one drink of St. Anthony's Well, and one look, if it were the last, of the golden sunshine, no beams of which could penetrate her high, little window. She would fain have gone again up the busy street, and watched the crowds of passengers, and listened to the bustling traffic, and greeted her friends and acquaintances. Silence and solitude, and the close air that oppressed her, were things very foreign to her nature. In the dark night, when her distempered imagination conjured up horrible dreams, Nanny Swinton stole to her door, and bemoaned her bird, her lamb, whispering hoarsely, "Do her biddin', Miss Nelly; she's yer leddy mother; neither man nor God will acquit you; your burden may be lichter than ye trow." And Nelly was weary, and had sinful, mad thoughts of living to punish her enemies more by the fulfilment of their desire than by the terrors of her early death. So the next time her mother tapped on the pannel with her undaunted, unwearied "Ay or no, Nelly Carnegie? Gin the bridal be not this week, I'll bid him tarry another; and gin he weary and ride awa', I'll keep ye steekit here till I'm carried out a corp before ye, and I'll leave ye my curse to be coal and candle, and sops and wine, for the lave o' yer ill days."

Nelly gasped out a husky, wailing "Ay," and her probation was at an end.


III. A Mournful Marriage Eve.

There was brief space now for Nelly's buying pearlins and pinners, and sacques and mantles, and all a young matron's bravery, or for decorating a guest chamber for the ceremony. But Lady Carnegie was not to be balked for trifles. Nanny Swinton stitched night and day, with salt tears from aged eyes moistening her thread; and Nelly did not swerve from her compact, but acted mechanically with the others as she was told. With a strange pallor on the olive of her cheek, and swollen, burning lids, drooping over sunk violent lines beneath the hot eyeballs, and cold, trembling hands, she bore Staneholme's stated presence in these long, bleak March afternoons. He never addressed her particularly, although he took many a long, sore look. Few and formal then were the lover's devoirs expected or permitted.

The evening was raw and rainy; elderly gentlemen would have needed "their lass with a lantern," to escort them from their chambers. The old city guard sputtered their Gaelic, and stamped up and down for warmth. The chairmen drank their last fee to keep out the cold -- and in and out of the low doorways moved middle-aged women barefooted, and in curch and short gown, who, when snooded maidens, had gazed on the white cockade, and the march of Prince Charlie Stuart and his Highlandmen. Down the narrow way, in the drizzly dusk, ran a slight figure, entirely muffled up. Fleet of foot was the runner, and blindly she held her course. Twice she came in contact with intervening obstacles -- water-stoups on a threshold, gay ribbons fluttering from a booth. She was flying from worse than death, with dim projects of begging her way to the North, to the brother she had parted from when a child; and ghastly suggestions, too, like lightning flashes, of seizing a knife from the first butcher's block and ending her misery.

Hasty steps were treading fast upon her track. She distinguished them with morbid acuteness through the speed of her own flight. They were mingled steps -- a feeble hurrying footfall, and an iron tread. She threaded a group of bystanders, and, weak and helpless as she was, prepared to dive into a mirk close. Not that black opening, Nelly Carnegie, it is doomed to bear for generations a foul stain -- the scene of a mystery no Scottish law-court could clear -- the Begbie murder. But it was no seafaring man, with Cain's red right hand, that rushed after trembling, fainting Nelly Carnegie. The tender arms in which she had lain as an infant clutched her dress; and a kindly tongue faltered its faithful, distressed petition -- 

"Come back, come back, Miss Nelly, afore the Leddy finds out; ye hae nae refuge, an' ye're traced already by mair than me."

But in a moment strong hands were upon her, holding her like a fluttering moth, or a wild panting leveret, or a bird beating its wings; doing her no violence, however, for who would brush off the down, or tear the soft fur, or break the ruffled feathers? She struggled so frantically that poor old Nanny interposed -- 

"Na, sir; let her be; she'll gae hame wi' me, her ain born serving-woman. And oh, Staneholme, be not hard, it's her last nicht."

That was Nelly Carnegie's marriage eve.

On the morrow the marriage was celebrated. The bridegroom might pass, in his manly prime and his scarlet coat, although a dowf gallant; but who would have thought that Nelly Carnegie in the white brocade which was her grandmother's the day that made her sib to Rothes -- Nelly Carnegie who flouted at love and lovers, and sported a free, light, brave heart, would have made so dowie a bride? The company consisted only of Lady Carnegie's starched cousins, with their husbands and their daughters, who yet hoped to outrival Nelly with her gloomy Lauderdale laird.

The hurried ceremony excused the customary festivities. The family party could keep counsel, and preserve a discreet blindness when the ring dropped from the bride's fingers, and the wine stood untasted before her, while Lady Carnegie did the honours as if lonely age and narrow circumstances did not exist.


IV. Nelly Carnegie In Her New Home.

The March sun shone clear and cold on grey Staneholme, standing on the verge of a wide moor, with the troubled German Ocean for a background, and the piping east wind rattling each casement. There was haste and hurry in Staneholme, from the Laird's mother down through her buxom merry daughters to the bareheaded servant-lasses, and the substitutes for groom and lacquey, in coarse homespun, and honest, broad blue bonnets. There was bustle in the little dining-room with its high windows, which the sea-foam sometimes dimmed, and its spindle-legged chairs and smoked pictures. There was blithe work in the cheerful hall, in whose broad chimney great seacoal fires blazed -- at whose humming wheels the young Mays of Staneholme, as well as its dependants, still took their morning turn. There was willing toil in the sleeping-rooms, with their black cabinets and heavy worsted curtains. And there was a thronged mêlée in the court formed by the outhouses, over whose walls the small-leaved ivy of the coast clustered untreasured. Staneholme's favourite horse was rubbing down; and Staneholme's dogs were airing in couples. Even the tenantry of the never-failing pigeon-house at the corner of the old garden were in turmoil, for half-a-score of their number had been transferred to the kitchen this morning to fill the goodly pasties which were to anticipate the blackberry tarts and sweet puddings, freezing in rich cream. But the sun had sunk behind the moor where the broom was only budding, and the last sea-mew had flown to its scaur, and the smouldering whins had leaped up into the first yellow flame of the bonfires, and the more shifting, fantastic, brilliant banners of the aurora borealis shot across the frosty sky, before the first faint shout announced that Staneholme and his lady had come home. With his wife behind him on his bay, with pistols at his saddle-bow, and "Jock" on "the long-tailed yad" at his back, with tenant retainers and veteran domestics pressing round -- and ringing shouts and homely huzzas and good wishes filling the air, already heavy with the smoke of good cheer -- Staneholme rode in. He lifted down an unresisting burden, took in his a damp, passive hand, and throwing over his shoulder brief, broken thanks, hurried up the flight of stairs, through the rambling, crooked passages into the hall.

Staneholme was always a man of few words. He was taken up, as was right, with the little lady, whose habit trailed behind her, and who never raised her modest eyes. "Well-a-day! the Laird's bargain was of sma' buik," thought the retainers, but "Hurrah" for the fat brose and lumps of corned beef, and the ale and the whisky, with which they are now to be regaled!

In the hall stood Joan and Madge and Mysie, panting to see their grand Edinburgh sister. They were only hindered from running down into the yard by the deposed mistress of Staneholme, whose hair was as white as snow, and who wore no mode mantle nor furbelows nor laces, like proud Lady Carnegie. She was dressed in a warm plaiden gown and a close mob cap, with huge keys and huswife balancing each other at either pocket-hole, and her cracked voice was very sweet as she reiterated "Bide till he bring her here, my bairns," and her kindly smile was motherly to the whole world. But think you poor vanquished Nelly Carnegie's crushed heart leapt up to meet these Homes -- that her eyes glanced cordially at Joan, and Madge, and Mysie -- that her cheek was bent gratefully to receive old Lady Staneholme's caress? No, no; Nelly was too wretched to cry, but she stood there like a marble statue, and with no more feeling, or show of feeling. Was this colourless, motionless young girl, in her dusty, disarranged habit, and the feather of her hat ruffled by the wind, the gay Edinburgh beauty who had won Staneholme! What glamour of perverse fashion had she cast into his eyes!

"Wae's me, will dule never end in this weary warld? Adam lad, Adam, what doom have you dragged doon on yoursel'?" cried Lady Staneholme; and while the thoughtless, self-absorbed girls drew back in disappointment, she met her son's proud eyes, and stepping past him, let her hand press lightly for a second on his shoulder as she took in hers Nelly's lifeless fingers. She said simply to the bride, "You are cold and weary, my dear, and supper is served, and we'll no bide making compliments, but you're welcome hame to your ain gudeman's house and folk; and so I'll lead you to your chamber in Staneholme, and then to the table-head, your future place." And on the way she explained first with noble humility that she did not wait for a rejoinder, because she had been deaf ever since Staneholme rode post haste from Edinburgh from the last sitting of the Parliament; and that since she was growing old, although it was pleasant to her to serve the bairns, yet she would be glad to relinquish her cares, and retire to the chimney-corner to her wheel and her book; and she blessed the Lord that she had lived to see the young mistress of Staneholme who would guide the household when she was at her rest. Nelly heard not, did not care to recognise that the Lady of Staneholme, in her looks, words, and actions, was beautiful with the rare beauty of a meek, quiet, loving spirit which in those troublous days had budded and bloomed and been mellowed by time and trial. Nor did Nelly pause to consider that had she chosen, she whose own mother's heart had never melted towards her, might have been nestled in that bosom as in an ark of peace.

When Lady Staneholme conducted Nelly down the wide staircase into the chill dining-room, and to the chair opposite the claret-jug of the master of the house, Nelly drew back with sullen determination.

"Na, but, my bairn, I'm blithe for you to fill my place; Staneholme's mither may well make room for Staneholme's wife," urged the lady, gently.

But Nelly remained childishly rooted in her refusal to preside at his board, unless compelled; and her brow, knit at the remembrance of her fall, was set to meet the further encounter. Joan and Madge and Mysie, with their blooming cheeks, and their kissing-strings new for the occasion, stared as if their strange sister was but half endowed with mother wit; and Lady Staneholme hesitated until Adam Home uttered his short, emphatic "As she pleases, mother," while the flush flew to his forehead, and his firm lip shook.

Staneholme had resolved never to control the wife he had forced into his arms, beyond the cold, daily intercourse which men will interchange with a deadly foe, as well as with a trusty frere; never to approach her side, nor attempt to assuage her malice nor court her frozen lips into a smile. This was his purpose, and he abode by it. He farmed his land, he hunted, and speared salmon, was rocked in his fishing-boat as far as St. Abbs, read political pamphlets, and sat late over his wine, and sometimes abetted the bold smuggling, much like his contemporaries. But no pursuit which he followed with fitful excess seemed to satisfy him as it did others, and he never sought to supplement it by courting his alien wife.

Lady Staneholme would fain have made her town-bred daughter-in-law enamoured with the duties of a country life, and cheered the strange joylessness of her honeymoon. Failing in this attempt, she, with a covert sigh, half-pain, half-pleasure, resumed the old oversight of larder and dairy. Such care was then the delight of many an unsophisticated laird's helpmate; and, to the contented Lady of Staneholme, it had quite made up for the partial deprivation of social intercourse to which her infirmity had subjected her. Joan, Madge, and Mysie, wearied of haughty Nelly after they had grown accustomed to the grand attire she wore, denied that they had ever been dazzled with it, and ceased to believe that she had danced minuets in the Assembly Rooms before Miss Jacky Murray. They had their own company and their own stories, into which they had no temptation to drag an interloper.

Nelly, in her desolation standing apart in the centre of the wholesome, happy family circle, grew to have her peculiar habits and occupations, her self-contained life into which none of the others could penetrate.


V. Nelly's New Pastimes.

The sea-pink and the rock saxifrage were making the rugged rocks gay, the bluebell was nodding on the moor, and Nelly had not died, as she foolishly fancied she should. She had learned to wander out along the shore or over the trackless moor for hours and hours, and often returned footsore and exhausted. She who had been accustomed only to the Canongate and High Street of Edinburgh, the tall houses with their occasional armorial bearings, the convenient huckster shops -- their irregular line intersected by the strait closes, the traffic and gossip; or to the forsaken royal palace, and the cowslips of the King's Park -- could now watch the red sunset burnishing miles on miles of waving heather, and the full moon hanging above the restless tide. She could listen to the surf in the storm, and the ripple in the calm, to the cry of the gull and the wh-r-r of the moorcock; pull wild thyme, and pick up rose-tinted shells and perforated stones; and watch shyly her hardy cottar servants cutting peats and tying up flax, and even caught snatches of their rude Border lore of raid and foray under doughty Homes, who wore steel cap and breastplate.

The coast-line at Staneholme was high and bold, but in place of descending sheerly and precipitately to the yellow sands, it sloped in a green bank, broken by gullies, where the long sea-grass grew in tangled tufts, interspersed with the yellow leaves of the fern, and in whose sheltered recesses Nelly Carnegie so often lingered, that she left them to future generations as "Lady Staneholme's Walks."

There she could see the London smacks and foreign luggers beating up to ride at the pier of Leith. There she could sit for hours, half-hidden, and protected from the sea blast, mechanically pulling to pieces the dried, blackened seaweed blown up among the small, prickly blush roses. In her green quilted petticoat and spencer she might have been one of the "good people's changelings," only the hue of her cheek was more like that of a brownie of the wold; and, truly, to her remote world there was an impenetrable mystery about the young mistress of Staneholme, in her estrangement and mournfulness. Some said that she had favoured another lover, whom Staneholme had slain in a duel or a night-brawl; some that the old Staneholmes had sold themselves to the Devil, and a curse was on their remotest descendants; for was not the young laird fey at times, and would not the blithe sisters pass into care-worn wives and matrons?

There sat Nelly, looking at the sea, musing dreamily and drearily on Old Edinburgh, or pondering with sluggish curiosity over the Homes, and what, from casual looks and words, she could not help gathering of their history. The Lairds of Staneholme had wild moss-trooper blood in their veins, and they had vindicated it to the last generation by unsettled lives, reckless intermeddling with public affairs, and inveterate feuds with their brother lairds.

Adam Home's was a hot heart, constant in its impetuosity, buried beneath an icy crust which he strove to preserve, but which hissed and crackled when outward motives failed, or when opposition fanned the inner glow. With the elements of a despot but half tamed, and like many another tyrant, unchallenged master of his surroundings, Staneholme wielded his authority with fair result. Tenant and servant, hanger-on and sprig of the central tree, bore regard as well as fear for the young laird -- all save Staneholme's whilom love and wedded wife.

Nelly did not wish to understand this repressed, ardent nature, although its developments sometimes forced themselves upon her. She had heard Staneholme hound on a refractory tyke till he shouted himself hoarse, and yet turn aside before the badger was unearthed; she had seen him climb the scaurs, and hang dizzily in mid-air over the black water, to secure the wildfowl he had shot, and it was but carrion; and once, Joan and Madge, to whom he was wont to be indulgent in a condescending, superior way, trembled before the stamp of his foot and the kindling flash of his eye. Some affair abroad had disturbed him and he came into the hall, when his sisters' voices were raised giddily as they played off an idle, ill-thought-of jest on grave, cold Nelly. "Queans and fools," he termed them, and bade them "end their steer" so harshly, that the free, thoughtful girls did not think of pouting or crying, but shrank back in affright. Nelly Carnegie, whom he had humbled to the dust, was below his anger.

When the grey mansion of Staneholme basked in the autumn sun, an auspicious event gladdened its chambers. Joan was matched with a gay, gallant young cousin from Teviotdale, and from the commencement of the short wooing to the indefatigable dance which the young bride herself led off right willingly, all was celebrated with smiles and blessings, and harvest-home fulness of joy and gratitude. But a dark shadow moved among the merrymakers. A young heart robbed of its rights, like an upbraiding ghost, regarded the simple, loving, trusting pair, and compared their consecrated vows with the mockery of a rite into which it had been driven.

The only change time brought to Nelly, was the progress of an unacknowledged bond between her and good old Lady Staneholme. The obstacle to any interchange of ideas and positive confidence between them, was the inducement to the tacit companionship adopted by the sick, wayward heart, with its malady of wrong and grief. Influenced by an instinctive, inexplicable attraction, Nelly's uncertain footsteps followed Lady Staneholme, and kept pace with her soft tread, when she overlooked her spinners and knitters, gave out her linen and spices, turned over her herbs, and visited her sick and aged. There they were seen -- the smiling, deaf old lady, fair in her wrinkles, and her mute, dark, sad daughter whom in patient ignorance she folded in her mantle of universal charity.


VI. The Laird Conscience-Smitten.

Under a pale February sun Nelly was out on the sea-braes, where the sprays of the briar-roses were swept in circles, streaming far and wide. She lingered in the hollow, and strayed to the utmost limit of her path. As she was returning, her eye fell on the folds of an object fluttering among the tedded grass. It was Staneholme's plaid. This was the first time he had intruded upon her solitary refuge. When Nelly climbed the ascent, and saw the mansion house, with its encumbered court, she could distinguish the sharp sound of a horse's hoof. Its rider was already out of sight on the bridle-road. Michael Armstrong, the laird's man, was mounting his own nag; Wat Pringle, the grieve, and other farm folk, stood looking after the vanished traveller; Liddel, the Tweedside retriever, paced discontentedly up and down; and old Lady Staneholme met her on the threshold, and as on the night of her arrival at Staneholme, led her up the staircase and into her sleeping-chamber. Nelly marked, with dim dread, the tear-stains on the pallid cheeks of placid age, and the trembling of the feeble hand that guided her. She had nothing to fear; but what was the news for which there was such solemn preparation?

"My puir bairn," Lady Staneholme began brokenly, "I've had an interview with my son, and I've learnt, late, some passages in the past; and I wonder not, but I maun lament, for I am a widow mother, Nelly, and my only son Adam who did you wrong and showed you no pity, has got his orders to serve with the soldiers in the Low Countries. He has not stayed to think; he has left without one farewell: he is off and away, to wash out the sins of him and his in his young blood. I will never see his face more: but you are a free woman; and, as the last duty he will receive at your hand, he bids you read his words."

Nelly's hand closed tightly over its enclosure. "Who says I told he did me wrang?" she said, proudly, her dilated eyes lifted up to the deprecating ones that did not avoid her gaze.

"Na, na, ye never stoopit to blame him. Weary fa' him! Nelly Carnegie," ejaculated honest Lady Staneholme, "although he is my ain that made you his, sair, sair against your woman's will, and so binged up blacker guilt at his doorstane, as if the lightest heritage o' sin werena' hard to step ower. But, God forgive me! It's old Staneholme risen up to enter afresh upon his straits, and may He send him pardon and peace in His ain time."

"Nelly" (Staneholme's letter said), -- "for my Nelly you'll never be, though the law has given me body and estate, -- what garred me love you like life or death? I've seen bonnier, and you're no so good as my mother, or you would have forgiven me long syne. Why did you laugh, and mock, and scorn me, when I first made up to you among your fine Edinburgh folks? Had you turned your shoulder upon me with still steadfastness, I might have been driven to the wall -- I would have believed you. When you said that you would lie in the grave sooner than in my arms, you roused the evil temper within me; and though I had mounted the Grassmarket, I swore I would make you my wife. What call or title had you, a young lass, to thwart your lady mother and the Laird of Staneholme? And when I had gone thus far -- oh! Nelly, pity me -- there was no room to repent or turn back. I dared not leave you to dree alane your mother's wrath: there was less risk in your wild heart beating itself to death against the other, that would have gladly shed its last drop for its captive's sake. But Heaven punished me. I found, Nelly, that the hand that had dealt the blow could not heal it. How could I approach you with soft words, that had good right to shed tears of blood for my deeds? So, as I cannot put my hand on my breast and die like my father, I'll quit my moors and haughs and my country; I'll cross the sea and bear the musquetoon, and never return -- in part to atone to you, for you sall have the choice to rule with my mother in the routh and goodwill of Staneholme, or to take the fee for the dowager lands of Eweford, and dwell in state in the centre of the stone and lime, and reek, and lords and ladies of Edinburgh; in part because I can hold out no longer, nor bide another day in Tantalus, which is the book name for an ill place of fruitless longing and blighted hope. I'll no be near you in your danger, because when other wives cry for the strong, grieved faces of their gudemen, you will ban the day your een first fell upon me. Nelly Carnegie, why did my love bring no return; no ae sweet kiss; never yet a kind blink of your brown een, that ance looked at me in gay defiance, and now heavily and darkly, till they close on this world?"

Something more Staneholme raved of this undeserved, unwon love, whose possession had become an exaggerated good which he had continued to crave without word or sign, with a boy's frenzy and a man's stanchness. Nelly lost her power of will: she sat with the paper in her hand as if she had ceased to comprehend its contents -- as if its release from bondage came too late.

"Dinna ye ken, Nelly woman, his presence will vex you no longer? you're at liberty to go your own gate, and be as you have been -- that was his propine," whispered Lady Staneholme, in sorrowful perplexity, but without rousing Nelly from her stupor. They lifted her on her bed, and watched her until her trial took hold of her. No stand did Nelly make against pain and anguish. She was sinking fast into that dreamless sleep where the weary are at rest, when Lady Staneholme stood by her bed and laid an heir by her side, bidding her rejoice, in tones that fell off into a faint quivering sob of tenderness and woe; but Nelly's crushed, stunned heart had still some hidden spring among its withered verdure, and her Benoni called her back from the land of forgetfulness.


VII. Blessing And Affliction -- Adam Home's Return.

Nelly recovered, at first slowly but cheeringly, latterly with a doubt and apprehension creeping over her brightening prospect -- until, all too certainly and hopelessly, her noon, that had been disturbed with thunder-claps and dashing rain, was shrouded in grey twilight.

Nelly would live, but her limbs would never more obey her active spirit, for she had been attacked by a relentless malady. The little feet that had slid in courtly measure, and twinkled in blithe strathspeys, and wandered restlessly over moor and brae, were stretched out in leaden helplessness. When she was young, she "had girded herself and gone whither she would;" but now, ere she was old, while there was not one silver thread in those chestnut locks, "another would gird her and carry her whither she would not." And oh! to think how the young mother's heart, ready to bud and bloom anew, was doomed to drag out a protracted existence, linked to the corpse-like frame of threescore and ten, until the angel of death freed it from its tabernacle of clay.

Nelly never spoke of her affliction -- never parted from her baby. Travelling with difficulty, she removed to Edinburgh, to the aspiring tenement in the busy Canongate, which she had quitted in her distraction. Lady Carnegie, in her rustling silk and with her clicking ivory shuttle, received her into her little household, but did not care to conceal that she did so on account of the aliment Staneholme had secured to his forsaken wife and heir. She did not endure the occasional sight of her daughter's infirmities without beshrewing them, as a reflection on her own dignity. She even sneered and scoffed at them, until Nanny Swinton began to fear that the judgment of God might strike her lady -- a venerable grandame still without one weakness of bodily decay or human affection.

And did Nelly fret and moan over the invalid condition for which there was neither palliation nor remedy? Nay, a blessing upon her at last; she began to witness a good testimony to the original mettle and bravery of her nature. She accepted the tangible evil direct from God's hand, sighingly, submissively, and with a noble meekness of resignation. She rose above her hapless lot -- the old Nelly Carnegie, though subdued and chastened, was in a degree restored.

"Nanny! Nanny Swinton!" called Nelly from her couch, as she managed to hold up, almost exultingly, the big crowing baby, in its quaintest of mantles and caps, "Staneholme's son's a braw bairn, well worthy Lady Carnegie's coral and bells."

"'Deed is he," Nanny assented. "He'll grow up a stately man like his grandsire;" and recurring naturally to forbidden memories, she went on: "He'll be the marrow of Master Hugh. Ye dinna mind Master Hugh, Lady Staneholme? -- the picture o' auld Lady Carnegie. That I sud call her auld!"

Nelly's brow contracted with something of its old indignation. "There's never a look of the Carnegies in my son; he has his father's brow and lip and hair, and you're but a gowk, Nanny Swinton!" and Nelly lay back and closed her eyes, and after a season opened them again, to tell Nanny Swinton that "she had been dreaming of a strange foreign city, full of pictures and carved woodwork, and of a high-road traversing a rich plain, shaded by apple and chestnut trees, and of something winding and glittering through the branches," leaving Nanny, who could not stand the sight of two magpies, or of a cuckoo, of a morning before she had broken her fast, sorely troubled to account for the vision.

The gloaming of a night in June was on the Canongate and the silent palace of the gallant, gentle King James. Lady Carnegie was gracing some rout or drum; Nanny Swinton was in her kitchen, burnishing her superannuated treasures, and crooning to herself as she worked; Nelly, in her solitary, shadowy room, lay plaiting and pinching the cambric and muslin gear whose manufacture was her daily occupation, with her child's clumsy cradle drawn within reach of her hand. Through the dim light, she distinguished a man's figure at the door. Nelly knew full well those lineaments, with their mingled fire and gloom. They did not exasperate her as they had once done; they appalled her with great shuddering; and sinking back, Nelly gasped -- 

"Are you dead and gone, Staneholme? Do you walk to seek my love that ye prigget for, but which canna gladden you now? Gae back to the bottom of the sea, or the bloody battle-field, and in the Lord's name rest there."

The figure stepped nearer; and Nelly, even in her blinding terror, distinguished that it was no shadowy apparition, but mortal like herself. The curdling blood rushed back to Nelly's face, flooding the colourless cheek, and firing her with a new impulse. She snatched her child from its slumber, and clasped it to her breast with her thin transparent hands.

"Have you come back to claim your son, Adam Home? But you'll have to tear him from me with your man's strength, for he's mine as well as yours; and he's my last, my only jewel."

And Nelly sat bolt upright, her rosy burden contrasting with her young, faded face, and her large eyes beginning to flame like those of a wild beast about to be robbed of its young.

"Oh no, Nelly, no," groaned Staneholme, covering his face; "I heard of your distress, and I came but to speer of your welfare." And he made a motion to withdraw.

But Nelly's heart smote her for the wrong her rash words had done him -- a wayworn, conscience-smitten man -- and she recalled him relentingly.

"Ye may have meant well. I bear you no ill-will; I am stricken myself. Take a look at your laddie, Adam Home, before ye gang."

He advanced when she bade him, and received the child from her arms; but with such pause and hesitation that it might have seemed he thought more of his hands again meeting poor Nelly Carnegie's, and of her breath fanning his cheek, than of the precious load she magnanimously intrusted to him. He did look at the infant in his awkward grasp, but it was with a stifled sigh of disappointment.

"He may be a braw bairn, Nelly -- I know not -- but he has no look of yours."

"Na, he's a Home every inch of him, my bonny boy!" Nelly assented, eagerly. After a moment she turned her head, and added peevishly, "I'm a sick woman, and ye needna mind what I say; I'm no fit for company. Good day; but mind, I've forgotten and forgiven, and wish my bairn's father well."

"Nanny Swinton," called Nelly to her faithful nurse, as she lay awake on her bed, deep in the sober dimness of the summer night, "think you that Staneholme will be booted and spurred with the sun, riding through the Loudons to Lauderdale?"

"It's like, Lady Staneholme," answered Nanny, drowsily. "The keep o' man and beast is heavy in the town, and he'll be tain to look on his ain house, and greet the folk at home after these mony months beyond the seas. Preserve him and ilka kindly Scot from fell Popish notions rife yonder!"

"A miserable comforter are you, Nanny Swinton," muttered her mistress, as she hushed her child, and pressed her fevered lips to each tiny feature.


VIII. The Reconciliation And Return To Staneholme.

But Staneholme came again in broad light, the next day -- the next -- and the next, with half excuses and vague talk of business. Lady Carnegie did not interdict his visits, or blame his weakness and inconsistency, for they were seemly in the eyes of the world -- which she honoured, after herself, although she washed her hands of the further concerns of these fools.

And Nelly talked to him with a grave friendliness, like one restored from madness or risen from another world. "Staneholme, you've never kissed the wean, and it's an ill omen," she said, suddenly, watching him intently as he dandled the child; and as if jealous of any omission regarding it, she appeared satisfied when he complied with her fancy.

"The curtain is drawn, and the shadow is on you; but is that a scar on your brow, Staneholme, and where did you get it?"

"A clour from a French pistol;" it was but skin deep -- he was off his camp-bed in a few days.

He stooped forward, as he spoke slightingly, and pushed back the hair that half obscured the faint blue seam.

"Whisht!" said Nelly, reprovingly, "dinna scorn sickness; that bit stroke might have cost Lady Staneholme her son and my bairn his father;" and she bent towards him in her turn, and passed her fingers curiously and pityingly over the healed wound, ignorant how it burned and throbbed under her touch. "When the bairn is grown, and can rin his lane, Staneholme," Nelly informed him in her new-found freedom of speech, "I will send him for a summer to Staneholme; I'll be lonesome without him, but Michael Armstrong will teach him to ride, and he'll stand by Lady Staneholme's knee." Staneholme expressed no gratitude for the offer, he was fastening the buckle of his beaver. The next time he came he twisted a rose in his hand, and Nelly felt that it must indeed be Beltane: she looked at the flower wistfully, and wondered "would the breezes be shaking the bear and the briar roses on the sea-braes at Staneholme, or were the grapes of southern vines bonnier than they?" He flung down the flower, and strode to her side.

"Come hame, Nelly," he prayed passionately; "byganes may be byganes now. I've deserted the campaign, I've left its honours and its dangers -- and I could have liked them well -- to free men, and am here to take you hame."

Nelly was thunderstruck. "Hame!" she said, at last, slowly, "where you compelled me to travel, where I gloomed on you day and night, as I vowed; I, who would not be a charge and an oppression to the farthest-off cousin that bears your name. Are you demented?"

"And this is the end," groaned Staneholme, in bitterness; "I dreamt that I would win at last. I did not love you for your health and strength, or your youth and beauty. I declare to you, Nelly Carnegie, your face is fairer to me, lying lily white on your pillow there, than when it was fresh like that rose; and when others deserted you and left you forlorn, I thought I might try again, and wha kent but the ill would be blotted out for the very sake of the strong love that wrought it?"

A dimness came across Nelly's eyes, and a faintness over her choking heart; but she pressed her hands upon her breast, and strove against it for the sake of her womanhood.

"And I dreamed," she answered slowly and tremulously, "that it bude to be true, true love, however it had sinned, that neither slight nor hate, nor absence nor fell decay could uproot; and that could tempt me to break my plighted word, and lay my infirmity on the man that bargained for me like gear, and that I swore -- Heaven absolve me! -- I would gar rue his success till his deein' day. Adam Home, what are you seekin' at my hands?"

"Nae mair than you'll grant, Nelly Carnegie -- pardon and peace, and my young gudewife, the desire o' my eyes. I'll be feet to you, Nelly, as long's I'm to the fore."

"Big tramping feet, Staneholme," said Nelly, trying to jest, and pushing him back; "dinna promise ower fair. Na, Adam Home, you'll wauken the bairn!"

So Staneholme bought the grand new family coach of which the Homes had talked for the last generation; and Lady Carnegie curtsied her supercilious adieus, and hoped her son and daughter would be better keepers at home for the future. And Nanny Swinton wore her new gown and cockernonie, and blessed her bairn and her bairn's bairn, through tears that were now no more than a sunny shower, the silver mist of the past storm.

There was brooding heat on the moors and a glory on the sea when Staneholme rode by his lady's coach, within sight of home.

"There will be no great gathering to-night, Staneholme; no shots or cheers; no lunt in the blue sky; only doubt and amaze about an old man and wife: but there will be two happy hearts that were heavy as stane before. Well-a-day! to think I should be fain to return this way!"

Staneholme laughed, and retorted something perhaps neither quite modest nor wise; but the ready tongue that had learnt so speedily to pour itself out to his greedy ears did not now scold and contradict him, but sighed -- 

"Ah, Adam Home, you do not have the best of it; it is sweet to be beat; I didna ken -- I never guessed that."

Gladly astounded were the retainers of Staneholme at their young laird's unannounced return, safe and sound, from the wars; but greater and more agreeable was their friendly surprise to find that his sick wife, who came back with him unstrengthened in body, was healed and hearty in spirit. Well might good old Lady Staneholme rejoice, and hush her bold grandson, for the change was not evanescent or its effects uncertain. As Staneholme drove out his ailing wife, or constructed a seat for her on the fresh moor, or looked at her stitching his frilled shirts as intently as the child's falling collars, and talked to her of his duties and his sports, his wildness was controlled and dignified. And when he sat, the head and protector of his deaf old mother, and his little frolicsome, fearless child, and his Nelly Carnegie, whose spirit had come again, but whose body remained but a sear relic of her blooming youth, his fitful melancholy melted into the sober tenderness of a penitent, believing man, who dares not complain, but who must praise God and be thankful, so long as life's greatest boons are spared to him.



Hector Garret Of Otter.


I. The Fire.

A calm, pure summer moonlight fell upon the Ayrshire mosses and deans, but did not silver, as far as we are concerned, the Carrick Castle of Bruce, nor Cameron's lair amidst the heather, nor landward Tintock, nor even seagirt Ailsa Craig, but only the rolling waves of the Atlantic and a grey turreted mansion-house built on a promontory running abruptly into the water. The dim ivory light illuminated a gay company met in the dwelling with little thought of stillness or solemnity, but with their own sense of effect, grouped carelessly, yet not ungracefully, in an old-fashioned, though not unsuitable drawing-room.

They needed relief, these brilliant supple figures; they demanded the background of grey hangings, scant carpet, spindle-legged chairs, and hard sombre prints. To these very cultivated, very artificial and picturesque personages, a family sitting-room was but a stage, where lively, capricious, yet calculating actors were engaged in playing their parts.

The party were mostly French, from the mass of gallant, dauntless emigrants, many of whom were thus entertained with grateful, commiserating hospitality in households whose members had but lately basked in the sparkling geniality of the southern atmosphere, now lurid and surcharged with thunder.

There was a Marquise, worldly, light, and vain, whom adversity had not broken, and could not sour; an Abbé, bland and double, but gentle and kindly in his way; a soldier, volatile, hot-headed, brave as a lion, simple as a child; an older man, sad, sneering, indifferent to this world and the next, but with the wrecks of a noble head, and, God help him, a noble heart.

Of the three individuals present of a different nation and creed, two closely resembled the others with only that vague, impalpable, but perceptible distinction of those whose rearing affords a superficial growth which overspreads but does not annihilate the original plant. The one was a young man, buoyant, flippant, and reckless as the French soldier, but with a bold defiance in his tone which was all his own; the other a young girl, coquettish and vivacious as the Marquise, but with a deep consciousness under her feigning, an undercurrent of watchful pride and passion, of which her model was destitute. The last of the circle was a fair-haired, broad-shouldered lad, who stood apart from the others, big, shy, silent: -- but he was earnest amid their shallowness, noble amid their hollowness, and devoted amid their fickleness. How he gazed on the arch, haughty girl, with her lilies and roses, her pencilled brows, her magnificent hair magnificently arranged, with her rich silk and airy lace, and muslin folded and gathered and falling into lines which were the very poetry of attire, unless where a piquant provoking frill, band, or peak, reminded the gazer that the princess was a woman, a mocking mischievous woman, as well as a radiant lady! How he listened to her contradictory words, witty and liquid even in their most worthless accents! how he drank in her songs, the notes of her harp, the rustle of her dress, the fall of her foot! how he started if she moved! how he saw her, though his eyes were on the ground, and though his head was in his hands, while she marked him ceaselessly, half with cruel triumph, half with a flutter and faintness which she angrily and scornfully resisted and denied.

A few more gay bons mots and repartees, a last epigram from the Abbé, a court anecdote from the Marquise which might have figured in one of those letters of Madame de Sévigné where the freshness of the haymaker of Les Rochers survives the glare and the terrible staleness of the Versailles of Louis XV., a blunt camp jest from the soldier, a sarcasm from the philosopher, a joyous barcarole, strangely succeeded by a snatch from that lament of woe wrung forth by the fatal field of Flodden, and the company dispersed. The horse's hoofs of the single stranger of the evening rung on the causeway, as he made for the smooth sands of the bay, the lights one by one leaping out, and the pale moon remaining mistress of Earlscraig as when the warder on yon tower peered out over the waters for the boats of the savage Irish kern, or lit the bale-fire that summoned Montgomery and Muir to ride and run for the love or the fear of Boswell of Earlscraig.

Had these old-world times returned by magic? had a crazed serving-man revived the vanished duties of his warlike predecessor? was the wraith of seneschal or man-at-arms conjuring up a ghostly beacon to stream into the soft air? was an evil spirit about to bewilder and mislead a fated ship to meet its doom on the jagged rocks beneath the dead calm of that glassy sea? So dense was the vapour that suddenly gathered over Earlscraig, till like an electric flash, a jet of flame sprang from a high casement and lit up the gathering obscurity. No horn blew, no bugle sounded, no tramp of horse or hurrying feet broke the silence; the house lay in profound rest, and the sleepers slept on, though truly that was no phantom glare, no marsh gleam, but the near presence of an awful foe.

And the smoke burst forth in thicker, more suffocating volume; the red streamers shot up again and again, and the burning embers fell like thickest swarms of fire-flies, before a single hasty step roused an echo already lost in the roar and crackle of fire. A scared, half-dressed servant ran out into the court, flung up his hands as he looked around him, then hurried back, and suddenly the great bell pealed out its faithful alarum. "Good folk, good folk, danger is at the door! For Jesu's sake and your dear lives, up and flee! The angels hold out their hands, Sodom is around you -- away, away!"

The summons was not in vain. Within a few seconds clamorous outcries, shrieks of dismay, the dashing open of doors and windows, answered the proclamation. A horror-struck crowd assembled rapidly in the court; but notwithstanding that the Abbé's wan face and shaven crown appeared speedily, and the soldier shouted, "Who is in danger? mes camarades, suivez-moi!" the philosopher instinctively elected himself commander; he rose, tall and erect, over the heads of his fellows; his face flushed and brightened; and he spoke words of wisdom and resolution whose spirit men recognised through the veil of his frozen tongue; while cravens shrank back, brave men rallied round him!

"Where is Boswell? Mon Dieu! the house is burning and the master is not found! Adolphe, sauve la Marquise, cet escalier n'est pas perdu. But where is Boswell? Show his room to me -- the nearest way -- quick, or he perishes. Ah, le voilà!"

Down a flight of side steps stumbled the butler and a favourite groom, bearing between them the young laird, motionless, senseless, his dress dishevelled, but unscathed by flame, and unstained by blood; still breathing, but his marked imperious features were unconscious, heavy, and lethargic.

The Abbé and his elder friend exchanged glances. The brow of the latter contracted in disgust and gloom.

"Adolphe and he played billiards against my desire, as if he were not bête enough already," he said in an undertone. "Lay him here, my friends," to the servants, "and listen to me. If you love the Seigneur, let him never know that thus it happened this night. Cover him with a mantle; he will awake to see his chateau a ruin. Mais, n'importe, we will do our best. Carry out what is most precious; bring up buckets of water. Ma foi! there is enough at hand."

Yes; at their feet, but by a few fathoms unavailable, lay the broad sea, sufficient to extinguish the conflagration of a thousand cities, while the house above was rent with fierce heat, which reddened the sea like blood.

The Marquise was rescued sobbing and shivering, but she shared her blanket with one of the poor servant-girls. Even the old bed-ridden nurse, so blind and stupid with age that none could satisfy her of the cause of the tumult and din, was carried out, and placed on the grass terrace beside the master; where no sooner did she apprehend intuitively the neighbourhood of her proudly cherished nursling, than she left off her weak wailing, and began to croon over him as fondly and contentedly as when he lay an innocent babe in his cradle:

"Are you weary, Earlscraig? Have you come back sorely tired from the hunt or the race? Weary fa' the men folk that let you lie down with the dew-draps on your bonny curls -- bonnier than Miss Alice's, for a' their fleechin' -- as if it were high noon. No but noontide has its ills, too; but you would never heed a bonnet, neither for sun nor wind. A wild laddie, a wild laddie, Earlscraig!"

Eager but ignorant hands were piling up heaps of miscellaneous goods -- pictures, feather-beds, old armour, plate, mirrors, harness, carpets, and wearing apparel. All were tossed together in wild confusion. The moon was hidden; air, earth, and water were lurid; a hot blast blew in men's faces, which alone remained white and haggard, when a murmur and question, a doubt and frenzy, first stirred and fast convulsed the mass. "Where is Miss Alice?" Ay, where was Miss Alice? Who had seen her? Speak, in God's name! -- shout her name until her voice replies, and men's shuddering souls are freed from this ghastly nightmare.

Miss Alice! Alice Boswell! are you safe, lamenting unseen the home of your fathers? Or are you within that turret whose foundation rock descends sheer into the sea -- that turret close by which the demon began his work, where his forked tongue is now licking each loophole and outlet, where beams are bursting and the yawning jaws of hell are about to swallow up the rapid wreck -- forgotten, forsaken -- the queen of hearts, the wooed and worshipped beauty; fair and sweet, ripe and rare, the sole daughter of the race; the charm and delight of its grey heads?

Oh, Father, thou art terrible in thy decrees! Oh, men, ye are miserable fools! She is there by the blazing framework of the window of her chamber, which she has never quitted; her hair loose, some portion of her dress cast about her, her eyes wide open and glazing with terror, but strangely beautiful -- with a glory behind and about her; an unearthly brightness upon brow and cheek, and white arms stretched out imploringly, despairingly for help in her utmost need.

They pressed forward; they looked up in anguish; old men who had followed her when a fairy child, friends of long standing, acquaintances of yesterday. Again and again the gallant soldier penetrated the low doorway; again and again he swerved and recoiled from the furnace fumes that met him -- a more fearful encounter than the fury of the sans-culottes and the reeking pools beneath the guillotine.

"Courage, soldats! Vive la mort, pour la femme et pour la gloire!" and with a shout half-exulting, half-maddened, the Gallic blood again fired to the desperate feat. Then there was a diversion -- a rush to the opposite side of the building -- a ladder might be of use there. A notion of forcing open a closed-up and disused gallery of communication, seized hold of these agitated minds, and this afforded a vent to the pent-up sympathy and distress. New energy supplanted stupor; and through the deep hush of the fire could be distinguished the blows of axe and hammer, wielded lustily by stalwart and devoted arms, eager to clear a way of life and liberty for the captive.

But this was a work of time, and louder crackled and hissed the flames. A fiercer blaze filled the sky, and glittered back from the waves; the serpent tongues drew together, and shot up through the room in a yellow pyramid. In vain! in vain! The zealous labourers panted in the sickness of horror and the chill of great awe.

"A boat! a boat!" called a voice from the outer circle. The thinker, the scorner, stood on the verge of the rocks above the illuminated sea, his head bare, his coat stripped off. "Let Mademoiselle cast herself from the casement instantly; it is her only hope. I can swim; I will hold her up until a boat is launched. Courage, Mademoiselle! trust in God and in me."

"Yes, Marquise," he whispered for a second to his countrywoman near him; "I have lost God for many a day; I have found him again in this hour. A Te Deum for my requiem!" and looking aghast upon his face in the great light, the Marquise crossed herself, and averred ever afterwards that it was transformed like unto that of his patron saint, St. Francis. The next moment he plunged into the midnight sea. Those who witnessed the action declared that the reflection of the burning was so strong that he seemed to sink into a lake of fire, where he rose again presently, and breasted the waters stoutly.

The girl saw the design; she comprehended it, and the hoarse murmur of encouragement that hailed its presence of mind. The concentration of the flames, which threatened every moment to bring down a portion of the ponderous roof in one destroying crash, left a freer passage. She advanced quickly -- she put her foot on the smouldering sill; she paused, hesitated. It was a fearful alternative.

"Leap down, leap down, Miss Alice; a drowning man has two lives, a burning man but one. Down, down, or you are lost!"

But another cry mingled with the vehement appeal -- a piercing, confident cry, that would have vibrated on the dull ear of the dying, though it said only, "I am coming. Alice Boswell: I am coming!"

He was there, on his panting, foam-flecked horse: he flung himself from his saddle; he heard her answer, "Hector Garret, save me, save me!"

He broke the circle as Samson burst the green withes: he paralysed all remonstrance; he vanished into the abyss which the great staircase presented. He must have borne a charmed life to reach thus far -- when a mightier roar, a perfect column of fire, a thundering avalanche of glowing timber and huge stones descended with a shock of an earthquake, and rebounded into the sea, engulfing for ever the fair slight form within.

By daring and magnanimous effort and main force, other arms bore back Hector Garret from the tottering walls and shaken foundation: and the boat rowed out and delivered the heroic Frenchman. The sinking in of the turret roof satiated the destroyer, so that the further wing of the house was preserved. Its master lived unharmed, to rouse himself from his portentous slumber and face his calamity, while the lover lay writhing and raging in the clutch of wild fever.

But the summer sun shining down on the sea, once more blue and clear as heaven, fell on black yawning gaps and mounds of ashes; on shivered glass and strewn relics of former luxury; on the very grass of the promontory, brown and withered, and trodden into the earth for many a yard; on the horrible grave of the maiden who had watched her own image in the crystal pools, lilted her siren songs to the break of the waves, woven at once chains for her adorers and the web of that destiny which buried her there, unshrouded and uncoffined.


II. The Offer.

The Clyde was forded by man and horse where ships now ride at anchor; but the rush of trade, not quite so deep and rapid fifty years since as now, yet strong and swift, the growth of centuries, was hurrying, jostling, trampling onward in Jamaica Street and Buchanan Street and their busy thoroughfares. Within our quarter, however, were stillness and dimness, the cold, lofty, classic repose of the noble college to which a professor's house was in immediate vicinity.

The room, large, low-roofed, with small, peaked windows, had not been built in modern times. The furniture was almost in keeping: roomy settees, broad, plain, ribbed-back chairs, with faded worked covers, the task of fingers crumbled into dust, heavy bookcases loaded with proportionably ponderous or curiously quaint volumes, and mirrors, with their frames like coffins covered with black velvet and relieved by gilding.

The only fresh and fragrant thing in the room -- ay, or in the house, where master and mistress and servants were old and withered -- was a young girl seated on a window-seat, her hands lightly crossed, watching the white clouds in the July sky, white, though nothing else is so in Glasgow, where the air is heavy with perpetual smoke and vapour.

That girl, too broad-browed and large-eyed for mere youthful beauty, but with such an arch, delicate, girlish mouth and chin as betokened her a frank, unsophisticated, merry child after all, was Leslie Bower, the young daughter and only child of an erudite and venerated professor.

Leslie had no brothers and no sisters, and in a sense she had neither father nor mother, for Professor Bower was the son, husband, and father of his books, and he had so mighty a family of these, ancient and modern, that he had very little time or attention to spare for ties of the flesh. He was a mild, absent, engrossed old man, flashing into energy and genius in his own field of learning, but in the world of ordinary humanity a body without a soul.

Professor Bower married late in life a timid, shrinking English wife, who, removed from all early ties, and never mingling in Glasgow society, lapsed into a stillness as profound as his own.

Dr. Bower took little notice of his child; what with duties and studies, he had no leisure; he read in his slippered morning gown, he read at meals, he read by his evening lamp; probably, if Mrs. Bower would have confessed it, he kept a volume under his pillow. No wonder he was a blear-eyed, poking, muttering old man, for he was much more interested in Hannibal than in Bonaparte, and regarded Leslie, like the house, the yearly income, the rector, the students, the janitors, as one of many abstract facts with which he troubled himself as little as possible.

Mrs. Bower cared for Leslie's health and comfort with scrupulous nervous exactness, but she was incapable of any other demonstration of regard. She was as shy and egotistical as poor Louis XVI., and perhaps it would have demanded as tragic a domestic revolution to have stirred her up to lively tenderness. Leslie might have been as dubious as Marie Antoinette of the amount of love entertained for her by her nearest kin, but curiously, though affectionate and passionate enough to have been the pure and innocent child of some fiery Jocobin, she had not vexed herself about this mystery. One sees every day lush purple and rose-flowered plants growing in unaccountable shade; true, their associates are pale and drooping, and the growth of the hardier is treacherous, and may distil poison, but the evil principle is gradual, and after conditions have been confirmed and matured.

The stronger portion of Leslie's nature, which required abundant and invigorating food, was slow of development; the lighter side flourished in the silent, dull house, where nothing else courted the sunbeam. In her childhood and girlhood, Leslie had gone out to school, and although always somewhat marked and individual in character, she had companions, friends, sufficient sympathy and intercourse for an independent, buoyant nature at the most plastic period of its existence. This stage of life was but lately left behind; Leslie had not long learnt that now she was removed from classes and masters, and must in a great measure confine her acquaintances to those who returned her visits at her father's house; and as visitors put mamma and papa about, and did not suit their habits, she must resign her little world, and be almost as quiet and solitary as her elders. Leslie had just begun to sigh a little for the old thronged, bustling class-rooms which she had lightly esteemed, and was active by fits and starts in numerous self-adopted occupations which could put former ones out of her head, and fill up the great blanks in her time and thoughts, for she was not inclined to sit down under a difficulty, and instinctively battled with it in a thousand ways.

Thus Leslie had her flower-painting -- few natural flowers she saw, poor girl -- card boxes, worsted vases, eggshell baskets, embroidery pieces, canary bird, and books -- the last greedily devoured. She did not assist her mother, because although their household was limited, Mrs. Bower's quiet, methodical plans were perfect, and she gently declined all interference with her daily round. Neither did Leslie work for her father, because the professor would as soon have employed her canary bird. She was not thoughtful and painstaking for the poor, because, though accustomed to a species of almsgiving, she heard nothing, saw nothing of nearer or higher association with her neighbours. Yet there was capacity enough in that heart and brain for good or for evil.

So Leslie sat there, pausing in her sewing, and gazing idly at the sky, with a girl's quick pensiveness and thick-coming fancies, as she mused.

How blue it was yonder! What glorious clouds! yet the world below was rather stupid and tiresome, and it was hard to say what people toiled so arduously for. There were other lands and other people: should she ever see them? Surely, for she was quite young. She wished they could go in summer 'down the water,' out of this din and dust, to some coast village or lonely loch between lofty purple mountains, such as she had seen when with Mrs. Elliot; papa might spare a few weeks, people no richer did; they had no holidays, and it was so hot and close, and always the same. But she supposed she must be contented, and would go away to cool and compose herself in the crypt of their own cathedral. How grand it was; how solemn the aisles and arches on every side, like forest trees; and then the monuments -- what stories she invented for them! St. Mungo's Well! St. Mungo, austere, yet beneficent; with bare feet, cowled head, scarred back, and hardest of all, swept and garnished heart, with his fruitful blessing, 'Let Glasgow flourish.' What would St. Mungo think now of the city of the tree, the fish, and the bell?

This hoar, venerable, beautiful feat of art was to the imprisoned Glasgow girl as St. Paul's to such another isolated imaginative nature.

There was a knock at the street-door; a very decided application of the queer, twisted knocker. Leslie roused herself: not a beggar's tap that; none of the janitors; and this was not Dr. Murdoch's or Dr. Ware's hour: the girl was accurate in taps and footsteps. Some one was shown in; a man's voice was heard greeting "Dr. Bower," before the study door was closed. Leslie started up with pleased surprise, -- "Hector Garret of Otter! he will come upstairs to see us; he will tell us how the country is looking; he will bring news from Ferndean," and for the next hour she sat in happy, patient expectation.

Mrs. Bower, a fair, faded, grave woman, came into the room, and sat down with her needlework in the other window.

"Mamma," exclaimed Leslie, "do you know that Hector Garret of Otter is downstairs with papa?"

"Yes, Leslie."

"He never fails to ask for us; don't you think we'll see him here by-and-by?"

"I do not know; it depends upon his engagements."

"I wonder what brings him to Glasgow just now; he must find it so much more agreeable at home," with a little sigh.

"Leslie, I don't think you have anything to do with that."

"No, certainly; Hector Garret and I are two very different persons."

"Leslie!"

"Well, mamma."

"I wish you would not say Hector Garret; it does not sound proper in a girl like you."

"I suppose it does not. He must have been a grown-up man when I was a child. I have caught the habit from papa, but I have not the least inclination to use the name to his face."

"I should think not, Leslie;" and the conversation dropped.

Presently the stranger entered deliberately; a tall, fair, handsome man of eight-and-thirty or forty, with one of those cold, intellectual, statuesque faces in which there is a chill harmony, and which are types of a calm temperament, or an extinct volcano. Perhaps it was that cast of countenance which recommended him to the Bowers; yet Leslie was dark, bright, and variable.

The visitor brought a gift in his hand -- a basket of flowers and summer fruit, of which Leslie relieved him, while she struggled in vain to look politely obliged, and not irrationally elated.

"So kind of you to trouble yourself! Such a beautiful flower -- wild roses and hawthorn too -- I like so much to have them, though they wither very soon. I dare say they grew where

'Fairies light On Cassilis Downans dance.'

(Burns was becoming famous, and Leslie had picked up the lines somewhere.) And the strawberries, oh, they must be from Ferndean."

The bearer nodded and smiled.

"I knew it by instinct," and Leslie began eating them like a tempted child, and stained her pretty lips. "Those old rows on each side of the summer-house where papa first learnt his lessons -- I wonder if there are jackdaws there still: won't you have some?"

"No, thank you. What a memory you have, Miss Bower!"

"Ferndean is my Highland hill. When papa is very stiff and helpless from rheumatism, he talks of it sometimes. It is so long ago; he was so different then."

Mr. Garret and Mrs. Bower exchanged a few civil words on his journey, the spring weather, the state of the war, like two taciturn people who force their speeches; then he became Leslie's property, sat down beside her, watched her arranging her flowers, helped her a little, and spoke now and then in answer to her questions, and that was sufficient.

Hector Garret was particularly struck this evening with the incongruity of Leslie's presence in the Professor's dry, silent, scholastic home, and with her monotonous, shaded existence, and her want of natural associations and fitting companionship. He pondered upon her future; he was well acquainted with her prospects; he knew much better than she did that the money with which his father had bought up the mortgages on Ferndean, and finally the estate itself, was drained and scattered long ago, and that the miserable annuity upon which the Professor rested peacefully as a provision for his widow and child, died with the former. It was scarcely credible that a man should be so regardless of his own family, but the echo of the mystic, sublime discourses of the Greek porches, the faint but sacred trace of the march of vast armies, and the fall of nations, caused Leslie to dwindle into a mere speck in the creation. Of course she would be provided for somehow: marry, or make her own livelihood. Socrates did not plague himself much about the fate of Xantippe: Seneca wrote from his exile to console his mother, but the epistles were for the benefit of the world at large, and destined to descend to future generations of barbarians.

What a frank, single-hearted young girl she seemed to Hector Garret -- intelligent, capable of comprehending him in a degree, amusing him with her similes and suggestions; pretty, too, as one of those wild roses or pinks that she prized so highly, though she wore a sober, green, flowered silk dress. He should like to see her in a white gown. He supposed that was not a convenient town wear. Pope had unmasked women, but he could not help thinking that a fresh, simple, kind young girl would be rather a pleasant object of daily encounter. She would grow older, of course. That was a pity; but still she would be progressing into an unsophisticated, cordial, contented woman, whom servants would obey heartily -- to whom children would cling. Even men had a gush of tenderness for these smiling, unobtrusive, humble mothers; and best so in the strain and burden of this life.

Leslie knew nothing of these meditations. She only understood Hector Garret as a considerate friend, distinguished personally, and gifted mentally -- for her father set great store upon him -- but, unlike the gruff or eager servants to whom she was accustomed, condescending to her youth and ignorance, and with a courtesy the nearest to high-breeding she had ever met. She was glad to see Hector Garret, even if he did not bring a breath of the country with him. She parted from him with a sense of loss -- a passing sadness that hung upon her for an hour or two, like the vapour on the river, which misses the green boughs and waving woods, and sighs sluggishly past wharfs and warehouses.

It was a still greater surprise to Leslie when Hector Garret came again the next evening. He had never been with them on two successive days before. She supposed he had gone back to Ayrshire, although he had not distinctly referred to his speedy return. But he was here, and Leslie entertained him as usual.

"Should you not like to see Ferndean?" inquired Hector Garret.

"Don't speak of it," Leslie cautioned him, soberly; "it would be far too great happiness for this world."

"Why, what sort of dismal place do you think the world?"

"Too good a place for you and me," Leslie answered evasively, and with a touch of fun.

"But this is the very season for Ferndean and Otter, when the pasture is gay as a garden, and you can have boating every day in the creeks, more sheltered than the moorland lochs."

The tears came into Leslie's eyes.

"I think it is unkind of you, Mr. Garret, to tempt me with such pictures," she answered, half pettishly.

"I mean to be kind," he responded quickly. "I may err, but I can take refuge in my intentions. You may see Ferndean and Otter, if you can consent to go there, and dwell there as a grave man's friend and wife."

Leslie started violently, and the blood rushed over her face.

"I beg your pardon, Sir, but you don't mean it?"

"I do mean it, Leslie, as being the best for both of us; and I ask you plainly and directly to marry me: if you agree, I hope and trust that you will never regret it."

Leslie trembled very much. She said afterwards that she pinched her arm to satisfy herself that she was awake, but she was not quite overcome.

"I was never addressed so before. I do not know what to say. You are very good, but I am not fit."

He interrupted her -- not with vows and protestations, but resolutely and convincingly.

"I am the best judge of your fitness, -- but you must judge for yourself also. I am certain of your father's and mother's acquiescence, so I do not mention them. But do not hurry; take time, consult your own heart; consider the whole matter. I will not press for your decision. I will wait days, weeks. I will go down to Otter in the meantime, if you prefer it. But if you do say yes, remember, dear Leslie, you confer upon me the greatest boon that a woman can bestow on a man, and I think I am capable of appreciating it."

He spoke with singular impartiality, but without reassuring his hearer. Leslie looked helplessly up to him, excited and distressed.

He smiled a little, and sighed a brief sigh.

"You are not satisfied. You are too candid and generous. You wish me to take my refusal at once. You feel that I am too old, too dull to presume -- "

"Oh, no, no," Leslie exclaimed, seeing herself convicted of terrible selfishness and conceit, while her heart was throbbing even painfully with humility and gratitude. "You have done me a great honour, and if you would not be disappointed -- if you would bear with me -- if you are not deceiving yourself in your nobleness -- I should be so happy to go to Ferndean."

He thanked her eloquently, and talked to her a little longer, kindly and affectionately, and then he offered to seek her father; and left her to her agitated reflections. What a fine, dignified man he looked! Could it be possible that this was her lot in life? And the very sun which had risen upon her planning a walk with Mary Elliot next week, was yet streaming upon her poor pots of geraniums on the dusty window-sill. She quitted her seat, and began to walk quickly up and down.

"Leslie, you are shaking the room." Mamma had been in the further window with her sewing all the time.

Leslie stole behind the brown window-curtain, fluttering her hand among the folds.

"Leslie, you are pulling that curtain awry."

"I cannot help it, mamma."

"Why not, child? Are you ill?"

"Yes -- no, mamma. I don't know what to think -- I can't think. But Hector Garret has asked me to be his wife."

Mrs. Bower's needle dropped from her fingers. She stared at her daughter. She rose slowly.

"Impossible, Leslie," she observed.

Leslie laughed hysterically.

"Yes, indeed. It was very strange, but I heard every word."

"Are you certain you are not mistaken?"

Mrs. Bower had never so cross-examined her daughter in her life; but Leslie was not disturbed or vexed by her incredulity.

"Quite certain. I know it was only yesterday that you scolded me for taking liberties with his name; but he was perfectly serious, and he has gone to tell papa."

Mrs. Bower gazed wistfully on Leslie, and a faint red colour rose in her cheek, while she interlaced her fingers nervously.

"Leslie," she asked again, in a shaking voice, "do you know what you are doing?"

Leslie looked frightened.

"Is it so very terrible, mamma? I should possibly have married some day -- most girls mean to do it; and only think of Ferndean and Otter. Besides, there is nobody I could like so well as Hector Garret, I am quite sure, although I little guessed he cared so much for me;" and Leslie's eye's fell, and a sunny, rosy glow mantled over her whole face, rendering it very soft and fair.

"I see it is to be, Leslie. May it be for your welfare, my dear;" and her mother stooped abruptly, and kissed the young, averted cheek.

Leslie was awed. She dreaded that her father would be equally moved, and then she did not know how she could stand it. But she might have spared herself the apprehension; for when the Professor shuffled in he sat down as usual, fumbled for his spectacles, looked round with the most unconscious eye, observed that "Ware" had that day exceeded in his lecture by twenty minutes -- "a bad practice," (Dr. Bower was himself notoriously unpunctual,) and took not the slightest notice of any event of greater importance, until Leslie's suspense had been so long on the rack that it began to subside into dismay, when glancing up for a moment, he observed parenthetically, as he turned a page -- "Child! you have my approval of a union with Hector Garret -- an odd fancy, but that is no business of ours," -- dropped his eyes again on his volume, and made no further allusion to the subject for the rest of the evening -- no, nor ever again, of his own free will. Hector Garret assailed him on preliminaries, his wife patiently waylaid and besieged him for the necessary funds, acquaintances congratulated him -- he was by compulsion drawn more than once from roots and esthetics; but left to himself, he would have assuredly forgotten his daughter's wedding-day, as he had done that of her baptism.

Leslie recovered from the stunning suddenness of her fate, and awoke fully to its brightness. To go down to Ayrshire and dwell there among hills and streams, and pure heather-scented air, like any shepherdess; to be the nearest and dearest to Hector Garret: -- already the imaginative, warm-hearted girl began to raise him into a divinity.

Leslie was supremely content, she was gay and giddy even with present excitement; with the pretty bustle of being so important and so occupied -- she whose whole time lately had been vacant and idle -- so willing to admire her new possessions, so openly elated with their superiority, and not insensible to the fact that all these prominent obtrusive cares were but little superfluous notes of the great symphony upon which she had entered, and whose infinitely deeper, fuller, higher tones she would learn well, by-and-by.

Leslie Bower was the personification of joy, and no one meddled with her visions. Hector Garret was making his preparations at Otter; and when Leslie sang as she stitched, and ran lightly up and down, only the servants in the kitchen laid their heads together, and confided to each other that "never did they see so daffin' a bride; Miss Leslie should ken that a greetin' bride's a happy bride!" But no one told Leslie -- no one taught her the tender meaning of the wise old proverb -- no one warned her of the realities of life, so much sadder, so much holier, purer, more peaceful than any illusion. Her mother had relapsed into her ordinary calmness, rather wounding Leslie's perceptions when she allowed herself to think of it, for she did not read the lingering assiduity that was so intent it might have been employed upon her shroud. And there was no one else -- no; Leslie was quite unaware that her gladness was ominous.

Only the shadow of a warning crossed Leslie's path of roses, and she disregarded it. Her confidence in Hector Garret and in life remained unbounded.

Leslie had gone to the best known of her early companions, her cup brimming over in the gracious privilege of begging Mary Elliot to be her bridesmaid. The Elliots had been kind to her, and had once taken her to their cheerful country-house; and now Mary was to witness the ceremony, and Hector Garret had said that she might, if she pleased, pay Leslie a long visit at Otter.

Mary Elliot was a little older, a little more experienced in womanly knowledge than Leslie.

"How strange it sounds that you should be married so soon, Leslie, from your old house, where we thought you buried. We believed that you must lead a single life, unless your father made a pet of one of his students: and then you must have waited until he left college."

"It is the reverse. I have no time to lose," nodded Leslie; "only Hector Garret is not old-looking. I don't believe that he has a grey hair in his head. He is a far handsomer man than Susan Cheyne's sister's husband."

"I know it; he was pointed out to me in the street. Is he very fond of you, Leslie?"

"I suppose -- a little, or he would not have me."

"Does he flatter you, pretend that you are a queen, say all manner of fine things to you? I should like to be enlightened."

"No, no, Mary; real men are not like men in books -- and he is not foolish."

"But it is not foolish in a lover. They are all out of their senses -- blinded by admiration and passion."

"Perhaps; but Hector Garret is a clever man, only he speaks when he is spoken to, and does not forget you when out of sight. And do you know, I have been used to clever people, and decidedly prefer to look up to a man?"

"What does he call you, Leslie?"

"Why, Leslie, to be sure, or Miss Bower. You would not have him say Mrs. Garret yet?" And Leslie covered her face and laughed again, and reddened to the tips of her fingers.

"Not 'Bonnie Leslie,' 'Jewel,' 'Angel,'" jested Mary, thrilling at the echo of a certain low, fluttered voice, that had sounded in her own ears and would wilfully repeat, "Winsome Mary," "Little Woman," "Witch!"

"No," Leslie replied, with honest frankness, "that would be speaking nonsense; and if Hector Garret thinks nonsense that is bad enough."

"Do you remember how we talked sometimes of our husbands?"

"Yes, I do. They were all to be heroes."

"And you were to be courted on bended knees. Yes, Leslie, solicited again and again; and when you yielded at last, it should be such an act of grace that the poor fellow would be half mad with delight."

"I was mad myself. I was full of some song or bit of poetry. I tell you again, Mary, if you have not found it out for yourself, real life is not like a book. Hector Garret is not the man to beg and implore, and wait patiently for a score of years. I wish you saw how he manages his strong horse. He sits, and does not yield a hair's breadth. Though it paws and rears, he just holds its head tight and pats its neck. Now, I want him to check and guide me. I have been left a great deal to myself. Papa and mamma are not young, and it appears to me that a single child is not enough to draw out the sympathies of a staid, silent couple. They have been very kind to me all my life, and I ought to be glad that they will not miss me much. But although it was wrong, I have often felt a little forlorn, and been tempted to have bad, discontented thoughts all by myself. However, that is over, and I hope I'm going to be a good and sensible woman now. And, Mary, I am so anxious to have your opinion upon my crimson pelisse, because mamma does not profess to be a judge; and I cannot be certain that it is proper merely on a mantua-maker's word and my own taste. I would like to do Hector Garret credit; not that I can really do so in any eyes but his own."


III. The New Home.

Hector Garret had his girl wife at Otter, and very sunny her existence was for the lustrum of that honeymoon. It was almost sufficient for her to be at liberty, fairly installed in her castle in the air, a country home. And its lord and master was generous and indulgent, and wasted, he did not care to say how many days, in displaying to her the green ruinousness of Ferndean -- in climbing the hills and hunting out the widest views for her -- in taking her out in his boat, and rowing her in sunshine and shade, enjoying her wonder and exultation most benevolently. In a short time he left her to herself, for he had much property, to whose numerous details he attended with rigid conscientiousness, and he had been a student from his youth, and sat almost as much as Dr. Bower in his library, although it was an airier and more heterogeneously fitted-up sanctuary. Leslie was perfectly satisfied; in fact, while the novelty around her was fresh, she preferred to wander about at her leisure, and find out places for herself, because Hector Garret was always hurrying her, and she was trying so hard to be clever, active, and amiable. Ah, that slight strain already perceptible, that growth of ignorance, misconception, and extravagant reverence -- what fruit would it bear?

Otter was a rambling white house in a green meadow opening to the sea. Its salient points were its size and age. The slowest-growing shrubs in its pleasance were tough, seamed, branched and bowed with time. There were few trees in the neighbourhood except at forsaken Ferndean; but there were slow swelling hills crowned with heather closing in the valley over which Otter presided with the dignified paternal character of the great house of strath, or glen. Leslie smiled when she first heard the natives of the district term the grey or glittering track that bounded the western horizon, "The Otter Sea," but very soon she fell into the use of the same name, and was conscious of feeling far more interest in the boats and ships that crossed that limited space, than in those which she saw from the hilltops spread far and wide over a great expanse broken only by the misty Irish coast-line. Indeed, Hector Garret explained to her that he had seignorial claims over that strip of waves -- that the seaweed, and, after certain restrictions, the fragments of wreck cast upon its sands, were his property, quite as much as if he had waved his banner over it, like the gallant Spaniard, in the name of his Most Catholic Majesty.

Leslie had variety in her locality; the beach, with its huge boulders and inspiring music; the fields and "uplands airy," with their hedge wealth of vetch, briar, and bramble; the garden, the ancient walled garden, at whose antiquities Hector Garret laughed.

Leslie played sad pranks in the early season of her disenthralment. She wandered far and near, and soiled her white gowns, to the despair of the Otter servant who did up the master's shirts and managed the mistress's clear-starching, but who never dreamt, in those days of frills, robes, and flounces, of styling herself a laundress. Leslie filled her apron with mosses and lichens: she stole out after the reapers had left the patch of oats which was not within sight of the house, and gathered among the sheaves like a Ruth. She grew stout and hardy, and, in spite of her gipsy bonnet, as brown as a berry under this out-of-door life, until no one would have known the waxen-faced city girl; and many a time when Hector Garret left his study in the dusk and found his way to the drawing-room, he discovered her asleep from very weariness, with her head laid down on her spindle-legged work-table, and the white moonbeams trying to steal under her long eyelashes. He would tread softly, and stand, and gaze, but he never stooped and kissed her cheek in merry frolic, never in yearning tenderness.

Such was Leslie's holiday; let her have it -- it ended, certainly. The black October winds began to whistle in the chimneys and lash the Otter sea into foam; the morning mists were white and dense on the hills, and sometimes the curtain never rose the whole day; the burns were hoarse and muddy, the sheep in fold, the little birds silent. Leslie loved the prospect still, even the wild grey clouds rent and whirled across the sky, the watery sun, and the ragged, wan, dripping verdure; but it made her shiver too, and turn to her fireside, where she would doze and yawn, work and get weary in her long solitary hours. Hector Garret was patient and good-humoured; he took the trouble to teach her any knowledge to which she aspired; but he was so far beyond her, so hopelessly superior, that she was vexed and ashamed to confess to him her ignorance, and it was clear that when he came up to her domain in the evening he liked best to rest himself, or to play with her in a fondling, toying way. After the first interminable rainy day which she had spent by herself at Otter, when he entered and proceeded in his cool, rather lazy fashion to tap her under the chin, to inquire if she had been counting the rain drops, to bid her try his cigar, she felt something swelling in her throat, and answered him shortly and crossly; but when she found that he treated her offended air as the whim of a spoilt child, and was rather the more amused by it, she determined that he should not be entertained by her humours. Perilous entertainment as it was, Leslie could not have afforded it; her wilderness tamed her so that she welcomed Hector Garret eagerly, submitted to be treated as a child, exerted herself to prattle away gaily and foolishly when her heart was a little heavy and her spirits languid.

Leslie saw so little of her husband -- perhaps it was the case with all wives; her father and mother were as much apart -- but Leslie did not understand the necessity. She did not like her life to be selfish, smooth, and aimless, except for her own fancies, as it had been from the first. She wanted to share Hector Garret's cares and his work which he transacted so faithfully. She wished he thought her half as worth consulting as his steward. She had faith in woman's wit. She had a notion that she herself was quick and could become painstaking. She tried entering his room once or twice uninvited, but he always looked so discontented, and when she withdrew so relieved, that she could not persevere in the attempt.

When Hector Garret went shooting or fishing, Leslie would have accompanied him gladly, would have delighted in his trophies, and carried his bag or his basket, like any gillie or callant of the Highlands or Lowlands, if he would have allowed it; but his excursions were too remote and fatiguing, and beyond the strength that was supposed consistent with her sex and nurture.

Little fool! to assail another's responsibilities and avocations when her own were embarrassing her sufficiently. Her household web had got warped and entangled in her careless, inexperienced hands, and vexed and mortified her with a sense of incapacity and failure -- an oppression which she could not own to Hector Garret, because there was no common ground, and no mutual understanding between them. When Leslie came to Otter she found the housekeeping in the hands of an Irish follower of the Garrets -- themselves of Irish origin; and Hector Garret presented Bridget Kennedy to his wife as his faithful and honoured servant, whom he recommended to a high place in her regard. Bridget Kennedy displayed more marked traces of race than her master, but it was the Celtic nature under its least attractive aspect to strangers, proud, passionate, fanciful, and vindictive. She was devoted to her master, and capable of consideration for Leslie on his account -- though jealous of her entrance upon the stage of Otter; but she evinced this reflected interest by encroachments and tyranny, a general determination to adhere doggedly to her own ways, and to impose them upon her mistress.

Leslie began by admiring Bridget, as she did everything else at Otter. Leslie would have propitiated the mayor of the palace with kind words and attentions, but when she was snapped up in her efforts, she drew back with a girl's aptness to be affronted and repelled. Next Leslie began to angrily resist Bridget's unbecoming interference with her movements, and design of exercising authority and control over the child whom the master had chosen to set over his house; but her fitful impulses were met and overruled by stubborn and slenderly veiled fierceness. Leslie was not weak, but she was undisciplined; and she who had been the young Hotspur of the most orderly and pacific of families, learnt to tremble at the sound of Bridget's crutch in the lobbies, and her shrill voice rating the servants who flew to do her bidding.

In proportion as Leslie cowered at her subordinate, the subordinate was tempted to despise her and lord it over her.

Hector Garret was blind to this contention. For his own part, he humoured Bridget or smiled at her asperities, as suited him; and it is probable that if he had been appealed to, he would have adopted his old favourite's side, and censured Leslie as touchy, inconsiderate, perhaps a little spiteful. But he never was made umpire, for Leslie had all the disadvantage of a noble temper in an unseemly struggle. Bridget plagued Leslie, but Leslie would not injure Bridget, -- no, not for the world. The imperious old woman was Hector Garret's friend; he had said that he had known no firmer friend than Bridget Kennedy. She had closed his father's eyes, she had stood by himself in sickness and sorrow (for all his strength and self-command, Hector had known sickness and sorrow -- that was a marvel to Leslie) -- Bridget might clutch her rights to the end, what did it signify? only a little pique and bitterness to an interloper.

Leslie had ceased to credit that she would ever become the wise, helpful woman that she had once warmly desired to see herself. Her own defects were now familiar and sorely disheartening to her, and she had grown aware that she could not by inspiration set and preserve in smooth, swift motion the various wheels of Otter, not even if -- unlooked for and undesired sequel! -- she received express permission to dance upon the head of old Bridget.

Leslie had fancied once, when Hector Garret told her how few neighbours lived within visiting distance, that she should not want society: but the solitude was matter of regret, especially when it proved that of the few families who exchanged rare intercourse, some of better birth than breeding scarcely held the daughter of the disinherited laird and Glasgow scholar as their equal in social rank, or a spouse worthy of the master of Otter, or indeed entitled to their special esteem.

The only house without any pretension within sight of Otter was situated at the other extremity of the bay, on a peninsula projecting far into the sea. It had been built in the days when each mansion was a fortalice, and when safety from enemies was of more moment than the convenience of friends.

This Earlscraig was now little more than a grim, grey turret, seldom occupied; the companion body of the building had been destroyed nearly a score of years before by a fire -- the tragedy of the country-side, as it consummated the ruin of an old family -- and in its horrors a lady of the house perished miserably. So the sight of its cold cluster of chimneys, wind-rocked walls, and scorched and crumbling vestiges of sudden destruction, far from adding to the cheerfulness of the landscape, was a blot on its rural prosperity.

The homes of humbler friends were foreign thresholds to Leslie; the reserved, engrossed, dignified master of Otter crossed them with a freer step. Leslie could but address her servants, and venture to intermeddle bashfully with their most obvious concerns. She had neither tongue nor eye for more distant and difficult dependants.

But Leslie was not dying of ennui or spleen, or miserable and with a nameless fathomless misery. She was only disenchanted -- conscious of feeling a great deal older than she had done six months since. How could she have been so credulous, so vain! Verily, every path of roses has its panoply of thorns.


IV. The Pages Of The Past.

One winter night Leslie, in her deep chair, observed Hector Garret turning over the leaves of an old pocket-book. Hector; catching her eye, offered it to her with a "See, Leslie, how my father chronicled the fashions" -- he never did suppose her susceptible of very grave interests.

In the dearth of other amusements Leslie pored over the ancient diary, and found more suggestive paragraphs than the entry indicated: "Abel Furness has sent me a waistcoat an inch and a half shorter, and a pair of clouded silk hose for the black ditto, ordered." There were -- "Three pounds English to my boy Hector, to keep his pocket during his stay at Ardhope." "A crown to Hector as fee for fishing out the black stot that broke its neck over the rocks." "A letter from Utrecht from my son Hector; a fair hand and a sensible diction." "Forty pounds over and above paid to please Hector on the bond over the flax-fields of Ferndean." "A small stipend secured to my thriftless kinsman, Willie Hamilton, by the advice and with the aid of my son Hector." "To Earlscraig with Hector:" this notice was repeated many times, until the record closed abruptly with the tremulous thanksgiving -- "My dear son and heir, Hector, recovered of his malady by the blessing of God."

Very plainly lay the life-clue of that silent heart, traced in the faded ink of those yellowing pages. How old men cherished their offspring! What did Hector Garret think of those mute but potent witnesses of a regard that he could know no more on earth? She knew he prized the book, for she had seen it carefully deposited in one of the private drawers in his study. She opened it at the beginning, and slipping her fingers into its gilded pockets, discovered a folded paper. It contained merely a sprig of heather, and written on the enclosure -- "From my dear wife, Isobel; her first gift." Two dates were subjoined, with thirty years' interval -- that of the receipt of the token, and that of the inscription of the memorandum.

With flushing cheeks Leslie sat, and spread out the crushed, brittle spikes, so fondly won, so dearly held. She was sure Hector had not one leaf, riband, or ring which she had given him. Once when he was gayer than his wont, and plagued her with his jesting petting, she took up the scissors and cut off a lock of his hair. He did not notice the theft till it was accomplished, and then he stood half-thoughtful, half-contemptuous. He had not a hair of hers, but of course the whole head was his; his father had judged otherwise.

This earlier Hector Garret -- she had heard Bridget enlarge upon his merits. "A fine man, like the master, but frank and light of heart until he lost the lady -- ay, a real lady! grand and gladsome -- the old lady of Otter." Leslie longed for a vision of those old occupants of her place and her husband's; to have a vivid experience of how they looked, spoke, and lived; to see them in spirit -- in their morning good wishes, their noonday cares, their evening cheer, their nightly prayers? Was their union only apparent? were they severed by a dim, shapeless, insurmountable barrier, for ever together, yet for ever apart?

These shades lingered and abode with Leslie in her lonely vigils, ere she distinguished whether their language was that of warning or reproach. She studied their material likenesses -- the last save one in the picture-gallery -- honest faces, bright with wholesome vigour; their son Hector's was a finer physiognomy, but the light had left lip and eye, and Leslie missed it as she gazed wistfully at these shadows, and compared them with their living representative.

A stranger came to Otter: that was an unfrequent event, even when the spring was advancing, and the boats which had been drawn up for the winter were again launched in the cove, and the brown nets hung anew to dry on the budding whins and gowans -- the April gowans converting the haugh into a "lily lea." Their nearest neighbour, only an occasional resident among them, lounged over with his whip, dog-call, and dogs, and entered the drawing-room at Otter, to be introduced for the first time to its mistress. Leslie's instincts were hospitable, and they were by no means strained by exercise; but she did not like this guest; she felt an involuntary repugnance to him, although he was very courteous to her -- with an elaborate, ostentatious homage that astonished and confused her. He was a man of Hector Garret's age, but, even in his rough coat, with marked remains of youthful foppishness and pretension. He was a tall man, with beard and moustache slightly silvered; his aquiline features were sharpened and drawn; his bold searching eyes sunken. He was a gentleman, even an accomplished and refined gentleman in manner and accent -- and yet there was about him a nameless coarseness, the brutishness of self-indulgence and low aims and ends, which no polish could efface or conceal.

Leslie, notwithstanding her slight knowledge of life, apprehended this, and shrank from the man; but he addressed Hector Garret with the ease of an intimate associate -- and Hector Garret, with his pride and scrupulousness, suffered the near approach, and only winced when the stranger accosted Leslie, complimented Leslie, put himself coolly on the footing of future friendship with the lady of the house.

The day wore on, and still the visitor remained, entertaining himself, and discoursing widely, but for the most part on practices and motives strange at Otter.

"So you've married, after all, Hector," he said, suddenly, as they sat together in the twilight: "well, I excuse you," with a laugh and a touch on the shoulder.

The words were simple enough, but they tingled in Leslie's ears like insolence, and Hector Garret, so hard to rouse, bit his lips while he answered indifferently -- "And when does your time come, Nigel? Are the shadows not declining with you?"

"Faith, they're so low, that there's not light left for the experiment; besides, French life spoils one for matrimony here, at least so poor Alice used to say -- 'no galling bonds on this side of the Channel' -- the peaceful couvent grille, or a light mariage de convenance among the pleasant southerns; -- not that they are so pleasant as they were formerly either."

Hector Garret got up and walked to one of the window recesses, his brow knit, his teeth set.

Leslie rose to steal from the room.

"Nay, stay, madam," urged the bland, brazen intruder; "don't rob us so soon of a fair, living apology for fades souvenirs."

But "Go, Leslie, we will not detain you," Hector Garret exclaimed, impatiently; and Leslie hurried to her own chamber in a tumult of surprise and indignation, and vexed suspicion. Mysteries had not ceased; and what was this mystery to which Hector Garret deigned to lend himself in disparaging company with a sorry fine gentleman?

Bridget Kennedy was there before her, making a pretence of fumbling in the wardrobe, her head shaking, her lips working, her eyes blazing with repressed rage and malice.

"Is he there, madam, still?" she demanded, impetuously. "Is he torturing and maddening Master Hector with his tones and gestures? He! -- he that ought to crouch among the bent grass and fern sooner than pass the other on the high road. Borrowing and begging, to lavish on his evil courses: he who could not pay us -- not in red gold, but with his heart's blood -- the woe he wrought. They had guileful, stony hearts, the Boswells, before they ever took to foreign lightness and wickedness: and evil to him who trafficked with them in life or death."

"Who is he, Bridget? I do not know him; I cannot understand," gasped Leslie.

"Don't ask me, madam -- you, least of all."

"Tell me, Bridget, tell me," implored the girl, frightened, yet exasperated, catching the old woman's withered hands, and holding them fast.

"Don't ask me, madam," reiterated Bridget, sternly. "Better not."

"I will know; what do you mean? Oh, you hurt me, you hurt me! I will ask Hector Garret himself. I cannot bear this suspense!"

"Child, do you choose what you can bear? Beware!" menaced the nurse; then, as Leslie would have broken from her -- 

"Have it, then! He is the brother of that Alice Boswell who perished in the burning of Earlscraig nigh twenty years ago."

"Poor lady, Bridget," Leslie said, with a bewildered, excited sob. "Poor unhappy lady; but what has that to do with him, with me? I understand no better. Help me, Bridget Kennedy -- a woman, like myself. I will not let you go."

"Madam, what good will it serve? It is small matter now:" then half reluctantly, half with that possession with which truth fills its keeper, slowly and sadly she unfolded the closed story. "What had Master Hector to do with Alice Boswell? He had to do with her as a man has to do with his heart's desire, his snare, his pitfall."

"He loved her, Bridget; he would have wedded her. I might never have been his -- that is all."

"Love, marriage!" scornfully; "I know not that he spoke the words, but he lay at her feet. Proud as Master Hector was, she might have trodden on his neck; cool as Master Hector seems to others, he was fire to her. I have seen him come in from watching her shadow, long hours below her window, in the wind and rain, and salt spray. I have known him when he valued her glove in his bosom more than a king's crown -- blest, blest if he had but a word or a glance. But it is long gone by, madam. Master Hector has gained wisdom and gravity, and is the head of the house; and for fair Miss Alice, she has gone to her place. Yes, she was a beauty, Miss Alice; she could play on stringed instruments like the heavenly harpers, and speak many tongues, and work till the flowers grew beneath her fingers. She learnt to wile men's souls from their bodies, if nothing more, in the outlandish parts where she was bred."

"So fair, so gifted -- did she care for him in return, Bridget? Did she love him as he loved her?" asked a faint voice.

"What need you mind, madam?" sharply. "It is ill speaking harsh words of the dead. Did I not say she had gone to her place? God defend you from such a passage. Let her rest. Sure she cared for him, as she cared for aught else save herself. She scattered smiles and favours on scores. He knew at last what she took, and what she gave, if he did not guess it always."

"Why did he not save her, Bridget? die with her!"

"Madam," bitterly, "he did what man could do. They say he was more like a spirit than a mortal; but if he was to lose his love, how could even Master Hector fight against his Maker? He was fain to follow her; he dallied with death for weeks and months. Those were fell days at Otter, but the Lord restored him, and now he is himself again, and no woman will ever move Master Hector more."

There was silence in the room for a space. At last Bridget broke it: "Do you want anything more with me, madam, or shall I go?"

Haughty as Bridget Kennedy was, she spoke hesitatingly, almost pitifully. She had stabbed that young thing, sitting pale and cold before her; and no sooner was the deed done than her strong, deep nature yearned over her victim as it had never done to Hector Garret's girl wife, in the first rosy flush of her thoughtless gladness.

"Nothing more." The words were low and heavy, and when Bridget left her, Leslie raised her hands and linked them together, and stretched them out in impotence of relief.

What was this news that had come to her as from a far country? -- this blinding light, this burst of knowledge that had to do with the very springs of a man's nature, this fountain so full to some, so empty to others? She had been deceived, robbed. Hector Garret was Alice Boswell's -- in life and death, Alice Boswell's.

This love, which she had known so slightly, measured so carelessly -- oh, light, shallow heart! -- had been rooted in his very vitals, had constrained him as a conqueror his captive, had been the very essence of the man until it spent itself on Alice Boswell's wild grave. He had come to her with a lie in his right hand, for he was bound and fettered in heart, or else but the blue, stiff corpse of a man dead within; he had betrayed her woman's right, her best, dearest, truest right, her call to love and be loved. Another might have wooed her as he had wooed Alice Boswell; to another she might have been the first, the only one! she knew now why she was no helpmeet, no friend for him; why his hand did not raise her to his eminence, his soul's breath did not blow upon hers, and create vigour, goodness, and grace to match his own. Deep had not cried unto deep: heart had not spoken to heart: the dry bones, the vacant form, the empty craving, were her portion; and out of such unnatural hollowness have arisen, once and again, deadly lust and sin.

Why had none stepped in between her and this cruel mockery and temptation? "Mother, mother, how could you be false to your trust? Were you, too, cheated and bereft of your due? left a cold, shrinking woman, withering, not suddenly, but for a whole lifetime?"

Leslie sat long weighing her burden, until a tap at the door and Bridget Kennedy's voice disturbed her. "Earlscraig is gone, madam; Master Hector is sitting alone with his thoughts in your room. May be, he is missing his cup of tea, or, if you please, madam, his lady's company that he is used to at this hour."

Leslie rose mechanically, walked out, and entered her drawing-room. What did he there, his eyes fixed on the broken turret of Earlscraig, defined clearly on the limited horizon, his memory hovering over the fate of fair Alice Boswell?

Was it horrible to be jealous of a dead woman? to wish herself in that ever-present grave, sacred to him as the holiest, though no priest blessed it, no house of God threw over it the shadow of the finger pointed to heaven -- the cross that bore a world's Saviour? But that swift and glowing passage from life and light and love, such as his to darkness, forgetfulness -- eternity. How could she have faced it? Bridget, her old enemy, had prayed she might be delivered from it, whatever her trials.

"Nigel Boswell is gone at last; he was an old playfellow, and fortune and he have been playing a losing game ever since," he said, in unsuspecting explanation, as he joined her where she sat in her favourite window.

She did not answer him; she was stunned, and sat gazing abstractedly on the wallflowers rendering golden the mossy court wall, or far away on the misty Otter sea. She thought he had relapsed into his reveries, was with the past, the spring-tide of his life, the passion of his early manhood, while she was a little school-girl tripping demurely and safely along the crowded Glasgow streets. If she had looked up at him she would have seen that he was observing her curiously -- wondering where his young wife had acquired that serious brow, those fixed eyes.

"What are you thinking of, Leslie?"

"Nothing; I cannot tell," hastily and resolutely.

"That sounds suspicious." He put his hand on her head, as he had a habit of doing, but she recoiled from him.

"A shy little brain that dreads a finger of mine on its soft covering must discover its secrets. Are they treasures, Leslie?"

Oh, blind, absent, reckless man, what treasure-keeper kept such ward!

Lightly won, was lightly held.

Leslie struggled with her oppression for several dull feverish days; then, driven by her own goading thoughts, her sense of injury, her thirst for justice and revenge, she left the house and wandered out on the beach to breathe free air, to forget herself in exertion, fatigue, stupor. It was evening, dark with vapour -- gloomy, with a rising gale, and the sea was beginning to mutter and growl. Leslie sat shivering by the water's edge, fascinated by the sympathy of nature with her bitter hopelessness. A voice on the banks and meadows, even in the chill night air, whispered of spring advancing rapidly, with buds and flowers, with sap, fragrance, and warmth, and the tender grace of its flood of green; but here, by the waves, a passing thunder-cloud, a stealthy mist, a whistling breeze, darkened the scene, and restored barren, dismal winter in a single hour. The night drooped down without moon or star, and still Leslie sat listless, drowsy with sorrow, until as she rose she sank back sick and giddy; and then the idea of premature death, of passing away without a sign, of hiding her pain under the silent earth that has covered so many sins and sorrows, first laid hold of her.

The notion was not fairly welcome: she was young; her heart had been recently wrung; she had been listless and disappointed -- but she had loved her few isolated engagements, her country life, her household dignity, the protection of her husband. She could not divest herself of these feelings at once. She feared the great unknown into which she should enter; but still death did not appal her as it might have done: it was something to be scanned, waited for, and submitted to, as a true sovereign.

The cold wind pierced her through and through; the rain fell; she could not drag herself from the shelving rock, though the tide was rising. She felt frozen, her limbs were like lead, and her mind was wandering, or lapsing into unconsciousness.

She did not hear a call, an approaching foot; but her sinking pulses leapt up with sudden power and passion when Hector Garret stooped over her, and endeavoured to raise her.

"Here, Bridget, she is found! Leslie, why have you remained out so late? You have been sleeping; you have made yourself ill. How can you be so rash, so imprudent? It is childish -- wrong. You have made us anxious -- distressed us. Poor old Bridget has stumbled further in search of you, this squally night, than she has ventured on the sunniest morning for many a year."

He was excited, aggrieved; he upbraided her. He had sympathy for old Bridget's infirmities; he knew nothing of his wife's misery.

Leslie resisted him as she had done since that day, slipped from his clasp, strove to steady herself, and to walk alone in her weakness. Bridget put her feeble arm around her.

"Lean on me, madam, and I will lean on you, for I am frail, and the road is rough, and the wind is blowing fresh, besides the darkness." "I knew that would quiet her," she muttered. "Poor old Bridget indeed! said Master Hector. Poor colleen! misled, misguided. Cruel makes cruel. St. Patrick could not save himself from the hard necessity."

Hector Garret was content since he saw Leslie safe; he accused her of captiousness and nervousness, but it was the waywardness and perversity of illness. He had tried her simple nature with too much alienation from her kind; she had grown morbid on the baneful diet, tutored though she had been to self-dependence. He had been to blame; but her merry temper would come back, and the rose to her cheek, and the spring to her foot, with other ties, other occupations -- dearer, more sufficient.


V. The Mother And Child.

"How is the poor child, Bridget Kennedy? Does she fare as she should do?"

"The child is as fine a child, Master Hector, as if she had been a boy, and a Garret, on both sides of the house, and will thrive if her mother will let her. There are mothers that would hinder their bairns in the death-rattle, and there are others that so watch their little ones that the angels of God are displaced from their cradles; and the weary human care haunts and harasses the infant, and stops its growth."

"I am not learned in these matters, Bridget. You brought me up; I trust you to rear my children."

"None shall rear them but their mother, Master Hector; none shall come between her and them. I have ruled long at Otter, but I dare not dispute with her there."

"Settle it as you like. I did not mean them -- I was not thinking of them at all. I asked for their mother. You have experience. Is she well -- happy as she should be?"

"I wish you would not provoke such mistakes, Master Hector," said Bridget, pettishly; "I wish you would find some other name for your wife. You should know best, but is it suitable to term the nursling and the parent by the same title? I am a foolish old woman, but it seems strange to me. Your father did not confound them."

"Ah! I dare say not. We will find a Christian name for the new comer, and end the Comedy of Errors, since you dislike it, and Leslie too, doubtless; for women are nice on these points."

*    *    *    *    *

"Leslie, what shall we call the baby?" inquired Hector Garret the next time he stood by his wife's side, wishing to divert her by a pleasant difficulty, and to vary the expression of those large eyes -- larger now than ever -- which, he knew not why, fascinated him by the intensity of their gaze. "I cause Bridget to blunder oddly between you two; so set her at rest by fixing as soon as you can the momentous question."

"I have fixed," answered Leslie, quietly.

"I commend your foresight; a man, now, would have left the alternative open to the last."

"Mrs. Garret's first daughter must be named after Mrs. Garret's mother," declared Bridget, authoritatively.

"No," said Leslie, hastily; "I have named her after myself -- if you do not object," she added, with a flush, half shame, half pride.

"I? Oh, no; do as you will. It will not solve Bridget's puzzle; but I am content. Leslie is a bonnie name."

Leslie compressed her lip.

"My mother's name is bonnier," she said, abruptly; "my mother's name is Alice."

He started, and gazed at her keenly while she continued, falteringly, but with a stubborn will in her speech: -- 

"I wish my baby to be mine in everything, particularly as she is a girl. I am neither wise nor clever, nor strong now. I fear I am often peevish; but you will excuse me, because I am a weak, ignorant woman. Such defects are not fatal in a mother; hundreds have overcome them for their children. I trust that I will be, if not what a better woman might have been, at least more to my child than any other can be. Her mother! -- so holy a tie must confer some peculiar fitness. Yes; my baby is mine, and must lie on my knees, and learn to laugh in my poor face. And so I wish her to have my name also, that there may be a complete union between us."

Hector Garret knew now what intelligence had reached his wife, and while the old wound burnt afresh, the shyness of his still but sensitive nature, the pride of the grave strong man, were offended and injured. But with regard to his wife he was only conscious of the petulant, unreasonable, unkind surface; he did not sound her deep resentment and jealousy; he did not dream of the anguish of the secret cry whose outward expression struck upon his vexed ears; he did not hear her inner protest: "I will not have my baby bear his love's name, recall her to him, be a memorial of her -- be addressed with fondness as much for the sake of old times as for her own, the innocent! -- be brought up to resemble Alice, trained to follow in her footsteps, until, if I died, my child would be more Alice Boswell's than mine. Never, never!"

Hector Garret little knew Leslie Bower; slowly he arrived at the discovery. First a troubled suspicion, then a dire certainty. Not the transparent, light-hearted, humble girl, whom a safe, prosperous country home, an honourable position, a kindly regard, left more than satisfied -- happy: but the visionary, enthusiastic woman, confiding, but claiming confidence for confidence; tender and true, but demanding like sincerity, constancy, purity, and power of devotion. Had he but known her the first! But a man's fate lies in one woman. Had he but left her in her girlish sweetness and gaiety; had he never approached her with his cold overtures -- his barren, artificial expediency and benevolence! She erred in ignorance and inexperience; but he against the bitter fruit of knowledge, in wilful tampering with truth -- reluctantly, misgivingly -- selfishly cozening his conscience, hardening himself in unbelief, applying salve to the old vital stab to his independence. He had erred with an egotistical and presumptuous conceit of protecting and defending the young full life which would have found for itself an outlet, and flown on rapid, free, and rejoicing, had he only refrained from diverting its current into a dull, dark, long-drained channel, where it was dammed up, or oozed out sluggishly, gloomily, despairingly -- without natural spring-time, sunshine, abundance, gladness, until lost in the great sea.

He had viewed but the soft silken bud, whose deep cup was drunk with dew, -- its subtle, spicy fragrance pervading, lingering after the leaves were drooping and the bloom fled, but its rich, royal hues were yet to come. In his blind coarse blundering, he had mistaken the bud for the flower, the portal for the church; he had entered with heedless, profane foot, and blighted the blossom and rifled the altar. For the leaves had been unclosed, the gates unbarred under his neglect; and Leslie, with a noble woman's frankness, generosity, and meekness -- that true meekness which oftenest cleaves and melts the ringing metal of a high spirit -- Leslie had begun to love him, to fix her heart upon him, to grow to him -- stolid, sardonic statue that he was! -- until that shock exposed his flaws and wrenched her from her hold. Better to be thus rudely dissevered, perhaps, than to waste her womanliness, puny and pale from its vague bald nourishment, on a fraud and a farce.

Hector Garret awoke from his delusion, from his scholarly reveries, his active enterprise. "He that provideth not for his own house is worse than an infidel." So he watched Leslie: he saw her rise up with her thoughtful face, very individual it appeared now, and go up and down carrying her baby. He was aware that she was appropriating it as her treasure; that she was saying to herself some such words -- "Silver and gold have I none, but this is my pearl beyond price; she will be enough for me; she must be so; I will make her so. She and I will waste no more silly tears on hard, changeable men. They are not like us, little daughter; they pass us by, or they love us once with fierce desire; and when satiated or balked, they turn to us again to please their eye, flatter their ear, vary their leisure; to anatomize and torture like other favourites of an hour. We will have none of them, save to do our duty. We will live for each other."

Not that she deprived him of his rights as a father; she was too magnanimous to be unjust, and she would not have balked that puppet, to whose service she consecrated herself, of one privilege which any pangs of hers could purchase.

She presented their child to him with a serious stateliness, as if it was so very solemn a ceremony that its performance emancipated her from ordinary emotion; she came and consulted him on the small questions that concerned its welfare with the same absorbing care. If he came near her when she bore the child in her arms, she offered it to him immediately: she was righteous as well as valiant -- yes, very valiant. He contemplated her stedfastness with wonder. After the blow which overcame her, when a compensation was given her -- a blessing to atone for the gall in her cup, she accepted it and cherished it, and set herself to be grateful for it and worthy of it immediately. The fortitude which, after the involuntary, inevitable rebellion, would permit no more idle repining, the decent pride that hid its own disease and bore it bravely, even the sternness that set its teeth against reaction -- he recognised them all; it was studying the reflection of his own lofty features in the fragile, quivering flesh of a girl.

What is often proposed, rarely practised, Leslie did. She changed her ways: with what travail of spirit, what heart-sickness she alone could tell. It is no common slight or safe influence that causes a revulsion in the whole bodily system; it is no skin-deep puncture that bleeds inwardly; it is no easy lesson that the disciple lays to heart; but Leslie surmounted and survived it. She had escaped her responsibilities, and slumbered at her post. She would do so no longer. She belonged now, after little Leslie, to her household, and its members might yet be the better for her, and Hector Garret should respect -- not pity her. She vindicated her matronhood suddenly and straightforwardly, but with a sedateness and firmness that was conclusive of her future power; she had much to acquire, but she would gain something every day and every hour, until Otter should own no abler mistress. Then for her child, she would teach herself that she might instruct her daughter, so that if she proved inquiring and meditative like her father, she need not soon weary of her simple mother, and turn altogether to a more enlightened and profound instructor. Surely there was some knowledge that a woman could best store up and dispense, some gift wherein the vigorous and well-trained man did not bear the universal palm? Leslie strove to cultivate her talents; for these, in her position, there was scarcely a choice of fields, but she had eminently the power of observation, and her sharpened motives supplied the defects of her early education. Leslie became a naturalist -- the most original and untrammelled of naturalists, for she proceeded upon that foundation of anecdotal and experimental acquaintance with herb and tree, insect, bird, and beast, and even atmospheric phenomena, whose unalloyed riches are peculiar to rustic and isolated genius.

Hector Garret observed this growing taste, and appreciated it. Leslie had ceased to apologize for her stupidity, and to be shy of his scrutiny. When he found her procuring and preserving this or that specimen, or noting down a primitive fact, if he asked an explanation he had one directly.

"This pale flower, and that with the green flowers and the great leaves, are lady's-smock and lady's-mantle; they say they are named after the Virgin, but I think Adam must have named them in the Garden. -- Bridget tells me that the Irish believe the fairies sleep in these bells. -- This is the plant of whose root cats are so fond that they burrow about it and nibble it, and as it does not hurt them, I have dug up a bit for our puss -- little Leslie looks after her already. -- I have been writing down the day when the swallows twittered at the window, to compare with their arrival next summer. Peggy Barbour saw a double nest with one hole last year; it must have been an old pair and a young maintaining a joint roof-tree. -- Yes, of course, these are jay's feathers."

Another resource which Leslie found within Hector Garret's perception was that of music. She had been endowed with a flexible, melodious voice, and as soon as she had use for them, she gathered by magic a host of ditties, blithe or sad, stirring or soothing, from the romantic fervour of 'Charlie, he's my darling,' to the pathos of 'Drummossie Moor,' or the homely, biting humour of 'Tibbie Fowler,' to carol to the accompaniment of the ancient spinet, in order to cheer or lull the child.

Hector Garret would move to his study-window, and open it softly, in the gloaming hour when the purple sunset was on the sea, and the bats abroad from the old chimneys, to listen to his wife in the room above singing to her child. He did not hear her music otherwise: if he had solicited it, she would have complied, with a little surprise, but he did not seek the indulgence.

The alteration in Leslie which matured her unexpectedly from a girl to a woman affected powerfully both the arbiters of her destiny. Bridget Kennedy, from a tyrant, was fairly transformed into her warmest and most faithful adherent. There was something high and great in the wild old woman, that could thus at once confess her error, admit greatness in any form in another, and succumb to it reverently. Truly, Bridget Kennedy was like fire to the weak and foolish, a scourge and a grizzly phantom; to the brave and capable, a minister fearless, fond, and untiring to her last breath.

It was very strange to Hector Garret to be sensible of Bridget's lapse from his side, -- to hear the present mistress, the subdued diligent woman, canonized to the level of the grand, glad lady of Otter to whom Bridget had been so long fanatically loyal. He said to himself that the child had helped to effect it, the precious descendant, the doted-on third generation; but he was uncertain. He himself was so impressed with the patient woman he had formed out of the lively girl, so tortured by a conviction that he had gagged and fettered her -- that her limbs were cramped and benumbed, her atmosphere oppressive, her life self-denying -- that he could bear it no longer.

"God forgive me, Leslie, for the wrong I have done you!" he confessed one night with a haggard, remorseful face, when she stood, constrained and pensive, on his joyless hearth.

She looked up quickly, and laughed a dry laugh. "You are dreaming," she replied. "How much larger Otter is than the Glasgow house! it was a mere cupboard in comparison. How much pleasanter the fields and hills and sands than the grimy, noisy streets where my head ached and my eyes were weary. And little Leslie is a thousand times dearer than my own people, or any companions that I ever possessed. Hush! hush! I hear her cry; don't detain me, unless for anything I can do for you -- because nothing keeps me from Leslie."

The coals of fire were heaped upon his head: there could be no reparation.

Why was Hector Garret not resigned? It was a cruel mistake, but it might have been worse, for hearts are deceitful, and what is false and baneful is apt to prove an edge-tool. Here was permanent estrangement, comfortless formality, cold, compulsory esteem; but there was no treachery in the household, no malignant hate, no base revenge.

But Hector Garret would not rest: he had far less or far more energy than his wife; he walked his lands a moody, harassed man. The turmoil and distraction of his youth seemed recalled; he lost his equanimity; his regular habits faded from him. Leslie could no longer count on his prolonged absence, his short stated visits; he would be with her at any time within doors or without -- to exchange a word or look, and go as he came, to return as unaccountably and inconsistently. It vexed Leslie; she tried not to see it; it made her curious, anxious; and what had she to do with Hector Garret's flushed cheek and shining eye? Some anniversary, some combination of present associations and past recollections -- a tendency to fly from himself, besetting at times the most self-controlled -- might have caused this change in his appearance. Ah! better twist and untwist the rings of little Leslie's fair hair, and dress and undress her as she had done her doll; better examine the shell cracked by the yellow-hammer, and count the spots on the broad, brown leaf of the plane, than perplex herself with so uncongenial a difficulty. But the difficulty pursued her nevertheless, and baffled and bewitched her as it has done wiser people.

The master and mistress of Otter were spectators of the harvest home, the plentiful feast, the merry dance in the spacious barn where their share of the fruits of the earth was about to be garnered. Leslie stood in her complimentary, gay gala ribbons, with her fingers meeting upon her wedding-ring, looking composedly and with interest on the buxom women and stalwart men, the loving lads and lasses, the cordial husbands and wives. Hector Garret, however, scarcely tarried to reply to his health and prosperity drunk in a flowing bumper, but broke from the scene as if its good was his evil, its blessing his curse.

In the parish church where Leslie had exhibited her bridal finery she now listened to the clergyman, and bent her head in penitence and worship, and was disturbed by Hector Garret's gesture of restlessness and attitude of care.

When the new moon was rising in the sky, Leslie would bid the little one look up and clap her hands, while Hector paced up and down unquiet and dissatisfied. Then she would carry the child off to her cradle pillow, and coming back would stand and look at the moon, while he was close to her, murmuring "Leslie! Leslie!" But she would turn upon him pale and cold as the moon above her, and would address him, "See, yonder is a ship doubling Earlscraig point and steering into the Otter sea."


VI. The Storm.

The October winds, tossing the late oats and the frosted heather, were lashing the Otter sea into heaving waves and flakes of foam. That western sea has its annals and its trophies, as well as den and moor. Edward Bruce crossed it to give to Ireland as dauntless a king as he whom a woman crowned, and who found a nameless grave; and there, in the glassy calm of a summer night, the vessel, with its passengers lulled in fatal security and slumber, sank like lead, fathoms beyond the aid of modern science with its myriads of inventions and its hardy self-confidence.

The few fishers of Otter were exposed to the swell rolling from New England and Labrador to Galloway and Argyle; many a lamp stood day and night in cottage windows, many an anxious woman forsook her brood, and under her sheltering plaid ran here and there, dizzy and desperate, to beg for counsel, and for tidings of the husband and father whose boat was due, and who was still exposed to the pitiless fury of the tempest.

Hector Garret was early summoned to marshal his men in order to succour those who were within his reach; to think, plan, and act to the last for those who were amissing, but might yet be rescued. He had been upon the beach all day; he had been handling rope and line; he had been ready at any moment to launch his own boat among the breakers.

Leslie, too, had been abroad. She had been in several houses, especially in those whose young children were of the same age as Leslie. In all she met the same abandonment; whether the heads of the families chanced to be young or old, worthy or unworthy, mattered not; they were now the sole thought, the object of racking anxiety, lamented over beforehand with sore lamentation. If they were safe, all was well; if they were lost, these wives and mothers were bereaved indeed. The Sabine women did not cling to their rough masters with more touching fidelity. The men were in trouble -- their imprudence, their intemperance, their violence were blotted out.

Leslie went home in disturbance and pain. She, too, placed a light in her window; she, too, left her infant untended, and strained her eyes to pierce the storm. Hector Garret must have descried her figure as he approached the house, for he came straight to her room, and stood a moment with his dripping clothes and a glow on his face.

"Don't go, Leslie; I'll be back presently."

She put a restraint upon herself, and became busied with the refreshments laid out for him. He came in immediately, and advanced towards her with the same eager phrase, "Don't go, Leslie," and he grasped her gown lightly. She sat down while he ate and drank.

"I'll have a cup of tea, Leslie; pour me out my tea as you used to do." She had always poured out tea for him, but not always with him close by, and his detaining hand upon her dress.

"This is like old times. They were very foolish -- those old times, but they have their sweetness to look back upon them."

She interrupted him -- "They are all safe, are they not?"

"Every man of them, thank God."

He was spent with his exertions; he was fevered and incoherent; she let him speak on, detailing the minutest particulars. She even said with animation, and the tears in her eyes -- 

"Their protector and deliverer! God will bless you for this, Hector Garret."

He bent his head, but he held out his arms: "Will you bless me, Leslie?"

His voice was thick and hoarse; it petrified her, so still was she -- so dumb; and at that moment the knocker sounded, and importunate voices were demanding the Laird of Otter.

He obeyed the summons, spoke with his servants a little time, and returned to find Leslie in the same arrested posture, with the same blanched face. He had resumed his seaman's coat, and carried his cap in his hand. He was calm now, and smiling, but with a face wan and shadowed with an inexpressible cloud.

"It may not be, Leslie," he said, soft and low; "Nigel Boswell's boat is in sight, struggling to make Earlscraig; he was always rash and unskilled, though seaward born and bred. If he is not forestalled, his boat will be bottom upmost, or crushed like glass within the hour. I trust I will save him; but if there be peril and death in my path, then listen to what I say, and remember it. Whatever has gone before, at this moment I am yours; you may doubt it, deny it -- I swear it, Leslie. Despise me, reject me if you will; I cannot perish misinterpreted and misjudged. I loved Alice Boswell. My love is ashes with its object. I did not love you once; I love you now. I love a living woman truer, higher, holier than the dead; and for my love's sake, not for my vows -- the first for love, if it be the last."

He had her in his arms; his lingering kisses were on her eyes, her hair, her hands. He was gone, and still she remained rooted to the ground. Was it amazement, anger, terror? -- or was it a wild throb of exultation for that, the real moment of their union? or because she had won him, and was his who had slighted her, sinned against her -- but who was still Hector Garret, manly, wise, and noble -- the hero of her girlhood.

She was roused reluctantly by the entrance of Bridget Kennedy, shaking in every limb.

"Madam, why did you let Master Hector go? -- he has had the look of a doomed man this many a day. It is thus that men are called, as plain as when the Banshee cries. Madam, say your prayers for Master Hector while he is still in life."

"I must go to him, Bridget; I must follow him. Don't try to keep me. He is my husband, too. The poor women were crowding on the beach this morning. Let me go!"

She understood that he was exposing himself for another -- that his life hung on the turning of a straw. She ran upstairs, but she did not seek her child, and when she descended, Bridget had still to fetch her mantle and bonnet. The old woman did not seek to detain her, but ejaculated through her chattering teeth, as she peered out after her and wrung her hands, "She will bring the Master back, if anything can; nought will harm her. I, poor miserable wretch, would but clog her swiftness. Ay, he will hearken to her voice; he has been waiting for the sound weeks and months. Who would have said that Master Hector, like Samson, would twice be given a prey to a woman! He will hear her above the winds and waves; body or soul, he will obey her, as he did Alice Boswell twenty years ago in fire and ruin."

Leslie hurried on in the darkness, her little feet tripping, her slight form borne back by the blast. Not thus had she wandered on those sunny, summer days when she first knew Otter; but there was that within, in the midst of her distress, that she would not have resigned for that light life twice over.

She reached the beach; the roar of the surf and the shriek of the wind were in her ears, but no human presence was visible. There flashed back upon her the vision of her hopelessness and helplessness on such another blustering, raging night -- but the recollection brought no comfort. She paused in dismay, with nothing but the mist and the driving rain before her. Stay! obscurely, and at intervals, she caught sight of a light, now borne on the crest of these giant waves, now sunk and lost. Hark! a pistol-shot! that must be Boswell's appeal for aid; and yonder lay Earlscraig -- yonder also was Hector toiling to rescue his ancient friend and persistent foe. She should be there too. At Earlscraig their destiny would be wrought out.

Leslie sped along in the tumult of earth and sky; the road was more than a mile, and at such a season and in such weather very toilsome and dangerous -- but what deeds have not tender women achieved, strung by love, or hate!

When Leslie gained the promontory, she found the old house deserted -- the few servants were on the shore, aiding or watching Hector Garret and his men in their efforts to save the last of his line, cast away within the shadow of his own rocks and towers.

Leslie shrank from descending among the spectators; she remained spent and breathless, but resolute still, where she could spy the first wayfarer, hear the first shout of triumph, and steal away in the darkness, fleeing home unmarked and undetained.

It was the first occasion on which she had been close to Earlscraig. The situation, at all times exposed, was now utterly forlorn. The spray was rising over the land, the waves were sapping its old foundation, the weird winds were tearing at the coping of the shattered house; and on the side where Alice Boswell's turret had stood, stones were rumbling, and wild weeds streaming. The scene was very dismal and eerie, but Leslie did not shudder or faint; her senses were bent on one aim, she was impervious to all else. She sank down in a kneeling position, staring with unwinking eyes, praying with her whole heart in an agony. The light which had beguiled her, passed beyond her sight after tossing for some time to and fro. She could not regain it, she could only continue ready to seize the first signal of bliss, or woe.

It did not come. The storm raged more madly; the desolation grew more appalling; Leslie's brain began to whirl; the solitude was rife with shapes and voices.

Above all stood fair Alice Boswell, wreathed in white flames -- from the wavering cloudy mass of forms the gallant exile plunged anew into the flood, now seething and rushing to meet its prey.

"Oh woman -- Alice Boswell -- I did not steal your lover! you kept him from me long after God and man had given him to me. There are no vows and caresses in the grave. We have had but one meeting and parting; but one! Oh, stranger, he is spending his life for her brother, as you were ready to fling down yours for her. Will none of you be appeased? Then take us both; in mercy leave not the other! In death let us not be divided!"

The pang was over; Leslie passed into insensibility. When she recovered herself, the spectres of that horrible dream still flitted around her, for did she not distinguish through the surge and the blast Hector Garret's foot speeding to receive his doom?

But "Leslie," not "Alice," was his cry. Beneath the very arches of Earlscraig, where fair Alice Boswell, her rich hair decked for one, her bright eyes sparkling for another, her sandal buckled for a third, had stood, and waved to him her hand -- "Leslie! Leslie!" was his cry, uttered with such aching longing, such utter despair. It was the wail of no mocking ghost, but the human cry of a breaking heart.

Leslie's tongue clove to the roof of her mouth; but there was no need of speech to indicate to him his weak, fluttering treasure. Found once more! Found for ever! raised and borne away swiftly and securely. No word of explanation, no reproach for folly and desperation, no recital of his labours, no information regarding others, but -- strange from Hector Garret's stern lips, and sweet as strange -- murmurs of fondness and devotion: "Sweet Leslie! mine only -- mine always!" Scoutings at weariness, cheery reckonings of their way, his heart beating against hers, her cheek to his; and it was only when Bridget Kennedy opened the door, and he asked her whether she had yet a chamber for this truant, that Leslie was aware how well Hector Garret had performed his part, and how many guests the hospitable walls of Otter sheltered that eventful night.

Bridget was solemnly praising heaven, whose arm had been about them, and restored them both in the flower of their days, to Otter, and to their bairn.

"We have come back for more than Otter and the bairn, Leslie. Bridget and all the men of Ayr could not have held her here, my faithful wife that needs must be my love, she has proved herself so true!"

He was throwing off her drenched cloak, and chafing her cold hands. One of them was clenched on its contents. He opened the stiffened finger, and found a lock of hair.

"It was all belonging to you that I had, Hector," she whispered; "I took it long ago, with your knowledge but without your consent. I would not look at it, or touch it; I kept it for little Leslie. But you said that you were mine, and it was something of yours to hold; you were mine, and it was part of you."

*    *    *    *    *

"Better for Scotland that weans greet than bearded men," averred the Lord of Glammis; but he did not say, better for the men, or better for those who plight hand and heart with them, that the keen, clear eye melt not, either with ruth or tenderness. Nay, the plants of household faith and love, scathed by some lightning flash, pinched by some poverty of soil, will lift their heads and thrive apace when once they have been watered with this heavenly rain -- and like the tree of the Psalmist growing by the river, will flourish pleasantly, and bear much goodly fruit thenceforth, and fade not at all, but instead, be transplanted into "the land that is far away."



The Old Yeomanry Weeks.


I. The Yeomen's Advent: Priorton Spruces Itself Up.

Time changes both defences and amusements. Now we have volunteer reviews in place of old yeomanry weeks. But it is worth while looking back on what was so hearty, quaint, humorous, and stirring in times bygone.

Beasts as well as men had their day in the past. The tramp of horses, their brisk neigh, and the flourish of their long tails added to the general attraction. The coats of the Yeomen, too, were of the most sanguinary red. And there were other charms. The calling out of the troop for ten days involved a muster from all the county for twelve or fifteen miles round. There was thus an inroad of country friends. The genial system of billeting was in vogue, too, so that every bed was full. And allies and satellites called in, in happy succession, to share the bustle and glee. A company of respectable theatrical stars, patronized both by officers and privates, visited the town; and a wonderfully brilliant yeomanry ball, attended alike by gentle and simple, wound up the successful interlude in ordinary life.

The little town of Priorton spruced itself up for its yeomanry weeks, and was all agog, as it never was at any other time. The campaign commenced by the arrival on horseback of a host of country gentlemen and farmers, in plain clothes as yet. But they carried at their saddle-bows, packages containing their cherished ensigns and symbols -- in their case the very glory of the affair. Along with these in many cases came judicious presents of poultry and game.

There were such hand-shakings in the usually quiet streets, such groomings of horses at stables behind old-fashioned little taverns, such pipe-claying of belts and polishing of helmets, and, above all, such joyous anticipatory parties in private houses!

The season was always the height of the summer, not perhaps in every respect the best for such a muster. Stout Yeomen had even been known to faint while at drill; the combined influences of the fatigue, the heat, and last night's hilarity being too much for them. But farmers and farming lairds could well quit their lands unless in the beginning of July, when the June hoeing of turnips and beans had been got through, the first grass cut, and while there was still a good three weeks before barley-harvest. Trees were then dusky in their green, and gooseberries and currants tinted the Priorton gardens with rich amber and crimson. Roses redder than the yeomen's coats were in full flower for every waistcoat and waistband. The streets and roads were dusty, under blue skies or black thunderclouds; but the meadows were comparatively cool and fresh, and now white with the summer snow of daisies. The bustle of the Yeomen, like the trillings of wandering musicians, was heard only in the brooding heat of summer afternoons, or the rosy flush of summer sunset, the prime of the year lending a crowning charm to their advent.

It was a delightful start, that first réveillée of the bugle at five of the clock on a July morning. Youngsters whom nought else could have tempted out of bed so early darted up at the summons. They envied papas and uncles, brothers and cousins in the ranks of the Yeomen. Comely blooming young faces joined the watch at the windows. Cloaks were loosely cast about rounded shoulders, and caps were hastily snatched up to hide dishevelled hair; while little bare pink feet would sometimes show themselves. But the young ladies only peeped out behind the window curtains, in the background of the noisy demonstrative band of youngsters.

Distant voices, excited and impatient, were soon heard; then the jingle of spurs, and the clank of swords, as half-bashful Yeomen descended the stairs for their début in the street. At last appeared important familiar persons, now strikingly transformed by their martial dress, but terribly uncomfortable and self-conscious.

The horses were led to the doors, and to the women who stayed at home the mounts were the exquisitely comic incidents of the day. The return of the members of the troop, now broken to their work, and detached into groups of threes and fours, and chatting and laughing at their ease, was quite tame in comparison. The country gentlemen and farmers were, of course, generally well used to the saddle, and could get upon their Bucephaluses without difficulty, and ride cavalierly, or prick briskly out of sight, as they were in good time or too late. But here and there a solicitor or banker, or wealthy shopkeeper, ambitious of being among the Yeomen, would meet with unhappy enough adventures. He might be seen issuing from his doorway with pretended unconcern, but with anxious clearings of the throat and ominously long breaths, while his nag, strange to him as John Gilpin's, was brought up to the mounting-place. The worthy man would plant his foot in the stirrup next him, but, not throwing himself round decidedly enough, the horse would swerve and rear, while he looked on beseechingly and helpless. Then he would try the other side, still failing to swing himself into the saddle. He would grow more and more flustered. His wife, in her clean muslin cap and spotless calico wrapper, with her little lads and lasses -- one, two, three -- would then step out on the pavement to give cautious advice. The would-be Yeoman would become more and more nervous, while his comrades rode by with jeering glances, and the passengers stood still. Little boys would begin to whoop and hurrah, and a crowd, even at this early hour, would gather round to enjoy the experiment. "Hey, Nancy! get me a kitchen chair," the town-bred Yeoman at last would say in desperation to his elderly commiserating maid-servant in the distance; and from that steady halfway stand he would climb into the saddle with a groan, settle himself sack fashion, and, working the bridle laboriously with his arms, trot off, to return very saddle-sick.

Then some stubborn young fellow, possessed with the notion of showing off a dashing horse, would insist on riding a vicious, almost dangerous animal, which would on no account endure the sight of his flaming regimentals on the occasions of his mountings and dismountings. Once in the saddle, he would master it thoroughly, and pay it back in kind with whip and spur, compelling the furious beast to face a whole line of red coats, and wheel, march, charge, and halt, with perfect correctness. But the horse would have its moment of revenge as its rider leapt to and from the saddle. If it encountered the scarlet and the glitter of brass and steel, at that instant it would get quite wild, paw the air, fling out its hoofs, snort and dart off wildly, to the danger of its own and its master's life. But the young soldier would not be beat. Day after day the contest would be renewed. At length he would resort to a compromise, and his groom would bring out the animal with its head ignominiously muffled in a sack; and now the Yeoman would mount with comparative safety.

But the bugle is sounding to drill in the early summer morning. Tra-li-la! the clear music suits with the songs of the birds and the dew on the grass. The last lagging Yeoman is off, gone to receive a public reprimand from his strict commanding officer, but sure to have the affront rubbed out next morning by a similar fault, and a similar experience, on the part of a comrade.

The drill ends at the common breakfast hour, when the Yeoman may be supposed to return and feast sumptuously. Then "civil" work commences. Yeomen who had offices or shops, attended them with slight relics of their uniform. A stranger might have been pardoned had he imagined an invasion was daily expected, or that an intestine war was on the point of breaking out. In consideration of the hot weather, undress uniform was permitted on all save field days, and thus the toiling Yeomen enjoyed a little cool in their white ducks and jackets, though the red mark, the helmet's line, was still to be traced on their sun-browned foreheads.

There was an afternoon's drill. It was a little of a fag, being in fact rather like a dish heated up a second time, as a duty twice done mostly always is. But the evening was particularly gay. Then the Yeomen were supposed to be enjoying themselves. Pleasant, if they had always enjoyed themselves in an innocent fashion. That many of them did so, it is only charitable to believe. And while the fast and foolish, the gross and wicked were swilling and roystering in evil localities, the generous, manly, gentle souls gratified the matrons with whom they were billeted by walking with them and their daughters through the streets, or into the nearest meadow; or perhaps they treated them to the play.

I have only heard of those days. But I should have liked to have seen the bluff kind faces above the stiff stocks and scarlet coats, and the joyous smiles which shone upon them. I should have liked to have heard the quiet town ringing with such blithe laughter. Little jokes would cause the people to laugh, as little accidents would cause them to shake their heads. Sandy Hope's horse, for instance, lost a shoe while at the gallop, stumbled, and threw its rider, dislocating his shoulder, and breaking his arm. What a sensation the news created! It could scarcely have been greater even though Sandy's brains had been dashed out. Not only Sandy himself, but Sandy's kindred to the remotest degree, were deeply commiserated. The commanding officer sent his compliments every morning with inquiries after him. The troop doctor was besieged by anxious acquaintances. Sandy's comrades never ceased calling upon him, and sat for hours drinking beer at his open window. Delicious messes and refreshing drinks a thousand times better than beer, were sent to Sandy. Then the nosegays, the books he got! Sandy received a perfect ovation. It was even proposed that the ball should be put off because Sandy was lying in pain; and it was certain that no fewer than three reputed sweethearts of Sandy's stayed at home on the ball night. Yet the stupid fellow was so slightly hurt, that within the fortnight he was walking the streets of Priorton more briskly than ever!

Priorton was kindly in its gaiety, and each had an interest in the other. I should have liked to have known the old town when it was thus given up for ten days, half to military exercises, half to fraternity and feasting. I should have been sorry when the feasting was intemperate, but I would no more have condemned the general feasting because of that circumstance, than I would condemn the gift of speech because some of us are so left to ourselves as to tell lies or say bad words.


II. A Match-Maker's Scheme.

It was a well-known and accredited fact that in consequence of these festivities of the Yeomen more matches were made up in this brief interval than during any other period of the year. Match-making individuals seriously counted on the yeomanry weeks; and probably far-seeing young ladies had fitting matches in their eye, as well as the fireworks and the introductory gaiety, when they came in troops to Priorton to entertain the lucky Yeomen.

"My dear," said Mrs. Spottiswoode, the wife of the chief magistrate, who was likewise banker of Priorton, to her spouse, "your cousin, Bourhope, has asked his billet with us: I must have my sister Corrie in to meet him."

Mrs. Spottiswoode was a showy, smart, good-humoured woman, but not over-scrupulous. She was very ready at adapting herself to circumstances, even when the circumstances were against her. For that reason she was considered very clever as well as very affable, among the matrons of Priorton. Mr. Spottiswoode was "slow and sure:" it was because of the happy alliance of these qualities in him that the people of Priorton had elected him chief magistrate.

"My dear," deliberately observed long, lanky Mr. Spottiswoode, "would it not be rather barefaced to have Bourhope and Corrie here together?"

"Oh, I'll take care of that," answered the lady, with a laugh and a toss of her ribbons; "I shall have some other girl of my acquaintance to bear Corrie company; -- some worthy, out-of-the-way girl, to whom the visit will be like entering another world," continued Mrs. Spottiswoode, with a twinkle of her black eyes. "What do you think of Corrie and my cousin Chrissy Hunter, of Blackfaulds? The Hunters have had such a deal of distress, and so much fighting with embarrassment -- though I believe they are getting clearer now -- that the poor lassie has had no amusement but her books, and has seen absolutely nothing."

Mr. Spottiswoode had no inclination to contradict his wife for contradiction's sake, and as he could rely on her prudence as on her other good qualities, he said, "Well, Agnes, I have no objection; Hunter of Blackfaulds is an honest man though he is poor, and he is righting himself now."

The invitations were dispatched, and accepted gratefully. The guests arrived before Bourhope occupied his quarters; ostensibly they came so soon to prepare for him. Corrie had nothing Roman about her except her name, Cornelia. She was a tall, well-made, fair-faced, serene beauty; the sole remaining maiden daughter of a Scotchman who had returned from the Indies with a fortune, as so many returned then. He had already endowed Mrs. Spottiswoode with a handsome "tocher," and since his marriage had settled within five miles of Priorton. Chrissy, again, was one of a large, struggling family; a small girl, a very little crooked in figure, and with irregular features, and a brown complexion. If she had not possessed a bright, intelligent expression, she would certainly have been plain -- as indeed she was to those who did not heed expression. It was a delightful chance to Chrissy, this brief transplanting into the flourishing, cheerful town-house, amid the glowing gaiety of the yeomanry weeks. Accordingly she was constantly engaged in checking off every little detail on the finger-points of her active mind, in order that she might be able to describe them to her secluded sisters and her sick mother at home. She was determined not to miss one item of interest; never to sleep-in so as to lose the mount; never to stray in her walks and fail to be in the house for the return of the afternoon drill. She would pace the meadows among the gay promenaders, even when the evening was cloudy, and would not care though she walked alone. She would enjoy the play when Mrs. Spottiswoode chose to take her, and not even object to a squeeze in the box. The squeeze was really part of the fun! But she did not care to have her attention distracted from the stage, even by the proffers of fruit from the Yeomen. As to the ball, she did not allow herself to think much of that. Who would ever have dreamt of Chrissy figuring at a fine yeomanry ball! She would not trouble herself because she wore an old worked white frock of her mother's, taken up by tucks to suit her, and yellowed by frequent washing and long keeping. She would not fret because she could not spend money upon a hair-dresser. She must dress her own hair -- which was scanty, like every other outward adornment of hers. This was little matter, she reflected, for it would not dress under the most skilful artist into those enormous bows on the crown of the head which everybody then wore -- it would only go into comb-curls like little hair turrets on each side of her round, full forehead, which was by no means scanty. She had no ornaments in the way of jewellery, save a coral necklace; while Corrie had a set of amethysts -- real amethysts -- ear-rings, brooch, and necklace, and a gold cross and a gold watch, which she rarely wound up, and which was therefore, as Chrissy said, "a dead-alive affair." But Corrie was a beauty and an heiress, and ornaments became her person and position; while on Chrissy, as she herself admitted with great good sense, they would only have been thrown away. And what did Chrissy care for her appearance so long as her dress was modest and neat? She could walk about and listen to the ravishing music, and study the characters she saw, from Corrie up to the Countess, wife of the one earl who came to Priorton, and who was Colonel of the yeomanry. The day or two before the Yeomanry arrived was spent by the two girls in walking about, shopping and making calls. Corrie, though a beauty, proved herself a very dull companion for another girl to walk with. Very pretty to look at was Corrie in a fair, still, swan-like style of beauty; and she had a great many pretty dresses, over which she became a little more animated when Chrissy, as a last resource and for their relief, would ask her to turn them over and show them again. Corrie, of course, never dreamt of offering poor Chrissy a loan of any of those worked pelerines or aprons, which would have fitted either equally well. But Chrissy did not want them, and she got a use out of them as they were brought out one by one and spread before her. Ere the Yeomanry came, Chrissy knew the stock by heart, and could have drawn them, and cut out patterns and shapes of them, and probably did so, the little jade, when she got home.

Bourhope came with his fellows, and was more specially introduced to Corrie and Chrissy. He had had some general acquaintance with both of them before. He gallantly expressed his pleasure at the prospect of having their society during his stay at Priorton. He was a farmer whose father had made money at war prices. He had bought his own farm, and thus constituted his son a small laird. He had an independent bearing, as well as an independent portion of the world's goods; he was really a manly fellow in his brown, ruddy, curly, strapping comeliness. But better still, Bourhope was an intelligent fellow, who read other things than the newspapers, and relished them. He was a little conceited, no doubt, in consequence of comparing himself with others, but he had a good heart. Corrie and Chrissy both regarded him with scarcely concealed interest and admiration. Chrissy wished that the lads at home would grow up to be as comely and manly; Corrie made up her mind to have just such a husband as Bourhope.

It was evident the very first night that Bourhope was taken with Corrie. He stared and stared at her, admiring her waxen complexion, the bend of her white throat, and the slope of her white shoulders; and even changed his seat at one time, as it seemed, in order to see her better. He quickly claimed her as his partner at loo, and engaged her to walk out with him to hear the band practising next evening. Chrissy thought it all very natural, and all the more enjoyable. But she caught herself fancying Bourhope and Corrie married, and rebuked herself for carrying her speculations so far. Only she could not help thinking how Bourhope would weary after the marriage -- say when there was a snow-storm, or a three days' fall of rain at the farmhouse. But that was Bourhope's affair; if he was pleased, what business was it of hers? Bourhope had this in common with Chrissy: he could entertain himself.

During the first three days of the week, Bourhope was zealous in looking at, and attaching himself to, Corrie. But a sharp observer might have remarked that after that he flagged a little, taking more as a matter of course and politeness the association he had established between her and him at tea, loo, and the evening promenade. He would even stifle a yawn while in Corrie's company, though he was a mettlesome and not a listless fellow. But that was only like men, to prize less what they had coveted when it was half won.

So for a short time matters stood. Corrie, fair and swan-like, Bourhope reasonably impressionable, Mr. and Mrs. Spottiswoode decidedly favourable, Chrissy Hunter harmless, if not even helpful. Mrs. Spottiswoode knew that those who dally with a suggestion are in great danger of acting on it, and had very little doubt that the next ten days' work, with the crowning performance of the ball, would issue in deciding the desirable match between Bourhope and Corrie.


III. A Morning Meeting And An Evening's Reading.

At this juncture it struck Bourhope, riding home from the morning drill, to ask himself what could possibly take Chrissy Hunter out so early every morning. He had already seen her once or twice, keeping out of the way of him and his companions, and returning again from the opposite end of Priorton, which was flanked by the doctor's house. Corrie, he noticed, was never with her. Indeed, Bourhope had a strong suspicion that Corrie retreated to her pillow again after showing him her lovely face -- lovely even in the pink curl-papers. But Chrissy certainly dressed immediately, and took a morning walk, by which her complexion at least did not profit. Not being a very strong little woman, her brown face was apt to look jaded and streaky, when Bourhope, resting from the fatigues of his drill, lounged with the girls in the early forenoon in Mrs. Spottiswoode's drawing-room. So it was worth while, he thought, to spur up to Chrissy, and inquire what took her abroad at such an untimely hour.

When Bourhope caught a nearer glimpse of Chrissy he was rather dismayed to see that she had been crying. Bourhope hated to see girls crying, particularly girls like Chrissy, to whom it was not becoming. He had no particular fancy for Cinderellas or other beggar-maids. He would have hated to find that his kinsfolk and friendly host and hostess, for whom he had a considerable regard, were mean enough and base enough to maltreat a poor little guest of their own invitation. Notwithstanding these demurs, Tom Spottiswoode of Bourhope rode so fast up to Chrissy as to cause her to give a violent start when she turned.

"Hallo! Do you go to market, Miss Chrissy? or what on earth takes you out in the town before the shutters are down?" pointing with his sheathed sword to a closed shop.

Chrissy was taken aback, and there was something slightly hysterical in her laugh, but she answered frankly enough, "I go to Dr. Stark's, Mr. Spottiswoode. Dr. Stark attends my mother, and is at Blackfaulds every day. I wait in his laboratory till he comes there before setting out; he goes his rounds early, you know. He lets me know how mother was yesterday, and as he is a kind man, he carries our letters, -- Maggie and Arabella and I are great writers, and postage comes to be expensive -- a great deal too expensive for us at Blackfaulds; but the doctor is a kind man, and he 'favours' our letters. And Mr. Spottiswoode," she said, warming with her subject and impelled to a bit of confidence, "do you know, Dr. Stark thinks my mother will be about again in a few months. You are aware her knee-joint has been affected. We were even afraid she would never put down her foot again. It would have been a dreadful trial for all of us." Chrissy spoke simply, in a rather moved voice.

Bourhope was slightly moved, too. He had never heard much about Mrs. Hunter, of Blackfaulds, except that she was a woman who had been long ailing; and also occasional remarks about the consequences of her being lost or spared to her family.

Chrissy was grateful for his evident sympathy, and gratified by it; but, as if half ashamed of having elicited it, she at once began to prattle to him on other subjects. Bourhope had leapt from his horse, and was doing Chrissy the honour of walking at her side, his beast's bridle over his arm, and his spurs ringing on the pavement. A sparkling prattle that was of Chrissy's about the fine morning, the town, and the yeomanry -- few topics, but well handled and brilliantly illustrated. Bourhope had dared to confess to himself how sorry he was when he reached Mr. Spottiswoode's door.

Next morning Bourhope detached himself from his comrades when he approached the town, and looked narrowly for Chrissy. It would be but civil to inquire for poor Mrs. Hunter. So bent was he on being thus civil, that though Chrissy was far in advance, he knew her by the pink gingham trimming of her morning bonnet, fluttering like rose-leaves in the morning sun. He came up to her, and politely asked after her mother. Chrissy was a little confused, but she answered pleasantly enough. She was not nearly so talkative, however, as on the preceding morning, though Bourhope made witty comments on the letter she held in her hand, and pertinaciously insisted on her telling him whether she mentioned him in her return letters! He reminded her that they were cousins in a way. This was the first time Chrissy had known of any one hunting up a relationship with her; and though pleased in her humility -- Chrissy was no fool in that humility of hers -- Bourhope, she knew, was destined for her cousin Corrie. He was out of Corrie's way just now, and was only courteous and cordial to her as living for a time under the same roof. She liked the ruddy, curly, independent, clever fellow of a farmer laird, who, out of the riches of his kindness, could be courteous and cordial to a poor plain girl. Bourhope could never overtake Chrissy coming from Dr. Stark's again. He spied and peeped and threw out hints, and hurried or loitered on the way to no purpose. Chrissy took care that people should not notice the fact of her being escorted home in the early morning by Bourhope.

A chance conversation between Mrs. Spottiswoode and Corrie was overheard one day by Bourhope, when they imagined him deep in "Blackwood;" for it was the days of the "Noctes." Mr. Hunter, of Redcraigs, Corrie's father, had not been well one day, and a message had been sent to that effect to her. But Corrie was philosophic, and not unduly alarmed. "Papa makes such a work about himself," she said candidly to Mrs. Spottiswoode. "Very likely he has only taken lobster at supper, or his Jamaica rum has not agreed with him, and he is bilious this morning. I think I will send out a box of colocynth, and a bit of nice tender veal, to put him in good humour again. You know, Agnes, if I were to drive out, I would not get back in time for the evening walk in the meadows. Besides, I was to see Miss Aikin about the change in the running on of my frills. It would overturn all my plans to go, and my head gets so hot, and I look so blowsy, when my plans are disarranged," Corrie concluded, almost piteously.

"Yes, but Corrie," hesitated Mrs. Spottiswoode, "you know Dr. Stark is not easy about papa just now. I think I had better go out myself. It is unlucky that Spottiswoode is to have several other yeomen who do business at the Bank, at dinner to-day with Bourhope; but I dare say Mary will manage that, as Chrissy will mix the pudding for her. So I will go myself to Redcraigs; all things considered, it would be a pity for you not to be in your best looks --  -- "

Bourhope at this point fell into a fit of coughing, and lost the rest of the dialogue; but perhaps his occasional snort of disapprobation was called forth as much by this interlude as by the audacious judgments of the Shepherd and Tickler.

The day unluckily turned out very rainy, and the drill was gone through in a dense white mist, which caused every horse to loom large as an elephant, and every rider to look a Gog or Magog. The young ladies, so fond of a change of costume at this time in Priorton, could do no shopping; the walk in the meadows at sunset with the lounging yeomen had to be given up. The green meadows were not inviting, the grass was dripping, the flowers closed and heavy, the river red and drumly. All was disappointing; for the meadows were beautiful at this season with their summer snow of daisies -- not dead-white snow either, for it was broken by patches of yellow buttercups, crow's-foot, lady's-finger, and vetch, and by the crimson clover flowers and the rusty red of sorrel, and the black pert heads of the nib-wort plaintain, whose black upon the white of ox-eye daisies has the rich tone of ermine.

Instead of walks, there were gatherings round shining tables; and bottles and glasses clinked cheerily in many a parlour. But Mr. Spottiswoode was sober by inclination. The impressiveness of office, which had quite the contrary effect on many provosts of his era, only added to his characteristic caution. The yeomen, too, knew well where hilarity ended and excess began. So there was little fear of excess in Mr. Spottiswoode's house. Mrs. Spottiswoode, a genius in her own line, had a cheerful fire in her drawing-room, and sat by the hearth with her children tumbling round her, while Corrie, fairer than ever in the blinking fire-light, and Chrissy, brown and merry, sat on either side of her. She invited the farmer laird to enter that charmed ring, which, of course, he could not help contrasting with the loneliness and comfortlessness of Bourhope. But though Bourhope sat next Corrie, a certain coldness crept over the well-arranged party. He caught himself glancing curiously at the book Chrissy Hunter had been almost burning her face in reading by the fire-light before he came in. Mrs. Spottiswoode did not much care for reading aloud, but she took the hint in good part, and called on Chrissy to tell what her book was about, and so divert Bourhope without wholly monopolizing his attention.

Chrissy was rather shy at first. She never told stories freely away from home; but she was now pressed to do it. After a little, however, she put her own sympathetic humour and pathos into the wondrous narrative, till she literally held her listeners spell-bound. And no wonder. Those were the days of Scott's early novels, when they were greatly run after, and the price of a night's reading was high. Chrissy's cousin "Rob" was a bookseller's apprentice, and his master, for the purpose of enabling Robbie to share his enthusiasm, would lend the apprentice an uncut copy. Robbie brought it out to Blackfaulds, and then all would sit up, sick mother among the rest, to hear them read aloud, till far into the small hours.

Who can tell what that cordial of pure, healthful intellectual diversion may have been, even to the burdened father and sick mother at Blackfaulds! To Chrissy -- the very speaking of it made her clasp her hands over her knee, and her grey eyes to shine out like stars -- as Bourhope thought to himself.

How suggestively Chrissy discoursed of Glendearg, and the widow Elspeth Glendinning, her two lads, and Martin and Tib Tacket, and the gentle lady and Mary Avenel. With what breadth, yet precision, she reproduced pursy Abbot Boniface, devoted Prior Eustace, wild Christie of the Clinthill, buxom Mysie Hopper, exquisite Sir Percy Shafton, and even tried her hand to some purpose on the ethereal White Lady. Perhaps Chrissy enjoyed the reading as much as the great enchanter did the writing. Like great actors, she had an instinctive consciousness of the effect she produced. Bourhope shouted with laughter when the incorrigible Sir Percy, in the disguise of the dairywoman, described his routing charge as "the milky mothers of the herd." Corrie actually glanced in affright at the steaming windows and the door ajar, and pinched Chrissy's arm when she repeated for the last time the words of the spell: -- 

"Thrice to the holly brake --  Thrice to the well; --  Wake thee, O wake, White Maid of Avenel."

The assembly paid Chrissy the highest compliment an assembly can pay a speaker. They forgot their schemes, their anxieties, themselves even, to fasten their eyes and hearts on the brown girl -- the book dropping from her hand, but the story written so graphically on her memory. Corrie was the first to recover herself. "Oh dear!" she cried, "I have forgot I was to take down my hair for Miss Lothian to point it at eight o'clock," and hurried out of the room.

Mrs. Spottiswoode roused herself next, and spoke a few words of acknowledgment to Chrissy. "Upon my word, Chrissy, your recital has been quite as good as the play. We are much obliged to you. I am afraid your throat must be sore; but stay, I have some of the theatre oranges here. No, bairns, you are not to have any; it is far too late for you to be up. Dear me; I believe you have been listening to Chrissy's story like the rest of us!" But Mrs. Spottiswoode was not under any apprehension about the success of Chrissy's reading. Mrs. Spottiswoode proved this by immediately leaving Chrissy tête-à-tête with Bourhope while she went to put the children to bed, and see if Mr. Spottiswoode, who was doing a quiet turn of business in his office, would have a game of cards before supper. She had really never heard of a girl being married simply for her tongue's sake! She perhaps knew the line in the song too -- 

"Very few marry for talking,"

and had found its truth in her own experience, for she was a shrewd, observant woman.

Bourhope, it should be understood, was longest subjected to the influence of Chrissy's story-telling power. Indeed, when he did somewhat recover from it, his fancy created fine visions of what it would be to have such a storyteller at Bourhope during the long, dark nights of winter and the endless days of summer. Bourhope was no ignoramus. He had some acquaintance with "Winter's Tales" and summer pastorals, but his reading was bald and tame to this inspiration. He thought to himself it would really be as good as a company of players purely for his own behoof, without any of the disadvantages. He stammered a little in expressing the debt he owed to Chrissy, and she could only eagerly reply by saying, "Not to me, not to me the praise, Mr. Spottiswoode, but to the great unknown. Oh! I would like to know him."

Bourhope was stimulated to do at once what he was sure to do ultimately: he presented his hospitable entertainers with a box at the play. No doubt it was a great delight to Chrissy; for it was in the days when actors were respectable artists and play-going was still universal. Chrissy in her freshness enjoyed the provincials as well as if they had been first-rate -- took the good and left the bad, and sat quite entranced.

Bourhope, although he was decidedly intellectual for his calling, watched Chrissy rather than the stage. He read the feeling of the moment reflected in her sagacious yet sensitive face. Once he turned round and tried the same experiment with Corrie. He might as well have expected to borrow a living soul from well-moulded stucco or marble. He now realized in a more lively manner than ever, that geese may look fair and white and soft and shapely as swans till they expose their waddling. He tried in church the process he had learned at the play, and, it must be confessed, not without effect -- Chrissy's expression giving a fair notion of the good Priorton minister's earnestness and eloquence.

But at length Chrissy, aware of the liberty Bourhope took in thus making her his study, got restless and troubled in her sound head and warm heart. She was no fool in her simplicity. She knew that Bourhope did not in any sense belong to Mrs. Spottiswoode and Corrie, and she had shrewdly suspected of late that their anticipated arrangements would not be carried out. She could not help occasionally turning over in her mind the circumstance that Cecilia was very plain, but that depressed Mortimer Delville nevertheless bestowed his heart on her, though the gift, like her fortune, was disastrous to Cecilia for many a long day. Chrissy thought that if Bourhope were independent and original enough to like her -- to love her -- he was his own master; there was nothing between him and his inclination save her inclination and her father and mother's will. And there was little doubt about father and mother's will with respect to a man so worthy, so unexceptionable, and so well endowed as Bourhope.

Nor was there anything like duty to the Spottiswoodes to stand between Bourhope and Chrissy. But still Chrissy's nice sense of honour was disturbed, for had she not a guess that a very different result had been expected? Nay, she had even a half-comical notion that she herself had been expressly selected as a companion to Corrie Hunter during the gaieties of the yeomanry weeks, because she would also prove a sort of harmless foil.

A dream of love was a grand shock to Chrissy's quiet life, making wild yet plaintive music, like all nature's true harmonies, within her, and filling her mind with tremulous light which glorified every object, and was fain even to dazzle herself. It was not unnatural that Bourhope should excite such a dream. But Chrissy was not completely dazzled. It was only a dream as yet, and she would be the mistress of her dream; it should not be the mistress of her. So she resolved, showing herself a reasonable, thoughtful, conscientious woman, as well as a loving, fairly proportioned, and lovely human spirit.

Chrissy retained all her sober senses. She recollected what was due both to the hero and to the others concerned. She was neither a weak victim, nor a headstrong, arrogant, malicious conqueror. Like all genuine women, she struggled against yielding herself without her due -- without a certainty that there was no irreversible mistake in the matter. She was not a girl to get love-sick at the first bout, nor one to run even at a worthy lover's beckoning, though she would sacrifice much, and do it proudly, joyously, for true affection, when once it had confessed itself. So she shrank from Bourhope, slipped away from, and managed to avoid him. He was puzzled and vexed, and almost exasperated by doubts as to whether she cared for or wished to accept his notice and regards. Little brown Chrissy taught the bold Yeoman a lesson in her own quiet way. She slowly forced upon him the conviction that any gifts or attainments of his -- the prosperous, cultivated farmer laird -- were as dross compared with the genius and acquirements of Chrissy Hunter, whom many short-sighted men called insignificant and plain amid the poverty and cares of Blackfaulds. Bourhope was not radically mercenary: he had no certainty that his superiority in worldly estate would secure the strange good upon which he set his heart, and he was at once stimulated and incensed by her indifference to his advances. So he had no communication with Chrissy, apart from a demure interchange of words in general conversation, for three days before the grand review and the ball, except in a single incident of the pipe-claying of his belts.

The gentlemen of the old yeomanry who had not servants to do it for them, did their own pipe-claying, and might generally be seen doing it very indifferently to the accompaniment of private whistling or social bawling to each other over adjacent walls in the back courts and greens of Priorton. Bourhope was one day doing his rather gloomily in the back court, and succeeding very ill, when Chrissy, who saw him from a window, could endure it no longer. Chrissy was not what most intellectual women are described as being -- an abstracted, scared being, with two left hands. The exigency of her situation as eldest daughter at Blackfaulds had rendered her as handy as other girls, and only unlike them in being a great deal more fertile in resource. How could such a woman stand and see Bourhope destroying his accoutrements, and in danger of smearing himself from head to foot with pipe-clay? Chrissy came tripping out, and addressed him with some sharpness -- "That is not right, Mr. Spottiswoode; you will never whiten your belt in that way, you will only soil the rest of your clothes. I watched the old sergeant doing it next-door for Major Christison. Look here:" and she took the article out of his hands, and proceeded smartly to clean it. Poor Bourhope bowed to her empire, though he would much rather their positions had been reversed: he would rather a thousand times have brushed Chrissy's shoes than that she should clean his belt. She was gone again the moment she had directed him. A portion of his belt was now as white as snow; but nothing would have induced her to stay.

Bourhope was new to the humiliations as well as the triumphs of love -- that extreme ordeal through which even tolerably wise and sincere spirits must pass before they can unite in a strictness of union deserving the name. He was not exactly grateful for the good suggestion; indeed, he had a little fight against Chrissy in his own breast just then. He told himself it was all a whim, he did not really care for the girl -- one of a large family in embarrassed circumstances. No, it would be absurd to fall in love with a little coffee-coloured girl whose one shoulder was a fraction of an inch further out than the other. He was not compelled to marry either Corrie or Chrissy -- not he! Poeh! he was not yet half through with his bachelor days. He would look about a little longer, enjoy himself a little more. At the word enjoyment Bourhope stopped short, as if he had caught himself tripping. If Chrissy Hunter was ugly, she was an ugly fairy. She was his fate, indeed; he would never see her like again, and he would be a lost and wrecked man without her.


IV. The Ball, And What Came Of It.

The review and the ball were still in store. Bourhope would not be beaten with that double shot in reserve. It would go hard with the brown, curly, independent laird if he were beaten, for already he was shaken more in his pride and confidence than he ever thought to be.

The review, for which all the drilling had been undertaken, went off without serious effect on the contesting parties. The only thing was, that Bourhope was so disturbed and so distracted in his mind that he could not attend to orders, and lost his character as a yeoman, and all chance of being future fugleman to his corps. And this, although the Major had said, when the drills began, that there was not a finer man or more promising dragoon than Bourhope in the regiment.

Chrissy's bright, tranquil satisfaction in contemplating, from the box of Mrs. Spottiswoode's phaeton, the stand of county ladies, with their gorgeousness and grace, was decidedly impaired. The review, with its tramping and halting, its squares and files, its shouting leaders, galloping aides-de-camp, flashing swords and waving plumes, was certainly very fine. All the rest of Priorton said so and proved so, for they stood or sat for a whole day witnessing it, under a scorching sun, on foot, and in every description of vehicle from a corn-cart to a coroneted carriage. Yes, the review was very fine to the mass; but it was only a confused, hollow, agitating play to Chrissy as to Bourhope. Still she lost sight of the grand general rank and file, by concentrating her regard on one little scarlet dot. It was to her a play with its heart a-wanting, and yet the whirl and movement were welcome for a moment as substitutes for that heart.

The ball remained, and Bourhope was resolute it should settle the question for him. It was the commendable fashion at Priorton that no young lady should refuse to dance with an acquaintance without the excuse of a previous engagement, under the penalty of having to sit the rest of the night. Bourhope would get Chrissy to himself that night (balls were of some use, after all, he thought), and have an opportunity of hearing a terribly decisive word, and of getting a reason for that word too, should it prove unfavourable. In short, he would storm the fortress, and beat down its faltering guard then or never.

Others besides Bourhope had determined on making the ball a theatre of explanations. Mrs. Spottiswoode was not pleased with the aspect of things as between Bourhope and Corrie. Their affair made no advance, and the ball was the conclusion of the yeomanry weeks. The yeomen were already to all intents and purposes disbanded, and about to return, like Cincinnatus, to their reaping-hooks. Corrie was evidently not contented. She was listless and a little peevish, unless when in the company of other yeomen than Bourhope -- a rare thing with Corrie, who was really a very harmless girl. But she looked elegant in her ball dress, and had always a train of admirers on such occasions. And then, of course, many men needed the spur of jealousy to induce them to take the bold leap of matrimony. Chrissy, too, had her own fears and doubts about this ball. Bourhope hitherto had only pursued her, if he had pursued her, in rather a secret manner. She would now see how he would treat her on a public occasion. His conduct would then be marked and conspicuous, and even Mrs. Spottiswoode's and Corrie's eyes would be opened to it. Then, again, he would have an opportunity of contrasting her personally with all the girls about Priorton. Chrissy gazed wistfully into the glass as she fastened her yellow scrimp old white frock, and sighed. But she did not look so much amiss as she supposed: she was young, slight, and full of subtle character. And with her scarlet coral beads twisted among her dark little turret curls and bows, there was piquancy and attraction in Chrissy. But her first purely disinterested and unbounded pleasure in the gaiety was grievously chequered, and it was to be feared the account she would carry home of her first ball to expectant Blackfaulds would be disappointing.

There were only two chaises in repair in Priorton, to convey the whole townspeople in rotation to the ball. It was thus unavoidable that some should be very early, as well as some very late. Mr. Spottiswoode, as Provost, was of course among the first after the Colonel and his lady, old country people, who stood arm-in-arm, bluff and bland, under the evergreens over the door, and shook hands with everybody, great and small -- a family of pretty girls meanwhile laughing behind them.

Mrs. Spottiswoode wore a splendid bunch of white feathers tipped with straw-colour in her blue gauze turban. Even Chrissy's dazed eyes noticed that, as well as the white ribbon in Provost Spottiswoode's bottle-green coat, which pointed him out an honorary steward. But how handsome brown curly Bourhope looked in his red coat!

A strange thought came over Chrissy. She did not wish Corrie, in her white crape and French ribbons, and so tall and straight and fair, to be blighted in her beauty -- no, not for a moment. But Chrissy was cruel enough to cherish a passing wish that, by some instantaneous transformation, Bourhope might be pitted with smallpox, or scarred with gunpowder, or have premature age brought upon him as with the wave of a wand -- the soul within being left unchanged, however.

Mrs. Spottiswoode, unlike Chrissy, was quite alive to the practical. She remarked everything with keen eyes, and determined now to be at the bottom of the business. She should either go in and win triumphantly, or take a sudden tack and sail away with flying colours, as if she had never entertained the most distant intention of coming to close quarters, and thus give the impression that she never had any intention of promoting a match between Bourhope and Corrie.

Mrs. Spottiswoode thought Bourhope looked as if he were going to do something desperate. His first blunder had been to hand, or rather lift, Chrissy into the chaise instead of Corrie, at starting from their own door. He repeated the unaccountable blunder at the County Rooms, which compelled him to take Chrissy into the ball-room; and while Chrissy was still gazing in bewilderment and admiration at the evergreens and chalked floors, and talking, laughing couples, Mrs. Spottiswoode could scarcely believe her ears when she distinctly heard Bourhope ask Chrissy's hand for the first dance, saying that he would have engaged it before if he had got the opportunity.

Now Mrs. Spottiswoode had no doubt that Bourhope would solicit her sister Corrie for this dance, and therefore she had peremptorily forbidden Corrie to engage herself in any other quarter, even when Corrie had demurred at the certainty of the arrangement. It was very odd of Bourhope, unless he thought Chrissy would have no chance of any other partner, and wanted to spare a plain little girl's mortification at the very commencement of the evening. "That must be it," Mrs. Spottiswoode said to herself, and was consoled by Corrie's hand being immediately requested for the Colonel's nephew.

The Colonel's wife opened the ball with the most popular and oldest private for partner, and, of course, Chrissy and Bourhope stood below Corrie and the Colonel's nephew. But Bourhope and Chrissy did not mind Corrie's precedence, and were talking to each other quite intimately. Bourhope was forgetting the figure and bending across to Chrissy, though he was saying nothing particular, and speaking out quite loud. But he looked engrossed and excited. If it had been any other girl but Chrissy, Mrs. Spottiswoode would have called it a flirtation, and more than a flirtation. Chrissy looked well in her shabby dress, almost pretty indeed, in the new atmosphere. Mrs. Spottiswoode was aggrieved, disgusted in the first instance, but she would not just yet believe such an incredible contradiction to her well-laid scheme. Match-making involves so many parties, there are such wheels within wheels of calculation and resource. She glanced at Corrie, who was dancing very complacently with the Colonel's nephew, and exchanging passing words with yeomen who tried to get speech with her. In her white crape, and teeth as white, and her dimples, she was safe, heart-whole and prosperous -- a beauty who might pick and choose a suitable husband, even though Bourhope, infatuated, threw himself away.

Mrs. Spottiswoode gave a sigh of relief. Failure now would only be comparative.

The dance being over, Bourhope sat down beside Chrissy. No, she turned her head the other way, and he rose up and strolled through the room. But he was soon back in his old place.

He wanted to dance with Chrissy again. She hesitated, grew nervous, and cast her eyes on Mrs. Spottiswoode. He went straight to their hostess, and said, "Mrs. Spottiswoode, you have no objection that I dance this dance again with Miss Chrissy Hunter?"

"None in the world, Bourhope," said Mrs. Spottiswoode, with a spasmodic smile, "why should I?"

"Why, indeed?" he returned, "or every dance? May I tell her so?"

"That is as she and you may agree. You are aware that would appear something serious," she said, trying to laugh.

"I will take the consequences," he significantly assured her, and went back and told Chrissy so, and then he drove her to her inmost citadel, and beat her there.

Other eyes than Mrs. Spottiswoode's were attracted to the pair. Half-a-dozen matrons' heads went wagging significantly; girls whispered and tittered; gentlemen opened their eyes, shaped their mouths as if about to whistle, strolled up and took their observations of the pre-occupied, unconscious couple quite coolly, and then speculated and gossiped.

Mrs. Spottiswoode read these comments as well as what had gone before, and was ready with her magnanimity. It was this which constituted her a truly able tactician. She shifted her tack before the shout of malicious exultation and ridicule could have been raised at her discomfiture. By a dexterous sleight of hand, she shuffled her cards and altered her suit. In a moment Mrs. Spottiswoode was winking and nodding with the matrons interested in the news of the night. She arrested a good-humoured yeoman, and crossed the room on his arm, to express and receive congratulations. "You have found out the secret? Foolish fellow, Bourhope; he cannot conceal his feelings, though their display is premature. I must scold him for exposing himself and her. Poor dear! she is not accustomed to this sort of thing. But I am so delighted -- so nice, isn't it? Such an excellent marriage for my cousin Chrissy -- a good girl, a very clever girl -- such a fortunate beginning for the Blackfaulds family. I often say the first marriage makes or mars a family of girls. It is so lucky that I invited Chrissy for the yeomanry weeks this summer. It is a great deal better than if it had been Corrie, because Corrie can wait," with a careless wave of her hand in the direction in which Corrie moved, deliberately followed by her train. "Corrie has too many admirers to make up her mind speedily, yet she takes it all very quietly. But this is so appropriate -- Mr. Spottiswoode's cousin and my cousin -- nobody could have planned it better."

She turned round, and heard a blunt booby of a farmer speaking out his mind. She at once took him up -- "You would not have thought it? You cannot comprehend what has come over Bourhope, or what he sees in that thin, yellow mite, Miss Hunter of Blackfaulds, even though she were as good as a saint, and as wise as the Queen of Sheba? Oh! come, Balquin, you do not allow sufficient latitude to goodness and cleverness. I tell you, Bourhope has neither eyes nor ears for anybody but that mite; he counts his colourless daisy far before the gayest painted face. He knows that we are remarking on them now, and he is holding his head as high as if he had sought and won a queen. He is right; she will prove a sensible, cheerful wife to him. Bourhope will have the cleverest, best wife in the county, for all your swaggering. And that is something, when a man comes to be old and has an old wife like me. Not old, Balquin? away with you. I wish the Provost heard you. Do you think to flatter me because I am in spirits about my cousin's match? No, it is not lost that a friend gets, Balquin."

The public of Priorton did not know whether most to admire Mrs. Spottiswoode's diplomacy, or this rare instance of poetic justice.



Diana.


I. An Undertaking.

"He will not last ten years' time, Die; and then you will be rich and independent -- the lady of Ashpound."

"Don't mention it, sir, unless you mean to tempt me to commit murder next."

The speakers in the old drawing-room of Newton-le-Moor, in the south country, thirty years ago, were Mr. Baring and his daughter Diana. He was a worn and dissipated-looking man, with a half-arrogant, half-base air -- implying a whole old man of the world of a bad day gone by. He was flawless in his carving, his card-dealing, his frock-coat and tie: corrupt to the core in almost everything else. She was a tall, full-formed woman, in her flower and prime, with a fine carriage and gait, which rendered it a matter of indifference that she wore as plain and simple a muslin gown as a lady could wear. Her hair was of the pale, delicate, neutral tint which the French call blond-cendré, a little too ashen-hued for most complexions. It was not wavy hair, but very soft and pure, as if no atmosphere of turmoil and taint had ruffled or soiled it. It made Miss Baring's fresh, clear complexion a shade too bright in the carmine, which took off the greyness of the flaxen hue and relieved the cold and steel-like gleam in her grey-blue eyes. The features of the face were fine and regular, like Mr. Baring's; but instead of the handsome, aristocratic, relentless aquiline nose, which was the most striking feature in the gentleman's face, the lady's was a modified Greek nose, broad enough at the base slightly to spoil its beauty but largely to increase its intellectual significance.

The "he" of the conversation, who was not to last ten years, was Gervase Norgate of Ashpound -- a poor, impulsive, weak-willed, fast-living young neighbouring squire. Unluckily for himself, he had been early left his own master, and had ridden post-haste to the dogs ever since. Suddenly he had taken it into his muddled head to pull up in his career, and, if need be, to chain and padlock, hedge and barricade himself with a wife and family, before Ashpound should be swallowed up by hungry creditors, and he had hurried himself into a forlorn grave.

Mr. Baring was willing to let him off as a pigeon to be plucked, and to use him instead as an unconscious decoy-duck in getting rid of Die; not that Mr. Baring had an unnatural aversion to his daughter, but that she was a drag upon him both for the present and the future. But Die, after one night's reflection, accepted Gervase Norgate to escape worse evil, having neither brother nor sister nor friend who would aid her. What Die did on that night; whether she merely "slept on the proposal," like a wise, well-in-hand, self-controlled woman; whether she outwatched the moon, plying herself with arguments, forcing herself to overcome her deadly sick loathing at the leap, nobody knows. If Die had learned anything worth retaining, in the shifts and shams of her life, it was perfect reticence. The result was that Gervase Norgate was coming to woo as an accepted wooer at Newton-le-Moor on the evening of the summer day when Mr. Baring confidentially assured the bride that the bridegroom would not last ten years.

Newton-le-Moor was what its name suggested, an estate won from the southern moors by other and worthier adventurers than John Fitzwilliam Baring. In his hands the place was drifting back to the original moorland. Everything, except the stables and kennels, had been suffered to go to wreck. The house was of weather-streaked white stone, in part staring and pretentious, in part prodigal and vagabondish. The drawing-room of Newton-le-Moor, like most drawing-rooms, was a commentary -- more or less complete -- on the life and character of its owner. If it did not represent all his practices and pursuits -- his repudiation of just claims and obligations; his sleeping till noon and waking till morning, and faring sumptuously at his neighbours' expense; his fleecing of every victim who crossed his false door by borrowing, bill-discounting, horse-dealing, betting, billiards, long and short whist, and brandy-drinking -- at least it painted one little peculiarity of John Fitzwilliam Baring very fairly. Not one accessory which could contribute to his comfort and enjoyment was wanting, from the exceedingly easy chair for his back, to the alabaster lamp for his eyes, and the silver pastile-burner for his nose. On the other hand, there was scarcely an article that had no special reference to John Fitzwilliam Baring which was not in the last stages of decay.

On this evening, before Gervase Norgate came up with her father from the dining-room, where he might sit too long, considering who was waiting him, Diana had her tea-table arranged, and sat down behind it as if to do its honours. She showed no symptoms of discomposure, unless that her rose-colour flickered and flushed in a manner that was not natural to it; yet she had so entrenched herself, that when Gervase Norgate entered, with an irregular, unsteady step, although as nearly sober as he ever was, she could not be touched except at arm's length, and by the tips of the fingers, over which he bowed.

Mr. Norgate was not in his flower and prime. He was not above a year or two Miss Baring's senior; but his whole being had suffered eclipse before it reached maturity, though he still showed some remains of what might have been worth preserving. His physique had been what no word interprets so fitly as the Scotch word "braw," -- not huge and unwieldy in size and strength, but manly and comely. His shoulders were still broad, though they slouched. His hand and arm were still a model, somewhat wasted and shaken, of what in muscular power and lightness a hand and arm should be. His dark brown hair, dry and scanty at five-and-twenty, still fell in waves. His eyes, dulled and dimmed, were still the kindly, magnanimous, forgiving blue eyes. His mouth had always been a heavy mouth (better at all events than a mean mouth); it was coarse now, but with strange lines of gentleness breaking in upon its tendency to violence. But his carriage, though he was pre-eminently a well-made man, was the attribute most spoilt about him. He had the blustering yet shuffling bearing of a man who is fully convinced that he has gone to the dogs, and it did not alter its expression that he was making an effort to quit his canine associates. Perhaps the effort required to be confirmed before its effects could be seen; perhaps he was not setting about the right way of redeeming himself, after all.

Mr. Baring was pompous in his high breeding -- the first gentleman in Europe was pompous also. Mr. Baring brought forward his intended son-in-law as his young friend, and alluded pointedly to the summer evening and its event as an "auspicious occasion." But he was cut short by a frosty glance from Die, and a brief remark that she was not sure that this evening and its party were more auspicious than usual.

Although Miss Baring was a person of very little consequence in her father's house, she acted on Mr. Baring as a drag. Her cold looks inadvertently damped him; and she had a way, which he could not account for in his daughter, of making blunt speeches, like that on the auspicious occasion and on her being left a rich young widow, if Gervase Norgate did for himself smartly. This was discomfiting even to a man who piqued himself on his resources in conversation. Die had uttered twice as many of these abrupt, unamiable, unanswerable rejoinders within these twenty-four hours, since she had accepted Gervase Norgate's hand.

Whatever Mr. Baring thought of the rebuff, he was above exhibiting any sign of his feelings, and no one could have refused him the tribute of consideration for the position of his companions, as he blandly announced that he had the day's 'Chronicle' to read, and begged to be excused for accomplishing the task before post-time. He retired to sip his tea and disappear behind the folds of his newspaper. It was the first evening for a dozen years that he had not handled cue or fingered cards.

Gervase Norgate, assuming his character of a man about to amend his ways, marry, and settle, sat by Die Baring. He noted and summed up the girl's good points, as no man in love ever yet did. She was a finer-looking woman than he had supposed, -- one to be proud of as he presented her to his friends as his wife; pity that he had so few creditable friends left now! He could think of none at that moment except his strong-minded old Aunt Tabby, who had some sneaking kindness for him in the middle of her scorn, and his old man, Miles. Die Baring would not tolerate his boon companions -- not that he wanted her to tolerate them; she would not suit for his mistress and manager if she did; though where she got her niceness -- seeing what her father was up to in cool, barefaced scampishness, in horse-flesh, bones, and pasteboard -- he could not tell. -- She was a capable woman he was certain, if she got a fair field for her capability. She was clever: anybody with half an eye or an ear might recognize that. And she would want all her cleverness -- ay, and her will and temper -- for what she would have to do. But she had undertaken the task, and it was not much to the purpose that if she had not been the daughter of a disreputable spendthrift she would doubtless as lief have touched live coals as have submitted to be his wife. Ah, well, it was his luck in his last toss-up, and he had never been lucky before; yet he had never felt so great a reluctance to conclude his engagement of twenty-four hours, and clinch his repentance, as he did at this moment. It was good for him that he stood committed. But why had he not sought out some humble, meek lass, who would still have looked up to him and reckoned him not quite such a reprobate, but believed that there was some good left in him, and liked him a little for himself -- not married him to suit her own book and save him for her own sake, if it were possible? Why had he not chosen a simple pet lamb, in place of a proud heifer who scarcely took the trouble to conceal from him how it galled her neck to put it into his yoke? Psha! he would break any poor heart with his incorrigible wildness and beastly sottishness in a month's time. A woman without a heart; a good, hard-mouthed, strong-pulling, well-wearing woman, -- honest, and a lady; a handsome, superior woman, and far beyond his deserts, was the wife for him.

Gervase pursued this line of thought; but he spoke to Miss Baring, after a little introductory flourish about the weather, his ride from Ashpound, and the embroidery which she had taken up, in a different strain.

"You have shown a great, I must say an unmerited, trust in me, Miss Baring -- Diana: but I mean -- I swear I mean to do the best I can for you and myself. I have thought better of the life I have been leading; I shall turn over a new leaf, and be another man if you will help me."

The confession was fatally facile, like most confessions, but it was sincere, and not without its touching element, which, however, did not reach her.

She replied, without being greatly moved, and corrected what might be a slight misconception on his part: "I am quite aware, Mr. Norgate, that you have been rather wild; but since you mean to do better, I am willing to try you and to be your wife."

Diana's candid acquiescence had the same disconcerting influence upon Gervase that her speeches had on her father, unlike as the men were: it struck him dumb when he should have overwhelmed her with thanks. After a while he recovered himself, took heart of grace, and blundered out that he was grateful, -- a happy man; would she not say Gervase, when she was having him altogether?

"I suppose I may," acceded Diana, with a hard smile. "There, Gervase -- it is not hard to say," as if she were humouring him.

He did not ask for any more favours or rights, but maundered a little on nobody calling him Gervase for many a day except his aunt Tabby, and she contracted it to Jarvie, which had a stage-coach flavour.

"Tell me something about your aunt Tabby. Do you know, I have not visited an aunt since I was a little girl of ten?" This afforded him an opening more naturally and pleasantly, and the two went off on Aunt Tabby instead of accomplishing more courtship, and got on a little better. Diverging from Aunt Tabby to her place, and from her place to Ashpound, they went on with mention of Gervase's factotum, Miles, and discussed capabilities and future arrangements with wonderful common sense.

Mr. Baring swallowed his last gape over his 'Chronicle,' concluded that the couple had surely had their swing of private conversation for one night, and resolved to curtail the courtship to the shortest decorous bounds. So Mr. Baring looked at his watch, and said quite lovingly to Gervase: "My boy, when I do act the family man, I do the thing thoroughly, by supping in my dressing-room at eleven. What! you are off? A pleasant ride to you. You will receive your orders from Die, I fancy, when to report yourself in attendance. To-morrow is it, or next day? Make yourself at home, my dear fellow. Happy to think that you are going to be one of us -- a son for me to be proud of. Good-night. God bless you."

Thus the preliminaries to the alliance ended with Gervase bowing again over the tips of Die's fingers. He had not the smallest inclination to raise them to his lips.

"I will do my duty by him," said Diana to herself, when she was in the sanctuary of her own bare room. And what a poor sanctuary it had been! "It may be bad in me to have him, but what can I do? and what can he do, for that matter? If I do my duty by him, surely some good will come of it." Perhaps her imagination was haunted by a garbled version of the text about him who turns a sinner from the error of his ways and covers a multitude of sin.


II. The Fulfilment.

"She's a fine woman the mistress, a rare fine woman; but she's going the wrong way. It's the cart before the horse, and I tell you it's not conformable; and the master, God help him, poor fellow, will never be brought to go at the tail of the cart -- never." So ruminated Gervase Norgate's old servant, Miles, pushing back the tufts of ragged red hair on his long head ruefully, as he sat "promiscuous" in what he was pleased to call his pantry at Ashpound, while he contemplated with the eye of the body his chamois skin for what he proudly denominated his silver, and with the eye of the mind the new régime and its ruling spirit.

"She's a fine woman," remarked also of her new niece, Miss Tabitha Norgate, of Redwells. "She's a fine woman, a great deal too good for him; but she oughtn't to have gone and married Jarvie, or to have married anybody, there's the long and the short of it. She ought to have remained single, like me. She was made to stand alone, while he wanted a woman and as many children as she could muster to hang round his neck -- the liker a millstone the better, -- he won't drown: he could not take the straight road without a weight to ballast him and keep him steady. If he had consulted me, I would have advised him to marry that dawdling, whimpering Susie Lefroy, the widowed daughter of the Vicar, with her unprovided-for orphans. Jarvie might have stepped into a young family at once, and he would have been a kind stepfather -- he might have righted himself then. To go and marry a clever, active, handsome, well-born woman like Die Baring. Oh! dear, dear, what folly!"

In spite of her critics, Mrs. Gervase Norgate spared no pains to acquit herself of her obligation, and to discharge her debt at Ashpound. Ashpound was a much more exhilarating residence than Newton-le-Moor. At Newton-le-Moor the desolation of prodigality and immorality was objective and deductive. At Ashpound the desolation was subjective and inductive, a plague-spot within; and although the flush of decay was visible, Gervase would struggle against it to the last. He would make an effort to preserve the pleasant, rambling, mellow brick house, most of it one-storied and draped with jessamine and clematis as old as the building; the belt of ash-trees round the ferny dells of the little park; and the whitewashed offices, in excellent repair; the well cared for cattle and poultry-yard; the amply-stocked, flourishing gardens; the pretty gardener's house and lodge -- the prettiest things about the place, as his father had left them to him. To the last Gervase would aim at keeping up the place, to his mother's drawing-room, his father's study, Miles's pantry and cellar, even the modern housekeeper's room, and the maids' gallery, in comfort and pleasantness. Only his own rooms -- dining-room, smoking-room, bedroom -- had been suffered to show traces of many a brawl and fray. It was as if he had deemed anything good enough for a scapegrace and beast like him, and thought to pay the whole price in his own person. It would not be with his will if any other person, high or low, contributed to his heavy forfeits. And Gervase Norgate's servants, new as well as old, had a pitiful liking for him, a remorseful regard for his interests, even when these clashed with their own. So when Gervase had removed the traces, repaired the damages, and taken the decisive step of forbidding the inroads of his evil associates, Mrs. Gervase Norgate found a peaceful, prosperous-seeming, as well as fair, country home awaiting her.

Neither did Mrs. Gervase Norgate droop or mope; she was alive to every advantage, alert to improve every opportunity. Frankly she praised the house at Ashpound, which she had formerly known at the distance of common acquaintanceship, but now knew in the nearness of home, from garret to cellar. "What a well-seasoned, kindly dwelling you have here, Gervase. How I like the windows opening down to the floors, the creeping plants, the hall window-seats, and the attics with their pigeon-hole bureaux." She made herself familiar with its details, and she flattered its old occupants with the extent of her intimacy and appreciation. She did not let the grass grow beneath her feet in learning and acquiring its owner's habits. Early rising had been one of the good old country habits which had stuck to Gervase. And not a dairymaid at Ashpound was up and abroad at so primitive an hour as its mistress, ready to walk with the Squire to his horses' stalls and paddocks, his cattle sheds, his game preserves, his workpeople in the fields; anywhere but to the sign of the 'Spreading Ash-tree,' in the village of Ash-cum-thorpe, for his morning draught.

"Well-a-day," cried Dolly; "I would not be the mistress, to rise and go to her work afore the stroke of six, and she a fine lady born and bred, for all the hats and feathers, table heads, and carriage-seats in this here world. If I ever have a word to say to Luke Jobling, I know it will be with an eye to a good long lie in the morning when he has gone to his mowing or his reaping. How Madam does it without ever drooping an eyelid, none of us can tell; but they do say the gentlefolks are as strong as steel when they like to put out their strength; happen it is the high living as gives it to them. I know Madam puts us to our mettle here. And lawk! the Squire, he's as restless and lost like as a new weaned calf. Eh! I had liefer have the holding-in of a senseless calf, though I had not Luke to help me with the bars of the gates, than the holding in of a full-grown, whole-witted man. But the poor mistress -- them as don't know the rights of a thing calls her saucy -- young lady though she be, she do work hard for her place and living, she do, since she has got Master Gervase and Ashpound."

Anticipating her husband's commands, Diana was ever ready to bear him company, to share his engagements and amusements, walking, riding, shooting, fishing, playing billiards, cribbage, bowls, racket, backgammon, draughts, for hours on a stretch; to go abroad attending the market and doing banking business at Market Hesketh, dining out with the Vicar or with any country host save Mr. Baring -- Mrs. Gervase Norgate setting her face against the paternal hospitalities -- dancing at the county balls as one of the leaders. She did not seem to know what weariness meant. She would trudge whole half-days with him and the keepers, after luncheon, beating the plantations and pacing the turnip-fields to start and bring down birds, and she would be sauntering with him on the terrace and in the park after dinner all the same. She would be in the saddle ten hours during a long day's hunt, as the autumn advanced and the meets assembled, and within an hour of alighting at the door of Ashpound, she would have exchanged muddy bottle-green or Waterloo blue cloth for glistening white satin, and be stepping into the carriage with Gervase to be present at one of their wedding parties.

There was something positively great in the intentness with which the woman pursued her end of the man's salvation; the vigilance with which she ever kept sight of the wounded quarry she was to rescue and to restore. The neighbourhood watched the struggle with interest, admiration, hostile criticism, not very delicate diversion. Only to John Fitzwilliam Baring the struggle was a matter of indifference -- rather of repugnance. He would have liked Die to be more feminine and more helpless.

Would Die slacken in her energy and devotion? Would Gervase be able to bear his cure much longer?

Beyond the honeymoon, and with the feeling decidedly growing, Gervase Norgate was gratified by his wife's sacrifice of herself in every respect, and long before he grew accustomed to it and felt easy under it, he was touched by it. He liked her company too, for he was fond of society, and had been lonely since his father and mother died. She was an observant, intelligent woman, high-minded and pure-hearted, and vastly superior to his late satellites. She was eager to suit herself to him, and made herself as free with him as she could be, as far as he knew, with any one. At this season Gervase Norgate was attracted to something warmer, sweeter, more intimate in their intercourse. He enjoyed her quick remarks and shrewd conclusions. He was pleased with, and proud of the new blossoming of her beauty under the combined influences of an open-air life, constant occupation, and a powerful object. He was willing to wait till more tender feelings should awaken between them. It looked as if Gervase Norgate had turned over a new leaf: his cheek lost its dull, engrained red, or its pallor; his lips grew firmer; his eyes clearer and cooler; he raised his head, and threw off something of the slouch of his shoulders and the swing and uncertainty of his walk.

"How well you look in that pretty dress, Diana!" he would say; "I declare you are as brave a figure as any in my Lord's picture-gallery. Let me fetch you a cluster of monthly roses, though I am not fit to hold the candle to you." Or, "Come, Die, let us have a stroll and a smoke in the garden." Or, "Sit still for another game, will you? My hand is just in and my luck beginning. I know you are never tired. Mrs. Gervase, you are a trump -- the ace of trumps."

Ignorant spectators might have set them down for a good, happy, well-met young couple, with regard to whom it would be simply and equally appropriate to wish "God bless them."


III. Hazard.

Diana did not slacken in her devotion, but there came a limit to the endurance of Gervase. The gleam of success was but the gleam before the overcast.

First, Gervase was conscious of being nettled by the distance which existed between him and Diana. And certainly, to be sensible of his arm being arrested by an unseen obstacle when he thought to put it round his own wife's waist, to collapse in the mere idea of asking her to give him a kiss, never to have felt so fully the dissipated, degraded fool he had been, as he felt then, was not a pleasant sensation. It may sound immoral, but it seemed as if, had Gervase been more depraved, there would have been more hope for him, since he would have appreciated the gulf between him and his guardian less.

Then the old craving returned like a death thirst. The old, wild, worthless, low companions, were cognisant, as if by instinct, of a relapse. Eager to hail its signs, and profit by them, they waylaid him at the 'Spreading Ash,' with "Hey, don't you dare to swallow a single glass in your own village, to give custom to your villager, man?" They waylaid and gathered round him in the market-place of Market Hesketh, with "Well met, Mr. Gervase Norgate. Lord! are you alive still? for we had doubted it. Don't speak to him to detain him, you fellows; don't you see Mrs. Gervase has her eye upon him, and is craning her neck to discover what is keeping him? Off with you, sir, since you are a husband, a reformed rake, and a church-goer. If you had gone and joined the Methodists, you might have been a preacher yourself by this time. Oh! we don't want to spoil sport and balk your good intentions; but, by George, Gervase, we never thought you would have been the man to be tied so tight to a woman's apron-string. You must spare us one more carouse for old friendship's sake, my boy, just to try what it is like again, and hear all the news. Ah! your teeth are watering; come along; Madam is not to swallow you up entirely."

They got him away from his wife, and made him leave her sitting an hour in the carriage, with a pair of young horses pawing and rearing and endangering her very life in the yard of the 'Crown.' They made him send her home without him, and kept him till they had nothing more to say than "Heave the poor devil into a gig, and drive him up to his own door and put him down there. It is the best you can do for him, -- the fool was always so easily upset; and it will do for her at the same time -- give her something to hold her cursed high white head in the air and turn up her nose for; serve her impudence right for taking it upon her to act as private policeman to Jarvie." They sent him home to her, a beast who had been with wild beasts. They did it for the most part heedlessly, in jollity and jeering; but they did it not the less effectually. The wild beast of sensuality had him again; not one devil, but seven, had entered into him; and reigning king over the others, an insensate devil of cruel jealousy of his wife, of his gaoler, resenting her efforts, defying her pains.

Diana did not take Gervase Norgate's backsliding to her very heart, was not wounded to death by it as if she had loved him. But she did not give him up. She was a tenacious woman, and Gervase Norgate's salvation was her one chance of moral redemption from the base barter of her marriage. She did not reproach him: she was too proud a woman, too cold to him, to goad and sting him by reproaches. They might have served her end better than the terrible aggravation of her silence. She was just too, and she did not accuse him unduly. She said to herself, "He is a poor, misguided fellow, a brute where drink is concerned: when I married him, that was as clear as day. I have no right to complain, though he resume his bad courses." Still she left no stone unturned; she was prepared, as before, to ride and walk and play with him at all hours; she ignored his frequent absences and the condition in which he came back, as far as possible. She abetted old Miles in clearing away, silently and swiftly, the miserable evidences of mischief. She smuggled out of sight, and huddled into oblivion, battered hats, broken pipes and sticks, stopperless flasks, cracked, smoky lanterns -- concealing them with a decent, decorous, sacred duplicity even from Aunt Tabby, who trotted across the country on her father's old trotting mare, took her observations, and departed, shaking her head and moralizing on the text, "Cast not your pearls before swine."

Diana sat at her forlorn post in the billiard-room, or by the cribbage-board, or at the piano which Gervase had got for her. She had some small skill to play and sing to him, and was indefatigable in learning the simple tunes and songs he liked. And night after night she was left alone, unapproached, uncalled for; or else Gervase stumbled in from the dining-room or from an adjournment to the village tavern, where he was the acknowledged king and emperor, bemussed, befumed, giddy, hilarious, piteously maudlin, or deliriously furious. She stooped to smile and answer his random ravings and to comply with his demands. If she escaped actual outrage and injury in his house and hers, it was not because she did not provoke him, for there was nothing in his wife which Gervase hated so heartily, resented so keenly, as her refraining from contradicting him. But below the grossness and sin of the poor lout and caitiff there was a fund of sullen, latent manliness and kindness, which held him back from insulting the defenceless woman -- for all her pride and purity -- who was his wife, just as it had held him back from dallying with and caressing her as his mistress.

The neighbourhood which had furnished both a dress-circle and a pit to witness Diana's spectacle, was not astonished at the fate of the adventure. Its success would have been little short of a miracle, and these were not the days of faith in miracles; so the neighbourhood did not pity Mrs. Gervase Norgate, for she had been foolhardy at the best, and her fortune or misfortune had only been what ought to have been expected. For that matter Mrs. Gervase Norgate would not have thanked the world for its pity, though it had been lavishly vouchsafed.

There was one point on which Diana did not hesitate to contradict Gervase, and persisted in contradicting him. She would not suffer him, if she could help it, to frequent Newton-le-Moor, or to consort with Mr. Baring. For to go to Newton-le-Moor was to go among the Philistines; and lawless as Gervase was in his own person, it should never be with his wife's consent that he should go and be plundered by her own flesh and blood -- his errors rendering him but a safer and a surer prey.

Gervase was standing restless and indignant by the low bow-window of his wife's drawing-room, opening on the flower-garden, which had been laid out in their honeymoon, and in which she continued to take pleasure, though the wealth of glowing autumn geraniums and verbenas had given place to the few frosted winter chrysanthemums. It was but the middle of the day, and he had risen and had his cup of tea laced with brandy and crowned with brandy, so that the jaded man was comparatively fresh, but irritable to the last nerve, each jarring nerve twanging like harpstrings, sending electric thrills of vexation and rage over his whole body at the cross of every straw.

Diana, who had been up and busy for hours, was sitting at her desk; her brow, whatever cares lurked behind it, unruffled and white; a seemly, reasonable, refined woman, aggrieved every day she lived, but scorning to betray a knowledge of the grievance.

"Don't go to Newton, above all by yourself, Gervase," the wife was entreating, gravely and earnestly. "I am afraid my father may take the opportunity of trying to get money from you. He has entered horses for the Thorpe stakes: he will seek to make you enter them, and you told me yourself May and Highflyer were not fit to run this year. Or he will seek to lead you into some other transaction in horse-flesh, or have you into the house to play billiards and remain to dinner and cards all night, and there is always high play at Newton. My father is a needy man, and needy men are tempted to be unscrupulous; at least his code implies few scruples, where the letter of the laws of honour is complied with."

"It comes ill off your hand to say so," observed Gervase harshly. Undoubtedly he spoke no more than the truth, and such a life as Gervase Norgate's was not a school for magnanimity.

Die winced a little; and she was a woman whose fair cheek so rarely blushed, that her blushing was like another woman's crying. Die never cried; Gervase Norgate had never wrung a tear from her, or seen her shed a tear.

"Well, it was hard for me to say it," she admitted, with an accent of reproach in her equable tones; "but there the wrong and the shame are, and I owe it to myself and to you to warn you."

"I wonder how much I owe your being here to Newton-le-Moor being little better than a not very reputable gambling-house," exclaimed Gervase rudely.

She looked at him with her wide-open eyes, as if she had been struck, but did not care to own the blow.

"It was not to much profit where you were concerned," he continued, in an infatuation of brutality; "it did not get you so much as a pocket-handkerchief, or a flower-garden like that down there, or," glancing round him, "trumpery hangings and mirrors, and a new gown or two, or any other of the miserable trash for which women sell themselves."

She neither spoke nor stirred.

He had worked himself into a blindness of rage, in which he could see nothing before him but the possibility of moving her, of breaking down and destroying her calm front.

"And I wonder how much you owe your being here to my being a prodigal clutching at any respite? You may well come down lightly on my faults, Madam; they have made you the mistress of Ashpound in the present, and won for you its widow's jointure in the future. If I had known all beforehand, I might not have encumbered myself in vain. As it is, I do not think it becomes you to lecture me on keeping company with your own father."

She got up and left the room.

It was time, when all was lost, even honour. If he had not been himself, she might have passed over his taunts with simple shame and disgust; but given, as they were, when she held that he knew what he was saying -- as a proof that he had not a particle of respect and regard for her after their months of wedlock, they were a certain indication of his ruin and her reward.


IV. The Last Throw.

"Poor Mrs. Gervase Norgate, she must have been so put about to have to go away with her husband last night. How the scamp got into the drawing-room I cannot tell; but he could do nothing but lean against the wall: he could not have bitten his fingers to save his life. She did not show her mortification unless by going away immediately. A wonderful amount of countenance has that poor young woman; but I take it she will not go out with him again if she can help it -- and she need not, she need not, Lady Metcalfe. I can tell you he shall not be asked within my doors again; but I shall be very glad if you will always remember to send her a card, poor thing: she can go out without him, it must come to that eventually. It is not a mere kindness; she is really a credit and an ornament to your parties, to the county set altogether. But the sooner she learns to go out without him, and keep him in the background, the better for all parties. She has the command of a good income still, with a very tolerable jointure behind it, and Ashpound is a pretty place; not a fine place, like my lord's, but a very pretty place for a sensible woman's management and enjoyment."

One of Gervase Norgate's oldest neighbours, a fussy but good-natured, middle-aged baronet, pronounced this judgment.

There was nothing left for Diana but to resign Gervase to his fate, and gather up the gains which were left her. The most impartial authorities decided so. The gains would have sufficed for many a woman. Mrs. Gervase Norgate had comparative riches, after the cash scramble in which she had been brought up. Gervase had not succeeded in wasting above one-third of his fortune, and would doubtless end his career before he made away with the whole. Mrs. Gervase was the mistress of Ashpound, and most people would have valued it as what newspapers describe as a most desirable residence, a most eligible investment. If she ever had a child -- a son, though she shuddered at the idea, -- he would be the young Squire, the heir of Ashpound. In the meantime, Gervase Norgate was not a churl: he did not dream of stinting his wife in her perquisites, though he was not fond of her, and they now no longer lived comfortably together. She might have out his mother's carriage every day, or she might have another built for her, and drive it with a pair of ponies if she chose; she had a well-bred, fine-mounted, thin-legged, glossy-coated saddle-horse kept for her sole use, and she might have a second bred and broken for her any year she liked. She could even employ her own discretion in the income to be spent in the housekeeping. Ready money was becoming short with him; but his sense of her rights, and his faith in her prudence, had not failed. She had only to draw on his banker or agent to have her draught honoured. Whatever sums she might devote to her personal pleasures, her prodigal husband would not call in question. She might indulge in fine clothes, recherché jewellery, embellishments and ornaments for her rooms; she might take up art or literature, or heaths, or melons, or poultry, or flannel petticoating and soup-making for the poor (Sunday-schools and district visiting were hardly in fashion), and pursue one, or other, or all, for occupation and amusement, without impairing her resources; and she claimed a very respectable circle of friends as Mrs. Gervase Norgate, though she had been friendless, and getting always more friendless, as Miss Baring. The world had put its veto on the risk of her marriage with Gervase Norgate, in so far as its excusable element -- the reformation of Gervase Norgate -- was concerned; but with commendable elasticity it had allowed itself to be considerably influenced by the advantages which the marriage had obtained and secured for Diana, as well as by her conduct in their possession, and had awarded her the diploma of its esteem. A handsome, ladylike, sensible, well-disposed, sufficiently-agreeable, though quiet young matron, almost too wise and forbearing for her years, was its verdict. It was wonderful how well she had turned out, considering how she had been exposed; for every one knew John Fitzwilliam Baring, and how little fitted he was for the care of a motherless daughter. The more tender-hearted and sentimental world began to look upon Mrs. Gervase Norgate's bad husband, whom she had married in the face of his offence, as one of her merits, -- a chief merit, to make of her a popular victim and martyr, no matter that she was not naturally constituted for the rôle, was not frank enough for popularity, not meek enough for martyrdom.

Even Miss Tabitha, who had still a friendly feeling for the culprit, had nothing to say against Mrs. Gervase, except that she was too good for him. Poor Miles listened wistfully for his master's reeling step, and went out in the night air, risking his rheumatism, for which Mr. Gervase had always cared, making sure that the old boy had a screen to his pantry, and shutters to his garret. He watched lest his master should make his bed of the cold ground and catch a deadly chill; caring for the besotted man, when he found him, with reverence and tenderness, as for the chubby boy who had bidden so fair to be a good and happy man, worthy of all honour, when Miles had first known him as his young master. Miles resented feebly the perishing of the forlorn hope of a rescue, and muttered fatuously the cart had been put before the horse, and the reins taken out of the whip hand, and that'd never do. What could come of the unnatural process but a crashing spill?

Diana could not accept the solution. Nineteen women out of twenty, who had acted as she had done, would have taken the compensations, perhaps been content with the indemnifications of her lot; but Diana was the twentieth. Whether the cost of his mercenary marriage was far beyond what she had estimated it, she lost heart and hope and heed of the world's opinion, and was on the high road to loss of conscience, from the moment she was convinced that Gervase Norgate was lost.

Diana gave up going into the society which was so willing to welcome her, which thought so well of her. She relinquished all pride in personal dignity and propriety, as she had never done when she had locked her doors to shut out the jingling rattle of the bones, and, occasionally, the curses, not loud but deep, which broke in upon the repose of the long nights at Newton-le-Moor. She ceased to exert herself to regulate the expenditure of the house, to preserve its respectability, to wipe out the signs of its master's ruin. Old Miles might strive to keep up appearances, but his mistress no longer aided and abetted him. It had become a matter of indifference to Mrs. Gervase whether the dragged carpet, the wrenched-down curtain, the shattered chair, were removed or repaired, or not: she took no notice.

By the time Ashpound was budding in spring, Mrs. Gervase Norgate had fallen away, and changed rapidly for the worse, to the disappointment and with the condemnation of her acquaintances. She lay in bed half the morning, dawdled over her breakfast, and trailed her way from place to place, ageing too, with marvellous celerity.

Sunk in the mire as Gervase was, he noted the transformation in his wife with discomposure and vexation. It fretted him always, and infuriated him at times, to discover that she was likely to justify his contempt by proving a poor wife after all. Her rule ended, her energy exhausted, given over to an unprincipled, destructive listlessness and, carelessness, such a prospect did not make Gervase amend the error of his ways: but it caused his road to ruin to be harder to tread, it caused the fruits of his vice to be more bitter between his teeth, it drove him at times to reflect when it was madness to reflect. She would not take the luxuries which she had bought dearly, which he wanted her to take. Her person, drawing-room, flower-garden were fast showing neglect and cheerlessness, in spite of him, or to spite him, as he vowed savagely. Here was his sin cropping out and meeting him in the life of another, and that other a woman. She was going to ruin with him as truly and faithfully as if they had been a pair of fond lovers. The shy goodwill of Gervase Norgate's early married life had waned into discontent and dislike, and was fast settling into rooted hatred.

"Lawk!" Dolly the dairymaid reflected indignantly, "Madam is become as careless and trolloping-like as master is wild. If we don't take care, no one will continue to call on us and hinvite us with our equals. For that matter, the mistress has denied herself to every morning caller this spring, and it is my opingen she never so much as sends hapologies to them dinner cards as she twists into matches. If it were me, now, wouldn't I cut a dash of myself? She didn't care a bit of cheese-curd for him, folks say, when she had him to begin with, so why she should pine for his misdeeds now, is more than I can compass."

It was on a clear, fragrant evening in June, when the world was all in flower, that a whispering, and pulling of skirts and sleeves, and throwing up of hands and eyes, arose among the servants at Ashpound, at a sight that was seen there. The servants' hall were gathered secretly at a side-door and a lobby-window, and were watching Mrs. Gervase Norgate feeling her way, like a blind woman, her tall figure bent down, crouched together, swaying, along the pleached alley from the garden.

One or two of the more sensitive of the women covered their faces and wrung their hands. Old Miles tugged at his tufts of red hair and smote his hands together distractedly. The new shame was too open for concealment; he could only cry, "God ha' mercy; there is not one to mend another; what will we do?"

As living among men and women given up to delusions begets delusions in rational minds with a dire infectiousness, so living with Gervase Norgate, and day by day regarding the evil which could not be stayed, Diana had caught the fell disease.

A whisper of the culminating misfortunes of Ashpound spread abroad like wild-fire, soon ceased to be a whisper, and became a loud scandal; and Diana lost her credit as summarily as she had acquired it. It was -- "That wretched Mrs. Gervase Norgate came of an evil stock, though drinking was not Mr. Baring's vice. They were an ill-fated race, these Barings, with a curse -- the curse of ruined men -- upon them. Who knew, indeed, but if poor Gervase Norgate, come of honest people at least, had gone into another family -- one which he could have respected, which could have shown him a good example and remonstrated with him with authority -- he might have been reclaimed?"

About the middle of summer there came a seasonably rainy period, such as frequently precedes a fine harvest. But Gervase Norgate was so ailing that he could not go out and look at his fields, where the corn in the ear was filling rarely, and the growth of second clover was knee-deep. He was forced to keep the house. He loathed food, and his sleep had become a horror to him. He had fits of deadly sickness and of shaking like an aspen. His only resource, all the life that was left to him, was to be found in his cellar; and even Miles, seeing his master's extremity, brought out and piteously pressed the brandy upon him.

Gervase's cronies had never come about his house since his marriage. There had been something in Diana which had held them at arm's length; and although they had heard and scoffed at her fall, they had not the wit to discern that it clean removed the obstacle to their harbouring about the place as they had done before her reign and abdication. They might come and go now by day and night without feeling themselves too much for Mrs. Gervase Norgate, or being compelled to regard her as a being apart from them. But they did not comprehend the bearing of the common degradation, and they had not returned to their haunt as they might have done.

Gervase had declined into such a state of fractiousness and sullenness, that he was very poor company even for illiterate country-bred men like himself. He was something of a ghastly spectacle, as he sat there, with his glass three-fourths empty, and part of its contents spilt around him, trying to smoke, trying to warm himself, with the soles of his boots burnt from being pressed on the top of the wood fire, his teeth chattering, at intervals, notwithstanding, as he cast furtive, dark glances behind him.

Gervase was alone. Mrs. Gervase was dozing on a drawing-room couch, not troubling to order a fire, though the room was on the ground-floor, -- a pleasant room in sunshine, but looking dull and dismal in wet and gloom. She had lain there all the evening, with her hair, tumbled by the posture, fallen down and straying in dim tresses on her shoulders.

Overcome by illness, Gervase at last defied his shrinking from his room and bed, and retired for the night. His uneven footsteps and the closing of his door had not long sounded through the house, which might have been so cheery and was so dreary and silent, when Mrs. Gervase, cold and comfortless, rose and proceeded to the study. She was drawn by the fire and the light, but she was drawn more irresistibly by the subtle, potent odour in the air. She came on like a sleep-walker. She sank down in the chair which her husband had occupied, and stretched out her fine white hand to the decanters which Miles had not removed. She had raised one, and was about to pour its contents into a glass, when a noise at the door startled her, and caused her to hold her arm suspended. Gervase, returning for the bottle she grasped, stood in the doorway.

Ruined husband and ruined wife confronted each other on their stained hearthstone. His weakness, replaced by failing strength, gathered up and increased tenfold by horror and rage. Her eyes glared defiance, and her presence there, in her white dress, with the crimson spots on each cheek, and the fair hair scattered around her, was a presence of ominous beauty, the hectic beauty of the fall. A feather's weight might have turned the scale whether Gervase should totter forward and deal Diana a deadly blow which should finish the misfortunes of that generation at Ashpound, and brand Ashpound itself with the inhuman mark of an awful crime; or whether he should melt in his misery, weep a man's scalding tears, and bemoan their misery together. Diana's words were the feather's weight: she broke God's unbearable silence, and by God's power and mercy saved both. She cried out, not so much in self-defence, for she was a daring, intrepid woman, as in righteous accusation, "You dare not blame me, for you taught me, you brought me to it."

Through his undone condition he owned the truth of the accusation, and the old spring of manliness in him welled up to protect the woman who spoke the truth and impeached him justly of her ruin as well as his own.

"No, I dare not blame you. We are two miserable sinners, Die." And he let his arms fall on the table and bowed his head over them.

He had spared her, he had not taunted her, and he had not called her Die for many a day before. She put down the decanter and cowered back with a sense of guilt which made her glowing beauty pale, fade, wither, like the sere leaf washed by the heavy tears of a November night's rain.

When Gervase Norgate lifted up his bent head again, all the generosity that had ever looked out of his comely face reappeared in its changed features for a moment. "I have smitten you when you came and tried to cure me, Die. And I cannot cure myself. I believe, before God, if I can get no more drink, I shall go to-night; but I shall go soon, anyhow, no mistake, and I ought to do something to save you, when I brought you to it. So, do you see, Die? here go the drink and me together." And with that he took up the decanters and dashed them, one after the other, on the hearthstone, the wine and brandy running like life-blood in bubbling red streams across the floor. He summoned Miles, and demanded his keys -- all the keys of closet and cellar in the house. And when the old man, flustered and scared, did not venture to dispute his will, he caught up the keys, cast them into the white core of the wood-fire, piled the blazing logs upon them, and stamped them down, sending showers flying up the wide chimney.

Then the blaze of passion died away from Gervase's brow, the force of self-devotion ebbed out of him, his unfastened vest and shirt collar did not allow him air enough, and he fell back, gasping and quaking and calling the devils were upon him.

Old Miles wrung his hands, and shouted "Help," and cried the Master was dying, was dead.

But Diana pushed the old servant aside, put her arms round Gervase, and raised him on her breast, telling him, "Do not think of dying for me, Gervase; I am not worthy. You must not die, I will not have you die. Oh, God! spare him till I kneel at his feet and beg him to forgive all my disdainful pity, and we repent together."

Gervase Norgate did not die that night: it might have been easier for him if he had, for he lay, sat, walked in the sunshine deadly sick for months. When men like him are saved, it is only as by fire, by letting a part of the penal fire pass over them, and enduring, as David did, the pains of hell.

But all the time Die did not leave him. Night and day she stood by him, renouncing her own sin for ever. She shared vicariously its revolting anguish and agonizing fruits, in his pangs. And the woman learned to love the man as she would have learned to love a child whom she had tended every hour for what looked like a lifetime, whom she had brought back from a horrible disease and from the brink of the grave, to whose recovery she had given herself body and soul, in a way she had never dreamt of when she first undertook the task. She had lulled him to sleep as with cradle songs, she had fed him with her hands, ministered to him with her spirit. She learned to love him exceedingly.

Other summer suns shone on Ashpound. Gervase and Diana had come back from a lengthened sojourn abroad. Gervase, going on a visit to his faithful old Aunt Tabby, looked behind him, to say, half-shamefacedly, half-yearningly, "I wish you would come with me, Die; I do not think I can pay the visit without you." And she exclaimed, with a little laugh, beneath which ran an undercurrent of feeling, still and deep, "Ah! you see you cannot do without me, sir." And he rejoined, laughing too, but a little wistfully, "I wish I could flatter myself that you could not do without me, madam."

She assured him, with a sudden sedateness which hid itself shyly on his breast, "Of course I could not do without you to save me from being a pillar of salt, to make me a loving, happy woman."

"God help you, happy Die!"

"Yes, Gervase; it is those who have been tried that can be trusted, and I have been in the deep pit, and all clogged with the mire along with you, and He who brought us out will not suffer us to fall back and be lost after all."

The neighbours about Ashpound were slow to discover, as erring men and women are always slow to discover, that God is more merciful than they, and that he can bring good out of evil, light out of darkness; but they discovered it at last, and, after a probation, took Mr. and Mrs. Gervase Norgate back into society and its esteem and regard, and the family at Ashpound became eventually as well considered, and as much sought after in friendship and marriage, as any family among the southern moors, long after John Fitzwilliam Baring had dressed for dinner, and taken a fit with a cue in his hand.

As for Aunt Tabby and old Miles, they said, "All's well that ends well." But old Miles stood out stubbornly, "That it is not a many carts afore the horses as comes in at the journey's end, and it ain't dootiful-like in them when they does do it, though I'm content." And Aunt Tabby argued, "It is shockingly against morality to conclude that her fall -- and who'd have thought a strong woman like her would fall? -- has been for his rising again."



Miss West's Christmas Adventure.


I.

"Miss West, I will thank you to see that the school-books and the school-work are in their proper places, and the school-room locked for the holidays."

The speaker, Miss Sandys, was the proprietor of Carter Hill School, and Miss West was the governess. The season was Christmas, and the children, without an exception, had departed rejoicing.

With a sense of liberty as keen as the children's, but with a glee of a decidedly soberer kind, Miss West executed the commission, and then took her place beside her superior at the parlour-fire.

Miss Sandys was quite an elderly woman. She was over fifty, and had grown grey in the service. Her features, even in her prime, had been gaunt, like the rest of her person. But she had mellowed with age, and had become what the Germans call charakteristisch, and what we may term original and sagacious. She dressed well -- that is, soberly and substantially -- in soft wools or strong silks, as she possibly did not find it easy to do in her youth. She was stately, if somewhat stiff, in her deportment. At present she felt intoxicated at the prospect of enjoying for ten days the irresponsibility of private life.

Miss West had not by any means attained the Indian summer of Miss Sandys; she was still in the more trying transition stage. In spite of the shady hollows in the cheeks, and the haggard lines about the mouth, she was a young woman yet. Indeed, had it not been for those hollows and lines, she would have been pretty -- as she was when the clear cheeks had no wanness in their paleness, but were round and soft; when the straight mouth pouted ever so little, and the sharp eyes were bright, and the fine dark hair was profuse instead of scanty. But she laid no claim to prettiness now, and dressed as plainly as feminine propriety would allow.

As she sat in the linen and drugget-covered parlour, which was a drawing-room when in full-dress, she could not help a half-conscious restraint creeping over her. But this was not because Miss Sandys was an ogress, rather because she herself had grown semi-professional even in holiday trim. She looked into the compressed fire in the high, old-fashioned grate, and wondered how she would pass the coming idle week. She had spent a good many idle weeks at Carter Hill before; but they always came upon her afresh with a sense of strangeness, bringing at the same time a tide of old associations.

Miss Sandys was a blunt woman by nature, and it was only by great effort that she had become fine-edged. So she said to Miss West, with a sort of naïve abruptness, "I'll tell you what, Miss West, we'll have cake to tea, because there are only you and I, and it is the first night of the holidays; and we'll have a strong cup, since we have all the teapot to ourselves. I think I shall try my hand this week at some of my old tea-cakes and pies and things which my mother taught me to bake. I am going to have my cousin Jamie and his wife here. He is a rough sailor, and his conversation does not suit before the girls. She was only a small farmer's daughter, and cannot behave prettily at all. But they are worthy people, and are the nearest relations I have left in the world. Perhaps I'll take you to see them in the summer, Miss West. Ah, dear! it is liberty-hall at my cousin Jamie's little place. Peggy's Haven, he calls it, after his old ship and his old wife. But it is a fine change for me, though it would not do for the young people to hear about it -- you understand, Miss West."

Miss West understood, and she readily acquiesced in the prospect of meeting Captain and Mrs. Berwick. She was even flattered by it. The right chord of genuine nobility was in her, though she was reported to be satirical. It was true that she was slightly disposed to make abrupt, ironical speeches, the practice being one of her few small privileges. But she felt that Miss Sandys' confidence was honourable alike to giver and receiver, and that the terms on which she lived with her employer did no discredit to either. The fact was that Miss West returned thanks for these same terms in the middle of her confession of errors every day of her life.

Accordingly Miss West drank the strong tea, and did her best to relish the little blocks of cake, though they were slightly stale; and not the less did she enjoy them that she settled in her private mind to propose buttered toast next time, and to prepare it herself. She listened and replied to Miss Sandys' conversation, which did not now run so much on school incidents as on affairs in general. Miss Sandys' talk was shrewd and sensible at all times, and not without interest and amusement, especially when it diverged, at this point and that, to her own experience, and to the customs and opinions of her youth, when faded Miss West was a baby.

Christmas brought holidays to Miss Sandys' school, but Christmas Eve was, in other respects, very unmarked. It would have been dull, almost grim, to English notions. There was no Christmas tree, no waits, no decorating of the church for the morrow. Still, it was the end of the year -- the period, by universal consent, dedicated to goodwill and rejoicing all over the world -- the old "daft days" even of sober, austere Scotland. Jenny and Menie, in the kitchen, were looking forward to that Handsel Monday which is the Whit Monday of country servants, and the family gathering of the peasantry in Scotland. First footing and New Year's gifts were lighting up the servant girls' imaginations. The former may be safely looked upon as over with Miss Sandys and Miss West, but they were not without visions of New Year's gifts -- the useful, considerate New Year's gifts of mature years. Miss West was at this moment knitting an exquisitely fine, yet warm, veil which she had begun two months ago, and which she had good hopes of completing within the next few days. Miss Sandys had a guess that this veil was for her velvet bonnet, and looked at it admiringly as a grand panacea for her spring face-ache.

In the course of the evening Miss Sandys, after a fit of absence of mind, suddenly asked Miss West's name.

On the spur of the moment, she answered, with surprise, "Why, Miss West, to be sure. What do you mean, Miss Sandys?" Then she reflected, laughed, and owned that she had almost forgotten that she had a Christian name. But she had certainly got one, and it was Magdalene, or Madge, or Maddie; once it was Mad; and as she said Mad she laughed a second time, to conceal a break in her voice.

Miss Sandys smiled awkwardly and guiltily, and observed quickly, "My Christian name is Christian. Did you know that, Miss West? Oh, I forgot; you must have seen it marked on the table and bed linen."

"Mine is to be read on my pocket-handkerchiefs. Our Christian names preserved on table-cloths and pocket-handkerchiefs! -- droll, isn't it, Miss Sandys?"

"Of course they are in our books and letters," corrected matter-of-fact Miss Sandys. "I dare say they are in a couple of family Bibles, too (at least, I can speak for one), and in the records of births and baptisms in session books, if these are not destroyed by damp and rats; and since names are recorded in heaven," Miss Sandys was drawn on to ramble, "surely our Christian names are there, my dear."

Miss West knew as well as if she had been told it, that Miss Sandys was about to bestow on her a present with which her Christian name was to be connected. Miss Sandys' eyes had failed through long looking over lessons, and she no longer did any handiwork, save coarse knitting, hemming, and darning. But she had a fuller purse than her companion, and shops, even metropolitan shops, were to be reached by letter from Carter Hill.

In addition to the strong tea and the cake, Miss Sandys further treated Miss West to a supper of such dainties as toasted cheese and Edinburgh ale. There were prayers -- they seemed quite family prayers -- with only the four worshippers to join in them. Then there was a shake of the hands, and Miss West lit her candle, retired, and shut herself up in her own little room. Its daily aspect was so unchanged, that it appeared when she entered it as though the holidays had not come, and that it must still be the ordinary bustling school life.

She sat down, though there was no fire, and thought a little, till she fell on her knees and prayed in low murmurs that God would enable her to bear this season, which made her heavy, sick, and faint with associations, and that He would render her contented with many undeserved blessings, and resigned to many natural penalties which He ordained. Next, with strange inconsistency to all but the Hearer of prayer and the Framer of the wayward human heart, she besought to be forgiven and delivered from levity and folly -- to be kept humble and mindful of death. "It is ill tearing up weeds by the roots," she said to herself plainly, when she had risen from her knees, "and I am vain and volatile, and I like to mystify and tease my neighbour to this day."


II.

Christmas Day rose with a clear, frosty blue sky. Miss Sandys and Miss West both felt the unwonted stillness of the house; and they could not help a lurking suspicion that time without public occupation might hang a dead weight on their hands. The two ladies went through the ceremony of wishing each other a merry Christmas, Scotland though it was. Miss Sandys went off to put into execution her holiday cooking practice -- for it was refreshing to her to have a bowl instead of a book in her grasp -- and to make her preparations for welcoming her primitive cousins. Miss West sat down to write her letters and to work at her veil and at her other New Year's gifts.

She wished she could work with her mind as well as her fingers, so that it might not run on picturing what this day was in tens of thousands of homes throughout Christendom. It had always been an unruly member this fancy of hers, and it was particularly busy at this season. Yesterday the roads had resounded with the blithe tramp of eager feet hieing homewards. To-day the air was ringing with the pleasant echo of voices round hearths, the fires of which flashed like the sun, and where age and youth met in the perfect confidence and sweet fearlessness of family affection. In her mind's eye, she had yesterday seen railways and coaches disgorging their cheerful loads; she had witnessed the meetings at lodge gates, in halls, and on the thresholds of parlour and cottage kitchens; she had looked on the bountiful boards, where cherished guests crowned the festival, of which Miss Sandys' rasping tea and stale cake was a half-pathetic, half-comic version. To-day she was in spirit with the multitude walking in close groups to holly-wreathed churches, sharing in the light-hearted thoughtlessness of many an acknowledgment, and in the deep gratitude of many a thanksgiving. She strove to put herself aside altogether in her meditations, and simply to rejoice with those who rejoiced; but she had not attained this degree of unselfishness; she could not help believing sometimes that she had plucked all the thorns and none of the roses of life. But if you suppose that she betrayed this yearning and pining to the world at large, you are very much mistaken. As has been told, she had the right chord of genuine nobility and generosity in her, and she laboured to fit her cross to her own back, so that it might not overshadow and crush others. Her fingers went nimbly about her gifts -- trifling things, only enough to gladden simple hearts. She gratified Miss Sandys by praising her rusty accomplishments in cookery; she uttered a jest or two for the benefit of Jenny and Menie, who had a liking for her, though they called her "scornful;" and she brought in holly and box from the garden to decorate the sitting-rooms. The last move, however, proved nearly a failure, for there was one little pink and white blossom of laurustinus, which had ventured out in a sheltered nook, though half of its leaves were blanched ashen grey. It somehow or other raised such a tide of sentiment in her as all but overcame her.

Miss West desired work for this season, and she got work, and tolerably hard work too, for besides completing her New Year's gifts, she had to help to entertain Captain and Mrs. Berwick.

The visitors were so vulgar, according to fine people, that they were not even sensible of their own vulgarity. And so good-natured were they, that they were not offended because cousin Sandys did not invite them with any of the genteel parents of her pupils. They took this reserved hospitality as a complimentary admission of their kinsmanship. But they were not intrinsically more coarse-minded than many dukes and duchesses. Captain Berwick, it is true, was nautical in his tone, and talked shop, but that is permitted to sea captains in novels, nay, enjoined upon them. He was apt to be broad in his jokes, and to use unwarrantable expressions, for which he bent his shock head in penitent apology the moment after he had used them. "It is the effect of bad habits, Kirsten and Peggy," he would cry: "you women know nothing of bad habits any more than of bad words."

Mrs. Berwick was a particularly round-eyed woman, and was plump and ruddy where the Captain was battered and weather-beaten. She placed the scene of most of her narratives in the kitchens of her acquaintances, and scrambled with her dramatis persone through the strong situations of a servant's history.

Nevertheless the manner of the Berwicks was not without the refreshing influence of common, rude fresh air. They were not exceptionally coarse-minded, but unluckily they were neither strong nor fine minded. They were ponderous, clumsy beings, and although genuine and warm-hearted, were destitute of internal resources. They expected to be constantly eating and drinking, or to be constantly entertained. If they were not entertained, they showed their weariness without restraint, by yawning outrageously. The entertaining of Captain and Mrs. Berwick was therefore no sinecure. But Miss West was loyal. She walked with the Captain, so that he might have more than his one smoke a day, and perseveringly copied and sang Braham's songs for him. She designed and cut out patterns for Mrs. Berwick, who, as the Captain had saved money, did not make her own dresses, but nevertheless loved to accumulate patterns of sleeves, capes, and flounces. She listened to her tales, and helped her to as much more kitchiana as she could produce on short notice. She told how Betsy had worn feathers and been taken to prison on suspicion of theft; and how Marianne her sister had hoarded her wages in order to secure legal advice for Betsy, and had captivated and married an officer of the court in which Betsy had been tried, and how it had all happened in a family where Miss West had lived.


III.

Captain and Mrs. Berwick were gone. The holidays at Carter Hill were all but ended -- "all but ended," Miss Sandys repeated with a little sigh of relief, and an inclination to moralize on that weariness which is the result of pleasure. When Miss West came down in the morning the kettle was steaming on the hob, the teapot under its cosie, and the couple of rolls and the dish of sausages were set in their places. Miss Sandys -- her working apron lying ready to take up on the side-table behind her -- was bent to the last on buns and pork pies, though she frankly admitted they were vanity. But the girls must be broken from their home dainties by degrees, and Jenny and Menie must have "cakes" to carry to their homes on their Handsel Monday.

Miss West found a letter on her plate. It caused her complexion to change, and her sharp eyes to fasten on it fixedly. No wonder her head swam and her ears rang. She was going through the uncomfortable process of turning back some ten or twelve years in her life. It was a strange letter to come to her -- a large letter, which had been charged double postage; a letter with the elements of mortification in it, as well as other elements, both to sender and receiver. It was written in a big, scampering hand.

"Dear Mad," it began, "it is so queer to be addressing you again. I remember when I used to say 'Mad' to a white-faced, dark-eyed girl. Was she pretty, I wonder? Some people said so, but I don't know, only I have never seen a face quite equal to hers since -- never. Mad and I were great friends when I used to visit her elder brother; great friends, indeed, in a bantering, biting way. But it was Mad who bantered and bit; certainly I did not banter and bite again, rarely even so much as gave a gentle pinch, for I would not have hurt Mad for the world, and Mad did not hurt me. At least she never meant it seriously, and she was always so piteously penitent when she thought she had wounded my feelings. Oh, dear, quizzing Mad! she had such a soft heart in its bristling shell, and I hurt it. I hurt Mad -- yes, I know; I know to my sorrow and shame.

"Mad, do you remember how you went every day to meet a timid little brother coming from school along a lonely moorland road, where there were broomy braes in June and heathery braes in September? What a convenient custom it was for me, since the little brother, unlike little monsters of the same kind, had neither eyes nor ears but for his own avocations, and trotted on obediently in front of us. The sight of my own little Bill's satchel gives me a turn, and makes me feel spoony to this day. Do you remember your great dog, Mad? (what a child you were for pets!) -- and who it was used to go to the kennel to feed it with you? If that dog had been a true Bevis, it would have torn that hulking fellow where he stood, yet he meant no harm; nay, he had a strong persuasion that he was doing something meritorious (how he hit it I can't tell) in not committing himself and binding you when he had no more than a clerk's paltry income. But I have heard that trees, stripped of leaves in flowery May, revenge themselves by bursting out green, if the frosts will let them, in foggy November. So the prudence of twenty-five may be the folly of thirty-five. It was rank mean-spiritedness in me not to go through thick and thin, through flood and fire, for Mad. What in the world was worth striving for if she was not worth it? Ah, I lost my chance when I might have taken it, and trusted the rest to Providence! But I did not know, though I fancied I did, the value of the jewel, the price of which, in stern self-restraint, I refused to pay. I might have been another man if I had not been so prudent, for, as I have said, not another face has been to me quite (no, not by a long chalk) what Mad's once was. It was only yesterday that I heard by chance -- and the story has haunted me since -- that Mad is still a single woman, her family all dispersed, and she a teacher in a school -- my quizzing, affectionate Mad a drudging, lonely teacher!

"After being so prudent, it is not wonderful to record that I was fickle, though circumstances, and not my will, separated Mad and me at first. I could not get down to the old place so regularly as I was wont to do, which annoyed me, and I did my best to get rid of the obstacles. When I did get down, Mad was not at home, and I had no right to follow her. We met seldomer; we grew stiffer and stranger to each other. You are acquainted with the process, Miss West, though perhaps not fully with my share in it. The impression which Mad had made on me, unique as it was, faded and was overlaid by others. I met another girl, whom I liked too, and whom it appeared so much simpler -- more expedient and advantageous -- for me to love and to marry. I married her, breaking no vows, not writing myself faithless, far less treacherous, but only fickle. Yet I had once known, if ever man knew, that I had made Mad's strong heart -- I think it was strong, although it was soft to me -- beat in tune with mine. I had done all I could, short of saying the words, to impress Mad with what were my wishes and intentions, I had preferred her in every company, followed her when I was down at the old place, like her shadow (her shadow, indeed!). I had elected her my confidante and adviser, and poured all my precious opinions and plans -- my very scrapes -- into her curious, patient ears. Mad, have you forgotten how once, like an old-fashioned, grandiloquent muff, I showed you the picture of a perfect woman in a book of poetry -- 'Paradise Lost' it might have been, and 'Eve' for any special appropriateness in the picture -- and broadly hinted my private idea that the perfect woman was fulfilled in Mad! -- lively, faulty Mad! Your sisters were very anxious to read the passage which I had selected for your study, and from which I was evidently pointing a moral; but you closed the book abruptly in the old seat behind the round tea-table with the brass rim. I suppose the sisters don't know the passage to this day?

"Having been fickle, I was a great deal better off in my wife than I deserved. Remember, Mad, my wife and the mother of my children was a good woman; I was reasonably happy with her, and I trust I bore her tender reverence. She died and left me with our children two winters ago. When we meet again, it will be where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage. Now, when I can do her no wrong, I think of another to whom I did wrong; than whom there was never another to me the same -- no, nothing like it. Learning that Mad has been true -- oh! Mad, you could never have been anything else but true -- I have wondered whether I might not be allowed to do something to atone, whether I was not worth having still, and whether I could not -- a bold phrase, but it will out -- make it up to Mad, a solitary single woman, a teacher in a school. Oh! Mad, I say again, what a hard fate for you!

"I cannot offer an immense inducement. I am not a merchant prince, though I am richer than I was in the old days; yet somehow I do not care to boast of my riches to Mad, and I am a widower with two small children -- not models. I dare not send you my carte, and I don't want yours. You are always the same Mad to me that you have been through all those years, and will be to the end of the chapter, whether you answer me yes or no. You will answer yes. You were always great for magnanimity, and flamed up on it, dark eyes, white cheeks, and all, when you were a wild lassie. Don't tell me you are less magnanimous as a brave, hard-working woman, or you will sap my faith in womankind.

"Mad, how this Christmas season stirs me with the far-off murmurs of another Christmas, when you and I pulled the holly and the other thing -- the thing with the tiny, fair, frost-bitten clusters of blossom -- some sort of laurel wasn't it? That old Christmas, who can describe? What glamour over the prosaic family dinner and carpet dance to see the old year out and the new year in? Say the word, Mad, and before the first full moon of this new year has waned to half a cheese she will shine down upon us, anew, with the old shining. I swear it on the part of your old friend,

Bill Nairne."

What Miss West said when she read the letter was, "Make it up, indeed! Redeem me from such degradation! Crown me with such honour! Intolerable arrogance! How could he take it upon him? But it is like Bill; conceited fellow!"

Miss West was properly indignant. The letter was so unsuitable in every respect. All her life she had been famous as a woman of spirit -- the spirit which will cause a woman to decline an obligation as long as independence is possible, and which will not have for pity what it cannot have for love. She would prove to Bill Nairne that it was no such hard fate as he supposed to teach a school under Miss Sandys, no such promotion, as he fondly imagined, to be placed at the head of the household of a pompous widower with a pair of spoilt children. She would convince him that a woman of her age is more difficult to please than a girl, and is not to be led off her feet by a few impertinently recalled reminiscences, nor to be won by the tardy wag of a finger. She would teach Bill Nairne a lesson undreamt of in his philosophy -- that all the nonsense about old maids, their humiliations, their forlorn condition, and their desperate welcoming of late offers was wholly false.

She selected the smallest sheet of note-paper from the packet lying beside the exercises in her desk, and wrote: -- 


"Dear Sir, -- I am glad to be able to tell you that, on the whole, teaching in a school is not so hard a fate as you think. Miss Sandys is an excellent woman, a reliable friend, and an agreeable companion. The girls and their antecedents exhibit life to me under considerable variety of characters and circumstances, and as pupils they are mostly affectionate as well as interesting. I must remain indebted for your good opinion, and you have my best wishes for your future welfare, but I beg to decline your -- gratuitous" (Miss West had written the word, but she changed it into -- not gracious, but) "generous offer. Without offence to you, old times do not come again.

"Believe me, yours very sincerely, M. WEST."

Miss West read her letter, and considered it was, perhaps, too brief. She did not want to part with him in an unfriendly fashion. Her last words to Bill Nairne must be such as she herself could think of without pain. So she rummaged among her Christmas gifts, and found a dancing Dervish and a brightly-embroidered ball. These she wrapped up with the letter, and made a small parcel of the whole, after she had added this postscript: "Please give the enclosed toys as cheap New Year's playthings to the children. Tell them, if you choose, that they come from an old friend of papa's, whose name was -- Mad."


IV.

Miss West took the letter to the post-office herself after dinner, as she was going to inquire for a pupil who lived near Carter Hill, and who was sick -- unhappy child! -- from holiday junketing. Miss West could not recover her equanimity till that letter was out of the house. It had shaken her, satirical and discreet though she was. It had also given her a guilty sensation towards Miss Sandys. She could not endure that even the servants should read the address: -- "W. Nairne, Esq., Waterloo Lodge, Bridgeton, Strokeshire," though W. Nairne, Esq., might have stood for her brother-in-law, her uncle by marriage, or her maternal grandfather for aught they could tell. She held her hand over the superscription as if to hide it from herself as she walked along under the newly-risen moon, as it cast its light on a crisp sprinkling of snow. It was true Christmas weather at last, and this was something like a Christmas adventure for her. But not the less did she wish the Christmas ended, and the moon replaced by gas jets of the smallest size. "A pretty story for the girls if they should get hold of it," she thought, and shuddered. She did not recover altogether till she had posted her packet, and walked half a mile further on. At length she passed through a creaking gate and a shrubbery, and was shown up to a smart drawing-room. She was there to ask for the health of Miss Victoria Middlemass, the daughter of a gentleman who led a country gentleman's life on the proceeds of a sleeping partnership in a mercantile house in a large town at some distance.

Mrs. Middlemass came in hurriedly. She had only time to wish Miss West a merry Christmas and a good New Year, and to announce that Vicky was quite herself again, except that the bun fever had left her rather pale, and she had not got back all her appetite. She could not, however, make the same complaint of Mr. Middlemass, who had just come in ravenously hungry from the train. He had been accompanied by another gentleman, who had been introduced to him before he left the north, and whom Mr. Middlemass would not allow to go over to the inn at Stoneham, where he was to spend a few days with a friend. Mr. Middlemass and his new acquaintance were still at dinner.

Miss West was hurrying away after having discharged her commission, in order not to detain Mrs. Middlemass from her husband and his guest, and not to impose on master or servant the trouble of seeing her home.

But as they were exchanging smothered good-byes near the open dining-room door, Mr. Middlemass, who was frank and hospitable, broke through the clatter of knives and forks, and called out unceremoniously, "My dear, who is that you are taking leave of?"

"It is only Miss West, my dear," his wife replied softly to quiet him.

"Miss West!" and he banged from his seat and bounced to the door. "Miss West! the very woman in the nick of time. Stay, Miss West, and thank your stars; here's an old friend come a long way to see you."

Miss West turned, and there, behind the cordial face of the master of the house, who suspected nothing, and was only happy to be helpful to a brother merchant, were the perfectly recognizable lineaments of that old personable fellow, Bill Nairne.

Miss West for a second fancied that the letter she had posted to him ten minutes before had sped like a telegram to its destination, and that he had sped back on the telegraphic wires to remonstrate with her and expose her. The next instant she was sensible that the accident of his being there in person must be a result of a previous change of mind on his part.

Bill Nairne had stared, and stammered in mechanical accents, after Mr. Middlemass supplied him with the keynote, "Miss West, the very person, let us thank our stars!" But he soon recovered himself, and then shook her hand warmly, and declared, in his old, off-hand manner, "I shall see you home, Miss West;" for Miss West had no sooner recovered her breath and her small share of colour, than she combated Mr. Middlemass's pressing invitation to remain and spend the evening with them. No; Miss Sandys was expecting her; she thanked him and Mrs. Middlemass, but she could not stay on any account, so that there would be no use in sending over a message or a note to Carter Hill. Neither was it on Miss West's cards that Bill Nairne should escort her to Carter Hill, or, indeed, that she should have any escort at all. "Do not think of such a thing; I could not allow it." Mrs. Middlemass came to Miss West's aid, and alleged in her ignorance, "There is no occasion for it, Mr. Nairne; it is only a step to Carter Hill, and Miss West is accustomed to walk across after dinner, when Miss Sandys has a message for us. Remember, we are very quiet people here compared to what you are in the north. Besides, if Miss West is timid, I can manage to send a servant, or," she went on with greater hesitation, "Mr. Middlemass will be delighted to go, he knows the way; but you must not put yourself about on any consideration."

Miss West rather indignantly denied being timid, timidity being out of her rôle, and then she judged prematurely that the matter was settled. She had got so accustomed to order about girls that she had fallen into the bad habit of expecting that her will should be law to all the world, with the exception of Miss Sandys. As for Mr. and Mrs. Middlemass, they at least knew that she could take care of herself.

It was another shock to Miss West, another tumultuous, inopportune return to the experience of half a score years back, to find that she could no more dictate to Bill Nairne on this small matter than she could have done it as Mad of the old days.

"Say no more about it, Miss West. I'll go home with you, of course." Bill thus put her down with an intrepidity, if anything, increased with his increased weight physically and commercially.

This completely confounded Miss West, and made a greater muddle of her former and her present identities than had yet been effected.

"I'll see Miss West home, and we'll have a talk together of our old friendship as we walk along," Bill maintained with the confident coolness of power, towards the self-contained, self-sustained teacher.

It was something unprecedented for Miss West to be walking to Carter Hill on a man's arm, an old friend's arm. She felt an odd sensation stealing over her as if she were no longer able to take care of herself, as if she were no longer herself, her late self, at all; and the moon helped the illusion.

Silence descended on Miss West and Bill Nairne, after the first forced commonplaces. He glanced furtively at her, and lost his confidence and coolness, and hung his head -- the respectable prosperous merchant! -- but not at what he saw. What did she see? Nothing but that the sword had worn the scabbard. Mad had been true to herself. Mad could not have been otherwise than true, as he had written. But the consciousness of what Mad would see when she lifted up her eyes and looked him in the face made him droop his head. He had got a glimpse of it that morning, when, as the thought of Mad grew more and more vivid in his mind, he saw something reflected in the glass which did not necessarily belong to bodily maturity. The conviction returned to him with fresh, poignant regret, in the peaceful hush and subdued splendour of the winter night. There were lines in his face which Mad should never have seen there, without which he would have been nearer heaven. There were hard, unbelieving lines, supercilious lines, self-indulgent lines, lines of the earth, earthy, corresponding to hard and gross lines in the spirit within. The respectable, prosperous merchant, had fallen from his original level. He had not attained to the chivalrous, Christian manhood which he had the prospect of when he was Mad's promising lover. He had lowered his standard, forsaken his principles, lost his faith a few times since then. The gulf between Mad and him was wider now. He felt this walking on the moonlight December night by Mad's side again.

It was in a somewhat different tone from that of his letter that Bill Nairne said at last, "Mad, will you have the worst of me? Will you do something for me and mine after all? I might have been another man if I had got you long ago, Mad."

"Would you have been a better and a happier man, Bill? Could I do anything for you yet? Answer me truly," she said, hurriedly heaping the self-forgetful, quivering sentences one upon another.

"Anything!" exclaimed big Bill Nairne with intense conviction and hyperbole, more excusable than his old prudence and fickleness, "Anything! Mad, you could do everything with me, and with little Bill and Bob. We should no longer be egotistical and frivolous, with you to keep us right, you good, single-hearted Mad."

*    *    *    *    *

Miss Sandys was entitled to say, "You have come out this Christmas, Miss West. I shan't allow my assistant to be taken off her satirical staid feet another Christmas. I'll lock the next one up for the holidays. It is all those holidays; you would never have thought of such foolish things had you been busy teaching. I'll lock the next one up, or I'll send her to her friends, who will live, I trust, in some peaceful valley, where there are no old acquaintances, or for that matter, men of any kind. I shall, indeed, Miss West, for I hate changes." Miss Sandys had not to dread changes much longer. A sister of Miss West came and supplied her place, and lived so long with Miss Sandys that she closed her superior's eyes like a dutiful daughter, and succeeded to the goodwill of Carter Hill School.

<eob>

The Eskimo Twins

By

Lucy Fitch Perkins



This is the true story of Menie and Monnie and their two little dogs, Nip and Tup.

Menie and Monnie are twins, and they live far away in the North, near the very edge.

They are five years old.

Menie is the boy, and Monnie is the girl. But you cannot tell which is Menie and which is Monnie, -- not even if you look ever so hard at their pictures!

That is because they dress alike.

When they are a little way off even their own mother can't always tell. And if she can't, who can?

Sometimes the twins almost get mixed up about it themselves. And then it is very hard to know which is Nip and which is Tup, because the little dogs are twins too.

Nobody was surprised that the little dogs were twins, because dogs often are.

But everybody in the whole village where Menie and Monnie live was simply astonished to see twin babies!

They had never known of any before in their whole lives.

Old Akla, the Angakok, or Medicine Man of the village, shook his head when he heard about them. He said, "Such a thing never happened here before. Seals and human beings never have twins! There's magic in this."

The name of the twins' father was Kesshoo. If you say it fast it sounds just like a sneeze.

Their mother's name was Koolee. Kesshoo and Koolee, and Menie and Monnie, and Nip and Tup, all live together in the cold Arctic winter in a little stone hut, called an "igloo."

In the summer they live in a tent, which they call a "tupik." The winters are very long and cold, and what do you think! They have one night there that is four whole months long!

For four long months, while we are having Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and even Lincoln's Birthday, the twins never once see the sun!

But at last one day in early spring the sun comes up again out of the sea, looks at the world for a little while, and then goes out of sight again. Each day he stays for a longer time until after a while he doesn't go out of sight at all!

Then there are four long months of daylight when there is never any bedtime. Menie and Monnie just go to sleep whenever they feel sleepy.

Although many Eskimos think twins bring bad luck, Kesshoo and Koolee were very glad to have two babies.

They would have liked it better still if Monnie had been a boy, too, because boys grow up to hunt and fish and help get food for the family.

But Kesshoo was the best hunter and the best kyak man in the whole village. So he said to Koolee, "I suppose there must be girls in the world. It is no worse for us than for others."

So because Kesshoo was a brave fisherman and strong hunter, and because Koolee was clever in making clothing and shoes out of the skins of the animals which he brought home, the twins had the very best time that little Eskimo children can have.

And that is quite a good time, as you will see if you read all about it in this book.



I. The Twins Go Coasting

The Twins Go Coasting

I.


One spring morning, very early, while the moon still shone and every one else in the village was asleep, Menie and Monnie crept out of the dark entrance of their little stone house by the sea.

The entrance to their little stone house was long and low like a tunnel. The Twins were short and fat. But even if they were short they could not stand up straight in the tunnel.

So they crawled out on all fours. Nip and Tup came with them. Nip and Tup were on all fours, too, but they had run that way all their lives, so they could go much faster than the twins. They got out first.

Then they ran round in circles in the snow and barked at the moon. When Menie and Monnie came out of the hole, Tup jumped up to lick Monnie's face. He bumped her so hard that she fell right into the snowbank by the entrance.

Monnie didn't mind a bit. She just put her two fat arms around Tup, and they rolled over together in the snow.

Monnie had on her fur suit, with fur hood and mittens, and it was hard to tell which was Monnie and which was Tup as they tumbled in the snow together.

Pretty soon Monnie picked herself up and shook off the snow. Then Tup shook himself, too. Menie was rolling over and over down the slope in front of the little stone house. His head was between his knees and his hands held his ankles, so he rolled just like a ball.

Nip was running round and round him and barking with all his might. They made strange shadows on the snow in the moonlight.

Monnie called to Menie. Menie straightened himself out at the bottom of the slope, picked himself up and ran back to her.

"What shall we play?" said Monnie.

"Let's get Koko, and go to the Big Rock and slide downhill," said Menie.

"All right," said Monnie. "You run and get your sled."

Menie had a little sled which his father had made for him out of driftwood. No other boy in the village had one. Menie's father had searched the beach for many miles to find driftwood to make this sled.

The Eskimos have no wood but driftwood, and it is so precious that it is hardly ever used for anything but big dog sledges or spears, or other things which the men must have.

Most of the boys had sleds cut from blocks of ice. Menie's sled was behind the igloo. He ran to get it, and then the twins and the pups -- all four -- started for Koko's house.

Koko's house was clear at the other end of the village. But that was not far away, for there were only five igloos in the whole town.

First there was the igloo where the twins lived. Next was the home of Akla, the Angakok, and his two wives. Then there were two igloos where several families lived together. Last of all was the one where Koko and his father and mother and baby brother lived.

Koko was six. He was the twins' best friend.


II.

The air was very still. There was not a sound anywhere except the barking of the pups, the voices of Menie and Monnie, and the creaking sound of the snow under their feet as they ran.

The round moon was sailing through the deep blue sky and shining so bright it seemed almost as light as day.

There was one window in each igloo right over the tunnel entrance, and these windows shone with a dull yellow light.

In front of the village lay the sea. It was covered with ice far out from shore. Beyond the ice was the dark water out of which the sun would rise by and by.

There was nothing else to be seen in all the twins' world. There were no trees, no bushes even; nothing but the white earth, the shadows of the rocks and the snow-covered igloos, the bright windows, and the moon shining over all.


III.

Menie and Monnie soon reached Koko's igloo. Menie and Nip got there first. Monnie came puffing along with Tup just a moment after.

Then the twins dropped on their hands and knees in front of Koko's hut, and stuck their heads into the tunnel. Nip and Tup stuck their heads in, too.

They all four listened. There was not a sound to be heard except loud snores! The snores came rattling through the tunnel with such a frightful noise that the twins were almost scared.

"They sleep out loud, don't they?" whispered Monnie.

"Let's wake them up," Menie whispered back.

Then the twins began to bark. "Ki-yi, ki-yi, ki-yi, ki-yi," just like little dogs!

Nip and Tup began to yelp, too. The snores and the yelps met in the middle of the tunnel and the two together made such a dreadful sound that Koko woke up at once. When he heard four barks he knew right away that it must be the twins and the little dogs.

So he stuck his head into the other end of the tunnel and called, "Keep still. You'll wake the baby! I'll be there in a minute."

Very soon Koko popped out of the black hole. He was dressed in a fur suit and mittens just like the twins.


IV.

The three children went along together toward the Big Rock. Monnie rode on the sled, and Menie and Koko pulled it. The Big Rock was very straight up and down on one side, and long and slanting on the other. The twins were going to coast down the slanting side.

They climbed to the top, and Menie had the first ride. He coasted down on his stomach with his little reindeer-skin kamiks (shoes) waving in the air.

Next Koko had a turn. What do you think he did? He stood straight up on the sled with the leather cord in his hand, and slid down that way! But then, you see, he was six.

When Monnie's turn came she wanted to go down that way, too. But Menie said, "No. You'd fall off and bump your nose! You have hardly any nose as it is, and you'd better save it!"

"I have as much nose as you have, anyway," said Monnie.

"Mine is bigger! I'm a boy!" said Menie.

Koko measured their noses with his finger.

"They are just exactly alike," he said.

Monnie turned hers up at Menie and said, "What did I tell you?"

Menie never said another word about noses. He just changed the subject. He said, "Let's all slide down at once."

Koko and Menie sat down on the sled. Monnie sat on Menie. Then they gave a few hitches to the sled and off they went.

Whiz! How they flew!

The pups came running after them. In some places where it was very slippery the pups coasted, too! But they did not mean to. They did not like it. The sled was almost at the end of the slide when it struck a piece of ice. It flew around sideways and spilled all the children in the snow.

Just then Nip and Tup came sliding along behind them. They couldn't stop, so there they all were in a heap together, with the dogs on top!

Menie rolled over and sat up in the snow. He was holding on to the end of his nose. "Iyi, iyi!" he howled, "I bumped my nose on a piece of ice!"

Monnie sat up in the snow, too. She pointed her fur mitten at Menie's nose and laughed. "Don't you know you haven't much nose?" she said. "You ought to be more careful of it!"

Koko kicked his feet in the air and laughed at Menie, and the little dogs barked. Menie thought he'd better laugh, too. He had just let go of his nose to begin when all of a sudden the little dogs stopped barking and stood very still!

Their hair stood up on their necks and they began to growl!

"Hark, the dogs see something," said Menie.

Monnie and Koko stopped laughing and listened. They could not hear anything. They could not see anything. Still Nip and Tup growled. The twins and Koko were children of brave hunters, so, although they were scared, they crept very quietly to the side of the Big Rock and peeped over.

Just that minute there was a dreadful growl! "Woof!" It was very loud, and very near, and down on the beach a shadow was moving! It was the shadow of a great white BEAR!

He was looking for fish and was cross because everything was frozen, and he could not find any on the beach.

The moment they saw him, the twins and Koko turned and ran for home as fast as ever their short legs could go! They did not even stop to get the precious sled. They just ran and ran.

Nip and Tup ran, too, with their ears back and their little tails stuck straight out behind them!

If they had looked back, they would have seen the bear stand up on his hind legs and look after them, then get down on all fours and start toward the Big Rock on a run.

But neither the children nor the little dogs looked back! They just ran with all their might until they reached the twins' igloo. Then they all dived into the tunnel like frightened rabbits.


V.

When they came up in the one little room of the igloo at the other end of the tunnel Kesshoo and Koolee were just crawling out of the warm fur covers of their bed. Menie and Monnie and Koko and the little dogs all began to talk at once.

The moment the twins' father and mother heard the word -- bear -- they jumped off the sleeping-bench and began to put on their clothes.

They both wore fur trousers and long kamiks, with coats of fur, so they looked almost as much alike in their clothes as the twins did in theirs.

The mother always wore her hair in a topknot on top of her head, tied with a leather thong. But now she wanted to make the bear think she was a man, too, so she pulled it down and let it hang about her face, just as her husband did.

In two minutes they were ready. Then the father reached for his lance, the mother took her knife, and they all crawled out of the tunnel.

The father went first, then the mother, then the three children and the pups. At the opening of the tunnel the father stopped, and looked all around to see if the bear were near.

The dogs in the village knew by this time that some strange animal was about, and the moment Kesshoo came out into the moonlight and started for the Big Rock, all the dogs ran, too, howling like a pack of wolves.

Kesshoo shouted back to his wife, "There really is a bear! I see him by the Big Rock; call the others."

So she sent Monnie into the igloo of the Angakok, and Menie and Koko into the next huts. She herself screamed, "A bear! A bear!" into the tunnel of Koko's hut.

The people in the houses had heard the dogs bark and were already awake. Soon they came pouring out of their tunnels armed with knives and lances. The women had all let down their hair, just as the twins' mother did. Each one carried her knife.

They all ran toward the Big Rock, too. Far ahead they could see the bear, and the dogs bounding along, and Kesshoo running with his lance in his hand.

Then they saw the dogs spring upon the bear. The bear stood up on his hind legs and tried to catch the dogs and crush them in his arms. But the dogs were too nimble. The bear could not catch them.

When Kesshoo came near, the bear gave a great roar, and started for him. The brave Kesshoo stood still with his lance in his hand, until the bear got quite near. Then he ran at the bear and plunged the lance into his side. The lance pierced the bear's heart. He groaned, fell to the ground, rolled over, and was still.

Then how everybody ran! Koko's mother had her baby in her hood, where Eskimo mothers always carry their babies. She could not run so fast as the others. The Angakok was fat, so he could not keep up, but he waddled along as fast as he could.

"Hurry, hurry," he called to his wives. "Bespeak one of his hind legs for me."

Menie and Monnie and Koko had such short legs they could not go very fast either, so they ran along with the Angakok, and Koko's mother, and Nip and Tup.

When they reached the bear they found all the other people crowded around it. Each one stuck his fingers in the bear's blood and then sucked his fingers. This was because they wanted all bears to know how they longed to kill them. As each one tasted the blood he called out the part of the bear he would like to have.

The wives of the Angakok cried, "Give a hind leg to the Angakok."

"The kidneys for Koko," cried Koko's mother when she stuck in her finger. "That will make him a great bear-hunter when he is big."

"And I will have the skin for the twins' bed," said their mother.

Kesshoo promised each one the part he asked for. An Eskimo never keeps the game he kills for himself alone. Every one in the village has a share.

The bear was very large. He was so large that though all the women pulled together they could not drag the body back to the village. The men laughed at them, but they did not help them.

So Koolee ran back for their sledge and harnesses for the dogs. Koko and Menie helped her catch the dogs and hitch them to the sledge.

It took some time to catch them for the dogs did not want to work. They all ran away, and Tooky, the leader of the team, pretended to be sick! Tooky was the mother of Nip and Tup, and she was a very clever dog. While Koolee and Koko and Menie were getting the sledge and dog-team ready, the rest of the women set to work with their queer crooked knives to take off the bear's skin. The moon set, and the sky was red with the colors of the dawn before this was done.

At last the meat was cut in pieces and Kesshoo and Koko's father held the dogs while the women heaped it on the sledge. The dogs wanted the meat. They jumped and howled and tried to get away.

When everything was ready, Koolee cracked the whip at the dogs. Tooky ran ahead to her place as leader, the other dogs began to pull, and the whole procession started back to the village, leaving a great red stain on the clean white snow where the bear had been killed.

Last of all came the twins and Koko. They had loaded the bear's skin on Menie's sled.

"It's a woman's work to pull the meat home. We men just do the hunting and fishing," Menie said to Koko. They had heard the men say that.

"Yes, we found the bear," Koko answered. "Monnie can pull the skin home."

And though Monnie had found the bear just as much as they had, she didn't say a word. She just pulled away on the sled, and they all reached the igloo together just as the round red sun came up out of the sea, and threw long blue shadows far across the fields of snow.



II. Koolee Divides The Meat

Koolee Divides The Meat

I.


The first thing that was done after they got the sledge back to the village was to feed the dogs. The dogs were very hungry; they had smelled the fresh meat for a long time without so much as a bite of it, and they had had nothing to eat for two whole days. They jumped about and howled again and got their harnesses dreadfully tangled.

Kesshoo unharnessed them and gave them some bones, and while they were crunching them and quarreling among themselves, Koolee crawled into the igloo and brought out a bowl. The bowl was made of a hollowed-out stone, and it had water in it.

"This is for a charm," said Koolee. "If you each take a sip of water from this bowl my son will always have good luck in spying bears!"

She passed the bowl around, and each person took a sip of the water. When Menie's turn came he took a big, big mouthful, because he wanted to be very brave, indeed, and find a bear every week. But he was in too much of a hurry. The water went down his "Sunday-throat" and choked him! He coughed and strangled and his face grew red. Koolee thumped him on the back.

"That's a poor beginning for a great bear-hunter," she said.

Everybody laughed at Menie. Menie hated to be laughed at. He went away and found Nip and Tup. They wouldn't laugh at him, he knew. He thought he liked dogs better than people anyway.

Nip and Tup were trying to get their noses into the circle with the other dogs, but the big dogs snapped at them and drove them away, so Menie got some scraps and fed them.

Meanwhile Koolee stood by the sledge and divided the meat among her neighbors. First she gave one of the hind legs to the wives of the Angakok, because he always had to have the best of everything. She gave the kidneys to Koko's mother. To each one she gave just the part she had asked for. When each woman had been given her share, Kesshoo took what was left and put it on the storehouse.

The storehouse wasn't really a house at all. It was just a great stone platform standing up on legs, like a giant's table. The meat was placed on the top of it, so the dogs could not reach it, no matter how high they jumped.


II.

When the rest of the meat was taken care of, Koolee took the bear's head and carried it into the igloo.

All the people followed her. Then Koolee did a queer thing. She placed the head on a bench, with the nose pointing toward the Big Rock, because the bear had come from that direction. Then she stopped up the nostrils with moss and grease. She greased the bear's mouth, too.

"Bears like grease," she said. "And if I stop up his nose like that bears will never be able to smell anything. Then the hunters can get near and kill them before they know it." You see Koolee was a great believer in signs and in magic. All the other people were too.

She called to the twins, "Come here, Menie and Monnie."

The twins had come in with the others, but they were so short they were out of sight in the crowd. They crawled under the elbows of the grown people and stood beside Koolee.

"Look, children," she said to them, "your grandfather, who is dead, sent you this bear. He wants you to send him something. In five days the bear's spirit will go to the land where your grandfather's spirit lives. What would you like to have the bear's spirit take to your grandfather for a gift?"

"I'll send him the little fish that father carved for me out of bone," said Menie. He squirmed through the crowd and got it from a corner of his bed and brought it to his mother. She put it on the bear's head.

Monnie gave her a leather string with a lucky stone tied to it. Koolee put that on the bear's head too.

Then she said, "There! In five days' time the bear's spirit will give the shadows of these things to your grandfather. Then we can eat the head, but not until we are sure the bear's spirit has reached the home of the Dead."

"That is well," the Angakok said to the twins, when Koolee had finished. "Your grandfather will be pleased with your presents, I know. Your grandfather was a just man. I knew him well. He always paid great respect to me. Whenever he brought a bear home he gave me not only a hind leg, but the liver as well! I should not be surprised if he sent the bear this way, knowing how fond I am of bear's liver."

The Angakok placed his hand on his stomach and rolled up his eyes. "But times are not what they once were," he went on. "People care now only for their own stomachs! They would rather have the liver themselves than give it to the Angakok! They will be sorry when it is too late."

He shook his head and heaved a great sigh. Koolee looked at Kesshoo. She was very anxious. Kesshoo went out at once to the storehouse. He climbed to the top and got the liver.

By this time all the people had crawled out of the igloo again, and were ready to carry home their meat. Kesshoo ran to the Angakok and gave him the bear's liver. The Angakok handed it to one of his wives to carry. The other one already had the bear's leg. He said to Kesshoo, "You are a just man, like your father. I know the secrets of the sun, moon, and stars. You know your duty! You shall have your reward." He looked very solemn and waddled away toward his igloo with the two wives behind him carrying the meat. All the rest of the people followed after him and went into their own igloos.



III. The Twins Go Fishing

The Twins Go Fishing

I.


When the people had all gone away, Menie and Monnie sat down on the side of the sledge. Nip and Tup were busy burying bones in the snow. The other dogs had eaten all they wanted to and were now lying down asleep in the sun, with their noses on their paws.

Everything was still and cold. It was so still you could almost hear the silence, and so bright that the twins had to squint their eyes. In the air there was a faint smell of cooking meat.

Menie sniffed. "I'm so hungry I could eat my boots," he said.

"There are better things to eat than boots," Monnie answered. "What would you like best of everything in the world if you could have it?"

"A nice piece of blubber from a walrus or some reindeer tallow," said Menie.

"Oh, no," Monnie cried. "That isn't half as good as reindeer's stomach, or fishes' eyes! Um-m how I love fishes' eyes! I tell you, Menie, let's get something to eat and then go fishing, before the sun goes down!"

"All right," said Menie. "Let's see if Mother won't give us a piece of bear's fat! That is almost as good as blubber or fishes' eyes."


II.

They dived into the igloo. Their mother was standing beside the oil lamp, putting strands of dried moss into the oil. This lamp was their only stove and their only light. It didn't look much like our stoves. It was just a piece of soapstone, shaped something like a clamshell. It was hollowed out so it would hold the oil. All along the shallow side of the pan there were little tendrils of dried moss, like threads. These were the wicks.

Over the fire pan there was a rack, and from the rack a stone pan hung down over the lamp flame. It was tied by leather thongs to the rack. In the pan a piece of bear's meat was simmering. The fire was not big enough to cook it very well, but there was a little steam rising from it, and it made a very good smell for hungry noses.

"We're hungry enough to eat our boots," Menie said to his mother.

"You must never eat your boots; you have but one pair!" his mother answered. She pinched Menie's cheek and laughed at him.

Then she cut two chunks of fat from a piece of bear's meat which lay on the bench. She gave one to each of the twins. "Eat this, and soon you can have some cooked meat," she said. "It isn't quite done yet."

"We don't want to wait for the cooked meat," cried Monnie. "We want to go fishing before the sun is gone. Give us more fat and we'll eat it outside."

"You may go fishing if your father will go with you and cut holes for you in the ice," said her mother.

Koolee cut off two more pieces of fat. The twins took a piece in each hand. Then their mother reached down their own little fishing rods, which were stuck in the walls of the igloo. The twins had bear's meat in both hands. They didn't see how they could manage the fishing rods too.

But Menie thought of a way. "I'll show you how," he said to Monnie. He held one chunk of meat in his teeth! In his left hand he held the fishing rod, in his right he carried the other piece of meat!

Monnie did exactly what Menie did, and then they crawled down into the tunnel.


III.

The twins had some trouble getting out of the tunnel because both their hands were full. And besides the fishing rods kept getting between their legs. When they got outside they both took great bites of the bear's fat.

Kesshoo was hanging the dogs' harnesses up on a tall pole, where the dogs could not get them. The pole was eight feet long, and it was made of the tusk of a narwhal. The harnesses were made of walrus thongs and the dogs would eat them if they had a chance. That was the reason Kesshoo hung them out of reach. The twins ran to their father at once. They began to tell him that they wanted to go fishing right away before the sun went down but their mouths were so full they couldn't get the words out!

"Mm-m-m-m," Menie began, chewing with all his might!

Then Monnie did a shocking thing! She swallowed her meat whole, she was in such hurry! It made a great lump going down her throat! It almost choked her. But she shut her eyes, jerked her head forward, and got it down!

"Will you make two holes in the ice for us to fish through?" she said. She got the words out first! Then she took another bite of meat.

"Have you got your lines ready, and anything for bait?" asked their father.

By this time Menie had swallowed his mouthful too. He said, "We can take a piece of bear's meat for bait. The lines and hooks are ready."

Kesshoo looked at the lines. The rods were very short. They were made of driftwood with a piece of bone bound to the end by tough thongs.

There was a hole in the end of the bone, and through this hole the line was threaded. The line was made of braided reindeer thongs. On the end of the line was a hook carved out of bone.

"Your lines are all right," said Kesshoo. "Come along."

He led the way down to the beach. The twins came tumbling after him, and I am sorry to tell you they gobbled their meat all the way! After the twins came Nip and Tup. The ice was very thick. Kesshoo and the twins and the pups walked out on it quite a distance from the shore.

Kesshoo cut two round holes in the ice. One was for Menie and one for Monnie. The holes were not big enough for them to fall into.

By this time the twins had eaten all their meat except some small pieces which they saved for bait. They each put a piece of meat on the hook. Then they squatted down on their heels and dropped the hooks into the holes.

Kesshoo went back to the village, and left them there. "Don't stay out too long," he called back to them.


IV.

The twins sat perfectly still for a long time. Nip sat beside Menie, and Tup sat beside Monnie. It grew colder and colder. The sun began to drop down toward the sea again. At last it rested like a great round red wheel right on the Edge of the World!

Slowly, slowly it sank until only a little bit of the red rim showed; then that too was gone. Great splashes of red color came up in the sky over the place where it had been.

Still the twins sat patiently by their holes. It grew darker and darker. The colors faded. The stars began to twinkle, but the twins did not move. Nip and Tup ran races on the ice, and rolled over each other and barked.

At last -- all of a sudden -- there was a fearful jerk on Monnie's line! It took her by surprise. The little rod flew right out of her hands! Monnie flung herself on her stomach on the ice and caught the rod just as it was going down the hole! She held on hard and pulled like everything.

"I believe I've caught a whale," she panted.

But she never let go! She got herself right side up on the ice, somehow, and pulled and pulled on her line.

"Let me pull him in!" cried Menie. He tried to take her rod.

"Get away," screamed Monnie. "I'll pull in my own fish."

Menie danced up and down with excitement, still holding his own rod. The pups danced and barked too. Monnie never looked at any of them. She kept her eyes fixed on the hole and pulled.

At last she shrieked, "I've got him, I've got him!" And up through the hole came a great big codfish!

My! how he did flop around on the ice! Nip and Tup were scared. They ran for home at the first flop.

"Let's go home now," said Monnie. "I want to show my fine big fish to Mother."

But Menie said, "Wait a little longer till I catch one! I'll give you one eye out of my fish if you will."

Monnie waited. She put another piece of meat on her hook and dropped it again into the hole. After a while she said, "You can keep your old eye if you get it. It's so dark the fish can't see to get themselves caught anyway. I'm cold. I'm going home."

Menie got up very slowly and pulled up his line.

As they turned toward the shore, Monnie cried out, "Look, look! The sky is on fire!" It looked like it, truly!

Great white streamers were flashing from the Edge of the World, clear up into the sky! They danced like flames. Sometimes they shot long banners of blue or green fire up to the very stars. Overhead the sky shone red as blood. The stars seemed blotted out.

The twins had seen many wonderful things in the sky, but never such color as this. Their eyes grew as round and big and popping as those of Monnie's codfish, while they watched the long banners join themselves into a great waving curtain of color that hung clear across the heavens.

"What is it? Oh, what is it?" they gasped. They were too astonished to move, and they were a good deal frightened, too. They never knew the sky could act like that.

Monnie felt her black hair rise under her little fur hood. She seized Menie's coat. "Do you suppose the world is going to be burned up?" she said.

Just then they heard a voice calling, "Menie, Monnie, where are you?"

"Here we are," they answered. Their teeth were chattering with cold and fright, and they ran up the slope and flung themselves into their mother's arms.

"Oh, Mother, what is the matter with the sky?" they gasped.

Then Koolee looked up too. The long streamers were still flinging themselves up toward the red dome overhead.

We call this the "aurora," or "northern lights," and know that electricity causes it, but the twins' mother couldn't know that. She told them just what had been told her when she was a little girl.

She said, "That is the dance of the Spirits of the Dead! Haven't you ever seen it before?"

"Not like this," said the twins. "This is so big, and so red!"

"The sky is not often so bright," said Koolee. "Some say it is the spirits of little children dancing and playing together in the sky! They will not hurt you. You need not be afraid. See how they dance in a ring all around the Edge of the World! They look as if they were having fun."

"It goes around the Edge of the World just like the flames around our lamp," said Menie. "Maybe it's the Giants' lamp!"

Menie and Monnie believed in Giants. So did their mother. They thought the Giants lived in the middle of the Great White World, where the snow never melts.

The thought of the Giants scared them all. The twins gave the fish to their mother, and then they all three scuttled up the snowy slope toward the bright window of their igloo just as fast as they could go. When they got inside they found some hot bear's meat waiting for them, and Monnie had both the eyes from her fish to eat. But she gave one to Menie.

When they were warmed and fed, they pulled off their little fur suits, crawled into the piles of warm skins on the sleeping bench, and in two minutes were sound asleep.



IV. The Snow House

The Snow House

I.


It is very hard to tell what day it is, or what hour in the day, in a place where the days and nights are all mixed up, and where there are no clocks.

Menie and Monnie had never seen a clock in their whole lives. If they had they would have thought it was alive, and perhaps would have been afraid of it.

But people everywhere in the world get sleepy, so the Eskimos sometimes count their time by "sleeps." Instead of saying five days ago, they say "five sleeps" ago.

The night after the bear was killed it began to snow. The wind howled around the igloo and piled the snow over it in huge drifts.

The dogs were buried under it and had to be dug out, all but Nip and Tup. They stayed inside with the twins and slept in their bed.

The twins and their father and mother were glad to stay in the warm hut.

At last the snow stopped, the air cleared, and the twins and Kesshoo went out. Koolee stayed in the igloo.

She sat on her sleeping bench upon a pile of soft furs. A bear's skin was stretched up on the wall behind her. She had a cozy nest to work in.

The lamp stood on the bench beside her. She was making a beautiful new suit for Menie. It was made of fawn-skin as soft as velvet, and the hood and sleeves were trimmed with white rabbit's fur.

Her thimble was made of ivory, and her needle too. Her thread was a fine strip of hide. There was a bunch of such thread beside her.

Soon Kesshoo came in, bringing with him a dried fish and a piece of bear's meat, from the storehouse.

Koolee looked up from her sewing. "Isn't it five sleeps since you killed the bear?" she said.

Kesshoo counted on his fingers. "Yes," he said, "it is five sleeps."

"Then it is time to eat the bear's head," said Koolee. "His spirit is now with our fathers."

"Why not have a feast?" said Kesshoo. "There hasn't been any fresh meat in the village since the bear was killed, and I don't believe the rest have had anything to eat but dried fish. We have plenty of bear's meat still."

Koolee hopped down off the bench and put some more moss into the lamp.

"You bring in the meat," she said, "and tell the twins to go to all the igloos and invite the people to come at sunset."

"All right," Kesshoo answered, and he went out at once to the storehouse to get the meat.


II.

When he came out of the tunnel, Kesshoo found the twins trying to make a snow house for the dogs. They weren't getting on very well.

Kesshoo could make wonderful snow houses. He had made a beautiful one when the first heavy snows of winter had come, and the family had lived in it while Koolee finished building the stone igloo. The twins had watched him make it. It seemed so easy they were sure they could do it too. Kesshoo said, "If you will run to all the igloos and tell the people to come at sunset to eat the bear's head, I will help you build the snow house for the dogs."

Menie and Monnie couldn't run. Nobody could. The snow was too deep. They went in every step above their knees. But they ploughed along and gave their message at each igloo.

Everybody was very glad to come, and Koko said, "I'll come right now and stay if you want me to."

"Come along," said the twins.

They went back to their own house, kicking the snow to make a path. Koko went with them. The snow was just the right kind for a snow house. It packed well and made good blocks.

While the twins were away giving the invitations, Kesshoo carried great pieces of bear's meat into the house.

Koolee put in the cooking pan all the meat it would hold, and kept the blaze bright in the lamp underneath to cook it.

Then Kesshoo took his long ivory knife and went out to help the twins with the snow house, as he had promised.

"See, this is the way," he said to them.

He took an unbroken patch of snow where no one had stepped. He made a wide sweep of his arm and marked a circle in the snow with his knife.

The circle was just as big as he meant the house to be. Then he cut out blocks of snow from the space inside the circle. He placed these big blocks of snow around the circle on the line he had marked with his knife.

When he got the first row done Menie said, "I can do that! Let me try."

He took the knife and cut out a block. It wasn't nice and even like his father's blocks.

"That will never do," his father said. "Your house will tumble down unless your blocks are true."

He made the sides of the block straight by cutting off some of the snow.

"Now all the other blocks in this row must be just like this one," he said. Koko tried next. His block was almost right the first time. But then, as I have told you before, Koko was six.

Monnie tried the next one. I am sorry to say hers wouldn't do at all. It was dreadfully crooked. They took turns. Menie cut a new block while Koko placed the last one on the snow wall.

Kesshoo had to put on the top blocks to make the roof. Neither Koko nor Menie could do it right, though they tried and tried. It is a very hard thing to do. When the blocks were all laid up and the dome finished, Kesshoo said, "Now, Monnie can help pack it with snow."

Monnie got the snow shovel. The snow shovel was made of three flat pieces of wood sewed together with leather thongs. It had an edge of horn sewed on with thongs, too.

Monnie threw loose snow on the snow house and spatted it down with the back of the shovel.

While she was doing this, Menie and Koko built a tunnel entrance for the dogs just like the big one on the stone house.

They worked so hard they were warm as toast, though it was as cold as our coldest winter weather; and when it was all finished Menie ran clear over it just to show how strong and well built it was.


III.

When the snow house was all ready, Menie called the three big dogs. Tooky was the leader, and the three dogs together were Kesshoo's sledge team. Tooky was a hunting dog too.

When Menie called the dogs, the dogs thought they were going to be harnessed, so they hid behind the igloo and pretended they didn't hear. Koko and Menie followed them, but the moment they got near, the dogs bounded away. They went round to the front of the igloo and ran into the tunnel.

Koolee was just turning the meat in the pan with a pointed stick. There was a piece of bear's meat lying on the bench.

The dogs smelled the meat. They stuck their heads into the room, and when Koolee's back was turned, Tooky stole the meat!

Just then Koolee turned around. She saw Tooky. She shrieked, "Oh, my meat, my meat!" and whacked Tooky across the nose with the snow stick!

But Tooky was bound to have the meat. She ran out of the tunnel with it in her mouth, just as Menie and Koko got round to the front of the igloo once more.

"I-yi! I-yi!" they screamed, "Tooky's got the meat!" Kesshoo caught up his dog-whip and came running from the storehouse.

The other two dogs wanted the meat too. They flew at Tooky and snarled and fought with her to get it.

Then Koolee's head appeared in the tunnel hole! Tooky was crouching in the snow in front of the tunnel, trying to fight off the other two dogs and guard the meat at the same time.

She wasn't doing a thing with her tail, but she was very busy with all the rest of her. Her tail was pointed right toward the tunnel.

The moment she saw it Koolee seized the tail with both hands and jerked it like everything! Tooky was so surprised she yelped. And when she opened her mouth to yelp, of course she dropped the meat.

Just at that instant Kesshoo's whip lash came singing about the ears of all three dogs.

"Snap, snap," it went. They jumped to get out of the way of the lash.

Then Koolee leaped forward and snatched the meat from under their noses, and scuttled back with it into the tunnel before you could say Jack Robinson.

It is dangerous to snatch meat away from hungry dogs. If Kesshoo hadn't been slashing at them with his whip, and if Menie and Koko hadn't been screaming at them with all their might, so the dogs were nearly distracted, Koolee might have been badly bitten.

Just then Monnie came up with some dried fish. She threw one of the fish over in front of the snow house.

The dogs saw it and leaped for it. Then she threw another into the snow hut itself. They went after that. She fed them all with dried fish until they were so full they curled up in the snow house and went to sleep.



V. The Feast

The Feast

I


The moment the sun had gone out of sight all the people in the village came pouring out of their tunnels on their way to the feast at Kesshoo's house.

Kesshoo's house was so small that it seemed as if all the people could not possibly get into it.

But the Eskimos are used to crowding into very small spaces, indeed. Sometimes a man and his wife and all his children will live in a space about the size of a big double bed.

First the Angakok came out of his igloo, looking fatter than ever. The Angakok always found plenty to eat somehow. Both his wives were thin. Their faces looked like baked apples all brown and wrinkled.

When they reached Kesshoo's house, the Angakok went into the tunnel first.

Now I can't tell you whether he had grown fatter during the five days, or whether the entrance had grown smaller, but this much I know: the Angakok got stuck! He couldn't get himself into the room no matter how much he tried! He squirmed and wriggled and twisted, until his face was very red and he looked as if he would burst, but there he stayed.

Other people had crawled into the tunnel after him. His two wives were just behind. Everybody got stuck, of course, because no one could move until the Angakok did. He was just like a cork in the neck of a bottle.

Kesshoo and Koolee and the twins and Nip and Tup were all in the igloo. When they saw the Angakok's face come through the hole they thought, of course, the rest of him would come too. But it didn't, and the Angakok was mad about it.

"Why don't they build igloos the way they used to?" he growled. "Every year the tunnels get smaller and smaller! Am I to remain here forever?" he went on. "Why doesn't somebody help me?"

Kesshoo and Koolee seized him under his arms. They pulled and pulled. The two wives pushed him from behind.

"I-yi! I-yi!" screamed the Angakok. "You will scrape my skin off!"

He kicked out behind with his feet. His wives backed hastily, to get out of the way. That made them bump into Koko's mother who was just behind them. Her baby was in her hood, and when she backed, the baby's head was bumped on the roof of the tunnel.

The baby began to roar. In the tunnel it sounded like a clap of thunder. The wives of the Angakok and Koko's mother all began to talk at once, and with that and the baby's crying I suppose there never was a tunnel that held so much noise. It all came into the igloo, and it sounded quite frightful. The twins crept into the farthest corner of the sleeping bench and watched their father and mother and the Angakok, with their eyes almost popping out of their heads.

Nip and Tup thought they would help a little, so they jumped off the bench; and barked at the Angakok. You see, they didn't know he was a great medicine man. They thought maybe he ought not to be there at all.

Nip even snapped at the Angakok's ear!

That made the Angakok more angry than ever. He reached into the room, seized Nip with one hand and flung him up on to the sleeping bench. Nip lit on top of Menie. Nip was very much surprised, and so was Menie.

Now, whether the jerk he gave in throwing Nip did it or not, I cannot say, but at that instant Kesshoo and Koolee both gave a great pull in front. At the same moment the two wives gave a great push behind, and the next moment after that, there was the Angakok, still red, and still angry, sitting on the edge of the sleeping bench in the best place near the fire!

Then his two wives came crawling through. The Angakok looked at them as if he thought they had made him stick in the tunnel, and had done it on purpose, too. The wives scuttled up on to the sleeping bench, and got into the farthest corner of it as fast as they could.

The women and children always sat back on the bench at a feast.

When Koko's mother came in, the baby was still crying. She climbed up on to the bed with him, and Menie and Monnie showed him the pups and that made the baby laugh again.

As fast as they came in, the women and children packed themselves away on the sleeping bench. The men sat along the edge of it with their feet on the floor.


II.

The smell of food soon made everybody cheerful. When at last they were all crowded into the room, Koolee placed the bear's head and other pans of meat on the floor.

Then she crawled back on to the bench with the other women.

The Angakok was the first one to help himself. He reached down and took a large chunk of meat. He held it up to his mouth and took hold of the end with his teeth. Then he sawed off a huge mouthful with his knife.

It looked as if he would surely cut off the end of his nose too, but he didn't.

When the men had all helped themselves, pieces of meat were handed out to the women and children.

Soon they were all eating as if their lives depended on it. And now I think of it, their lives did depend on it, to be sure! I will not speak about their table manners. In fact, they hadn't any to speak of! They had nothing to eat with the meat -- not even salt -- but it was a great feast to them for all that, and they ate and ate until every scrap was gone.

The Angakok grew better natured every minute. By the time he had eaten all he could hold he was really quite happy and benevolent! He clasped his hands over his stomach and smiled on everybody.

The women chattered in their corner of the sleeping-bench, and Koolee showed Koko's mother the new fur suit trimmed with white rabbit's skin that she was making for Menie. And Koko's mother said she really must make one for Koko just like it.

The twins and Koko talked about a trap to catch hares which they meant to made as soon as the long days began again, and the baby went to sleep on a pile of furs in the corner. Menie fed the pups with some of his own meat, and gave them each a bone. Nip and Tup buried their bones under the baby and then went to sleep too.


III.

After a while the Angakok turned his face to the wall, as he always did when he meant to tell a story or sing a song. Then he said, "Listen, my children!" He called everybody -- even the grown up people -- his children! Everybody listened. They always listened when the Angakok spoke.

The Angakok knew the secrets of the sun, moon, and stars. He had told them so many times! The people believed it, and it may be that the Angakok really believed it himself, though I have some doubt about that.

"Listen, my children," said the Angakok, "and I will tell you wonderful things.

"There is a world beneath the sea! You catch glimpses of that world yourselves in calm summer weather, when the water is still, and you know that I speak the truth!

"Then you can see the shadows of rocks and islands and glaciers in the smooth water. Far below you see blue sky and white clouds. That is the calm world in which the Spirits of the Dead live. I have visited that underworld, many times, I have talked there with the spirits of your ancestors."

The Angakok paused and looked around to see if every one was paying attention. Then he went on with his story.

"Do you remember how two springs ago there were so few walruses and seals along the coast that you nearly died for lack of food and oil?" he said. "My children, it was I who brought the seals and walruses back to you! Without my efforts you might all have starved!

"I will tell you of the perils of a fearful journey which I undertook for your sakes. Then you will see what you owe to the skill and faithfulness of your Angakok!"

All the people looked very solemn, and nodded their heads. The Angakok went on.

"You must know that in the depths of the underworld, far beyond the beautiful abode of the Spirits of the Dead, lives the Old Woman of the Sea!

"There she sits forever and forever beside a monstrous lamp. Underneath the lamp is a great saucer to catch the oil which drips from it.

"In that saucer there are whole flocks of sea-birds swimming about! All the animals that live in the sea -- the whales and walruses, the codfish and the seals -- swarm in the saucer of the Old Woman of the Sea. That is where they all come from. Sometimes the Old Woman of the Sea keeps all the creatures in the saucer. Then there are no seal or fish or walrus along our coasts, and there is hunger among the innuit (human beings).

"At the time of my journey she had kept all the creatures for so long a time in her saucer that you and many others were nearly dead for lack of food."

"It was then that I prepared myself for the perils of this journey to the underworld. I called my Tornak, or guiding spirit, to lead my steps. Without his Tornak an Angakok can do nothing. The Tornak came at once in answer to my call. He took me by the hand, and we plunged down into the water. First we passed through the beautiful World of Spirits, where it is always summer. This part of the way was quite pleasant, but on the farther side of that world we came to a fearful abyss. It could be crossed only on a large slippery wheel, as slippery as ice."

"I mounted this wheel and was whirled across the chasm. No sooner had I reached the other side than new terrors came upon me. I had to pass by great cauldrons of boiling oil, in which seals were swimming about."

"A misstep would have sent me plunging into the boiling oil, and you would have lost your Angakok forever!"

The thought of this was so dreadful that the Angakok paused and wiped his eyes. Then he went on again with his story.

"However, with great courage I kept upon my way until at last I saw the Old Woman's house! A deep gulf lay between us and her dwelling, and outside it stood a great dog with bloody jaws. This dog guards the entrance, and he sleeps only for a single moment, once in a very great while."

"For six days I and my Tornak waited there for the dog to sleep. At last on the seventh day he closed his eyes! Instantly the Tornak seized my hand and drew me across the bridge which spanned the chasm. This bridge was as narrow as a single thread."

"When we were safely across the bridge we passed the sleeping dog and boldly entered the Old Woman's house. The Old Woman is terrible to look upon! Her hand is the size of a large walrus, and her teeth like the rocks along the coast!" The Angakok dropped his voice to a whisper.

"However, when she looked upon me she trembled!" he said. "She saw at once that I possessed great power, and was a great Angakok. I spoke to her flattering words. Then I told her of the hunger of my children!"

"I begged that she would send the seal and walrus and sea-birds to our coast at once. But she had no mind to yield to my requests. Then I stormed and threatened." The Angakok's voice grew louder. "The walls shook with the thunder of my voice! At last I seized her by the hair! I tipped over the saucer with my foot! My great power prevailed against the mighty sorceress!"

"The seal and walrus swam away. The birds flew into the air and were gone. I had conquered the Old Woman of the Sea! My children were saved!" The Angakok was silent for a moment. Then he spoke again in a natural voice.

"When I opened my eyes in my own igloo again," he said, "the famine was already over. Flocks of sea-birds were flying overhead. The sea swarmed with fish, and with walrus and seal. Every one along the whole coast was happy. Ask yourselves -- is it not so?"

The Angakok seemed very much pleased with himself, and he looked about, as if he expected every one else to be pleased with him too. All the people were filled with wonder at his great power. They began to talk among themselves.

"Yes, I remember the famine well," said Koko's father. "I was away up the coast that season. Several died in our village for lack of food."

Other men remembered things about other times when food had been scarce.

"It is lucky," they said to each other, "that here we have a great Angakok who understands all the secrets of the World and who can save us from such dreadful things."


IV.

At last Kesshoo said, "Will you tell us, great Angakok, how you make these wonderful journeys?"

"Do you really wish to know?" asked the Angakok. "If you do, I will summon my guiding spirits to tell you, but they will speak only in the darkness."

Kesshoo took the lamp at once and put it out in the tunnel. Then he placed a thick musk-ox hide over the entrance, so that not a single ray of light came into the room. The darkness could almost be felt. Everybody sat very still and listened.

Soon a heavy body was heard to strike the floor with a dull thud, and a strange voice said, "Who calls me?"

Another voice said, "You are called, mighty spirits, to tell these children of the labors of their Angakok."

Then began all sorts of strange noises, as of different persons speaking. All the voices sounded much like the Angakok's, and they all said what a great medicine man the Angakok was, and how every one in the village must be sure to do what he told them to!

At last the Angakok himself spoke, in his own voice. "I will tell you how I make these strange journeys," he said.

"My body is now lying on the floor at your feet. Now I begin to rise. You cannot see me. You cannot touch me. Now I am floating about your heads, now I am touching the roof! I can go wherever I please! Nothing can stop me! I know the secret places of the sun, moon, and stars. I can fly through the roof and go at once to the moon, if I wish to."

Then the voice was still. Nobody moved or spoke.

Monnie had gone to sleep in the corner of the bed, but Koko and Menie were still awake. They had listened to every word about the Old Woman of the Sea, and how the Angakok traveled to the moon.

You know I told you before that Koko was six. He wanted to know all about things. So he spoke right out in the dark, when every one else was still.

He said, "Mother, if the Angakok can go anywhere he wants to, why couldn't he get out of the tunnel?"

Koko's mother tried to hush him up. "Sh, sh," she said, and put her hand over his mouth. At least she thought she did, but she made a mistake in the dark and put her hand over Menie's mouth instead!

Menie tried to say, "I never said a word," but he could only make queer sounds, because Koko's mother's hand was tight on his mouth.

Of course Koko didn't know his mother was trying to keep him still, so he said again, "Why is it, mother?"

Koko's mother heard Koko's voice speaking just as plainly as ever though she was sure she had her hand over his mouth! She was frightened.

"Magic! magic!" she screamed. "Bring the light! Koko is bewitched! I have my hand over his mouth, yet you hear that he talks as plainly as ever!"

Koko tried to say, "Your hand isn't over my mouth," and Menie tried to say, "It's over mine!" but he could only say, "M-m-m," because she held on so tight!

Koko's mother was making so much noise herself that she wouldn't have heard what either one said anyway. The baby woke up and whimpered. Nip and Tup woke up and barked like everything.

Kesshoo got the light from the tunnel as quickly as he could, and set it on the bench. Then every one saw what was the matter! They all laughed -- all but Menie and the Angakok. The Angakok said to Koko's father, "You'd better look after that boy. He is disrespectful to me. That is a bad beginning!"

Koko's father was ashamed of him. He said, "Koko is so small!"

But the Angakok said, "Koko is six. He is old enough to know better."


V.

Everybody was so glad to see the light again that they all began to talk at once.

Some one said to Kesshoo, "Tell us about the long journey to the south you took once long ago."

Then everybody else listened, while Kesshoo told about how once he had taken his dog sledge with a load of musk-ox and seal skins on it far down the coast and how at last he had come to a little settlement where the houses were all made of wood, if they would believe it!

He told them that in the bay before the village there was a boat as big as the Big Rock itself. It had queer white wings, and the wind blew on these wings and made the boat go!

Kesshoo had been out in a kyak to see it. He had even paddled all round it. The men on the great boat had fair hair, and one of them, the chief man of all, had bought some of Kesshoo's skins and one of his dogs. The man was a great chief. His name was Nansen.

This great chief had told Kesshoo that he was going to take a sledge and go straight into the inland country where the Giants live! He said he was going to cross the great ice! No man had ever done that since the world began.

Kesshoo thought probably the great chief had been eaten by the Giants, but he did not know surely, because he had never been back there since to find out. And to be sure, if he had been eaten by Giants, no one ever would know about it anyway.

Then Kesshoo showed them all a great knife that the white chief had given him, in exchange for a sealskin, and two steel needles that he had sent to Koolee. Koolee kept the needles in a little ivory case all by themselves.

She always carried the case in her kamik, so it would not be lost. She could do wonderful sewing with the needles. Koolee was very proud of her sewing. No one else in the whole village could sew so well, because they had not such good needles to do it with. Koolee used them only for her very finest work.

At last the Angakok said, "It is time to go home." He called to his wives. They climbed down off the bench.

That started the others. One after another they put on their upper garments, which they had taken off in the warm igloo, said good bye, and popped down into the tunnel. Last of all came the Angakok's turn.

Then Kesshoo and Koolee and the Angakok's wives all began to look very anxious. The Angakok looked a little worried himself. If he had stuck coming in, what would happen now after he had eaten so much!

He got down on his hands and knees, and looked at the hole. He had taken off his thick fur coat when he came in. Now he took off his undercoat, and his thick fur trousers! He gave them to his wives.

Then he stretched himself out just as long as he possibly could and slowly hitched himself down into the tunnel, groaning all the way.

Kesshoo and Koolee and the wives waited until his feet disappeared, and they heard him scraping along through the tunnel. Then they breathed a great sigh of relief, and the two wives popped down after him.

The last Kesshoo and Koolee heard of the Angakok, was a kind of muffled roar when a piece of ice fell from the top of the tunnel on to his bare back.

Menie and Monnie and the pups were already sound asleep in their corner of the bench when their father and mother fixed the lamp for the night and crawled in among the fur robes beside them.



VI. The Reindeer Hunt

The Reindeer Hunt

I.


The day after the feast it was still very cold, but there were signs of spring in the air. When Menie went out to feed the dogs, he saw a flock of ravens flying north, and Koko saw some sea-birds on the same day.

Two days after that, when the twins and Koko were all three playing together on the Big Rock, they saw a huge iceberg float lazily by.

It had broken away from a glacier, farther north, and was drifting slowly toward the Southern Sea. It gleamed in the sun like a great ice palace.

One morning the air was thick with fog. When Kesshoo saw the fog he said, "This would be a great day to hunt reindeer."

"Oh, let me go with you!" cried Menie.

Monnie knew better than to ask. She knew very well she would never be allowed to go.

Kesshoo thought a little before he answered. Then he said, "If Koko's father will go, too, you and Koko may both go with us. You are pretty small to go hunting, but boys cannot begin too early to learn."

Menie was wild with joy. He rushed to Koko's house and told him and his father what Kesshoo had said.

When he had finished, Koko's father said at once, "Tell Kesshoo we will go."

It was not long before they were ready to start. Kesshoo had his great bow, and arrows, and a spear. He also had his bird dart. Koko's father had his bow and spear and dart, too. Menie had his little bow and arrows.

Kesshoo put a harness on Tooky and tied the end of Tooky's harness trace around Menie's waist. Koko's father had brought his best dog, too, and Koko was fastened to the end of that dog's harness in the same way.

Then the four hunters started on their journey -- Menie and Koko driving the dogs in front of them.

Monnie stood on the Big Rock and watched them until they were out of sight in the fog. Nip and Tup were with her. They wanted to go as much as Monnie did and she had hard work to keep them from following after the hunters.


II.

Kesshoo knew very well where to look for the reindeer. He led the way up a steep gorge where the first green moss appeared in the spring. They all four walked quietly along for several miles.

When they got nearly to the head of the gorge, Kesshoo stopped. He said to the boys, "You must not make any noise yourselves, and you must not let the dogs bark. If you do there will be no reindeer today."

The boys kept very still, indeed. The dogs were good hunting dogs. They knew better than to bark.

They walked on a little farther. Then Kesshoo came very near the others and spoke in a low voice. He said, "We are coming to a spot where there are likely to be reindeer. The wind is from the south. If we keep on in this direction, the reindeer will smell us. We must go round in such a way that the wind will carry the scent from them to us, not from us to them."

They turned to the right and went round to the north. They had gone only a short distance in this direction, when they found fresh reindeer tracks in the snow. The dogs began to sniff and strain at their harnesses.

"They smell the game," whispered Kesshoo. "Hold on tight! Don't let them run."

Menie and Koko held the dogs back as hard as they could. Kesshoo and Koko's father crept forward with their bows in their hands. The fog was so thick they could not see very far before them.

They had gone only a short distance, when out of the fog loomed two great gray shadows. Instantly the two men dropped on their knees and took careful aim.

The reindeer did not see them. They did not know that anything was near until they felt the sting of the hunters' arrows. One reindeer dropped to the earth. The other was not killed. He flung his head in the air and galloped away, and they could hear the thud, thud, of his hoofs long after he had disappeared in the fog.

The moment the dogs heard the singing sound of the arrows, they bounded forward. Koko and Menie were not strong enough to hold them back, and they could not run fast enough to keep up with them. So they just bumped along behind the dogs! Some of the time they slid through the snow.

The snow was rough and hard, and it hurt a good deal to be dragged through it as if they were sledges, but Eskimo boys are used to bumps, and they knew if they cried they might scare the game, so they never even whimpered.

It was lucky for them that they had not far to go. When they came bumping along, Kesshoo and Koko's father laughed at them.

"Don't be in such a hurry," they called. "There's plenty of time!"

They unbound the traces from Menie and Koko and hitched the dogs to the body of the reindeer. Then they all started back to the village with Koko's father driving the dogs.

Soon the fog lifted and the sky grew clear.

Monnie was playing with her doll in the igloo, when she heard Tooky bark. She knew it was Tooky at once. She and Koolee both plunged into the tunnel like mice down a mouse hole. Nip and Tup were ahead of them.

Outside they found Koko's mother and the baby. Koolee called to her, and she called to the wives of the Angakok, who were scraping a bear's skin in the snow.

The Angakok's wives, and Koko's mother and her baby, and Koolee, and Monnie, and Nip and Tup all ran to meet the hunters, and you never saw two prouder boys than Koko and Menie when they showed the reindeer to their mothers.

The mothers were proud of their young hunters, too. Koolee said, "Soon we shall have another man in our family."

When they were quite near the village again, they met the Angakok. He had been trying to catch up with them and he was out of breath from running. He looked at them sternly.

"Why didn't you call me?" he panted.

His wives looked frightened and didn't say a word. Nobody else said anything. The Angakok glared at them all for a moment. Then he poked the reindeer with his fingers to see if it was fat and said to the men, "Which portion am I to have?"

"Would you like the liver?" asked Kesshoo. He remembered about the bear's liver, you see.

But the Angakok looked offended. "Who will have the stomach?" he said. "You know very well that the stomach is the best part of a reindeer."

"Take the stomach, by all means, then," said Kesshoo, politely.

Koolee and Monnie looked very much disappointed. They wanted the stomach dreadfully.

But the Angakok answered, "Since you urge me, I will take the stomach. I had a dream last night, and in the dream I was told by my Tornak that today I should feed upon a reindeer's stomach, given me by one of my grateful children. When you think how I suffered to bring food to you, I am sure you will wish to provide me with whatever it seems best that I should have."

He stood by while Kesshoo and Koko's father skinned the reindeer and cut it in pieces. Then he took the stomach and disappeared into his igloo -- with his face all wreathed in smiles.



VII. What Happened When Menie And Koko Went Hunting By Themselves

What Happened When Menie And Koko Went Hunting By Themselves

I.


It was very lucky for the twins that their father was such a brave and skillful kyak man. You will see the reason why, when I tell you the story of the day Menie and Koko went hunting alone on the ice.

One April morning Kesshoo was working on his kyak to make sure that it was in perfect order for the spring walrus hunting. Koko and Menie watched him for a long time. Monnie was with Koolee in the hut.

By and by Koko said to Menie, "Let's go out on the ice and hunt for seal-holes."

"All right," said Menie. "You take your bow and arrows and I'll take my spear. Maybe we shall see some little auks."

Koko had a little bow made of deer's horns, and some bone arrows, and Menie had a small spear which his father had made for him out of driftwood.

"I'll tell you!" said Menie. "Let's go hunting just the way father does! You do the shooting and I'll do the spearing! Won't everybody be surprised to see us bring home a great load of game? I shall give everything I get to my mother."

"I'm going to hunt birds and seal-holes too," Koko answered.

Kesshoo was very busy fixing the fastening of his harpoon, and he did not hear what they said.

The two boys went to their homes for their weapons, and then ran out on the ice. Nobody knew where they were. Of course, Nip and Tup went along.


II.

All the way over the ice they looked for seal-holes. It takes sharp eyes to find them, for seal-holes are very small.

You see, the mother seals try to find the safest place they can to hide their babies, and this is the way they do it:

As soon as the ice begins to freeze in the autumn, the seals gnaw holes in it to reach the air, and they keep these holes open all winter. It freezes so fast in that cold country that they have to be busy almost every minute all through the winter breaking away the ice there. They get their sleep in snatches of a minute or so at a time, and between their naps they clear the ice from their breathing holes.

There is usually a deep layer of snow over the ice. Each mother seal hollows out a little igloo under the snow, around her breathing hole, and leaves a tiny hole in the top of it, so her baby can have plenty of fresh air and be hidden from sight at the same time.

The mother seal leaves the baby in the snow house, and she herself dives through the hole and swims away. Every few minutes she comes back to breathe, and to see that her baby is safe.

It was the tiny hole in the top of the seal's snow house that Menie and Koko hoped to find.

The days had grown quite long by this time and there was fog in the air. Once in a while there would be a loud crackling noise.

"The ice is beginning to break," Koko said. "Don't you hear it pop? My father says he thinks the warm weather will begin early this year."

They had gone some distance out on the ice, when suddenly Menie said, "Look! Look there!" He pointed toward the north. There not far from shore was a flock of sea-birds, resting on the ice.

"Just let me get a shot at them!" cried Koko. "You stay here and hold on to the dogs! Nip and Tup haven't any sense at all about game! They'll only scare them."


III.

Koko ran swiftly and quietly towards the birds. Menie sat on the ice and watched him and held Nip and Tup, one under each arm. When Koko got quite near the birds, he took careful aim and let fly an arrow at them.

It didn't hit any of the birds, but it frightened them. They flew up into the air and away to the north and alighted farther on. Koko followed them.

All at once Menie heard a queer little sound. It went "Plop-plop-plop," and it sounded very near. Nip and Tup sniffed, and began to growl and nose around on the ice.

Menie knew what the queer noise meant, for his father had told him all about seal hunting. It meant that a seal-hole was near, and that a seal had come up to breathe. It was the seal that made the "plopping" noise.

Menie tried to keep the dogs still, but they wouldn't be kept still. They ran round with their noses on the snow, giving little anxious whines, and short, sharp barks.

The "plop-plop" stopped. The seal had gone down under the ice, but Menie meant to find the hole. He went out quite near the open water in his search. At last, just beyond a hummock of ice, he saw it! He crept carefully up to it.

He lay down on his stomach and peeped into the hole to see what it was like. He could not see a thing!

Then he stuck his lance down. His lance touched something soft that wiggled! Menie stood up. He was so excited that he trembled. He knew he had found a seal-hole with a live seal in the snow house!

With all his strength he struck his lance down through the snow. The snow house fell in and Menie fell with it, but he kept hold of his lance. The end of the lance was buried in the snow, but it was moving. Menie knew by this that he had stuck it into the seal!

He lay still and kept fast hold of his lance, and pressed down on it with all his might.

Nip and Tup were crazy with excitement. They jumped round and barked and tried to dig a hole in the snow with their forefeet.

At last the spear stopped wiggling. Then Menie carefully dug the snow away. There lay a little white seal! It was too young to swim away with its mother. That was why such a small boy as Menie had been able to kill it.

He dragged it out on the ice. He was so excited and so busy he did not notice how near he was to the open water.


IV.

All of a sudden there was a loud cracking noise, and Menie felt the ice moving under him! He looked back. There was a tiny strip of blue water between him and the shore!

The strip grew wider while he looked at it! Menie knew that he was adrift on an ice raft, and he was terribly frightened. Nip and Tup cuddled close to him and whined with fear.

Menie understood perfectly well that he might be carried far out to sea and never come back any more. He put his hands to his mouth and yelled with all his might!

Koko was still following the birds, and did not hear Menie's cries. Menie could see him running up the beach after the birds, and he could see his father working over his kyak near his home.

He even saw Monnie come out of the tunnel and go to watch her father at his work. They seemed very far away, and every moment the distance between them and the raft grew greater.

Menie screamed again and again. At the third scream he saw his father straighten up, shade his eyes with his hand, and look out to sea.

"Oh," Menie thought. "What if he shouldn't see me!" He shouted louder than ever! He waved his arms! He even pinched the tails of Nip and Tup and made them bark. Then he saw his father wave his hand and dive into the tunnel.

In another instant he was out again and pulling on his skin coat. Then he took the kyak on his shoulders and ran with it to the beach. Monnie and Koolee came running after him.

They were doing the screaming now! Every one in the village heard the screams and came running down to the beach, too.

When Menie saw his father coming with the kyak, he wasn't afraid any more, for he was sure his father would save him. He wasn't even afraid about the cakes of ice that were floating in the water, though there is nothing more dangerous than to go out in a kyak among ice floes. One bump from a floating cake of ice is enough to upset any boat, and I don't like to think of what might happen if a kyak should get between two big cakes of ice.

Kesshoo ran with his kyak as far as he could on the ice. Then he got in and fitted the bottom of his skin jacket over the kyak hole and carefully slid himself into the open water.

Once in the water, how his paddle flew!

It seemed to Menie as if his father would never reach him! He sat very still on the ice pan with the dead seal beside him, and Nip and Tup huddled up against him.

At last Kesshoo came near enough so he could make Menie hear everything he said. "Menie," he cried, "if you do exactly what I tell you to, I can save you.

"I will throw you my harpoon. You must drive it way down into the ice. Then by the harpoon line I will tow your ice pan back toward shore. When we get to the big ice I will find a place for you to land.

"You must be ready, and when I give the word jump from your ice raft on to the solid ice."

Then Kesshoo threw his harpoon, and Menie drove it into the ice with all his might. Slowly Kesshoo drew the line taut, turned his kyak round, and started for the shore. The journey out had been dangerous, but the journey back was much more so, for Kesshoo could not dodge the floating ice nearly so well. He had to pick his way carefully through the clearest water he could find. Very cautiously they moved toward shore.


V.

They were getting quite near the place where the ice had broken with Menie, when suddenly, right near them, they saw the head and great, round eyes of a seal! It was the seal mother.

She had come back to find her breathing hole and her baby.

The moment Kesshoo saw her he seized his dart, which lay in its place on top of his kyak, and threw it with all his might at the seal.

The seal dived down into the sea, but a bladder full of air was attached to the line on the dart, and this bladder floated on the water, so Kesshoo could tell by watching it just where the seal was.

Kesshoo knew he had struck the seal, and although he was already towing the ice raft, he was determined to bring home the big seal, too!

He called to Menie. "Sit still and wait until I come for you."

Then he quickly cut the harpoon line by which he was towing the ice raft, and set it adrift again. As soon as he was free he paddled away after the bladder, which was now bobbing along over the water at some little distance from the boat.

Menie sat perfectly still and watched his father. Kesshoo reached the bladder and began to pull on the line, but just at that moment the big seal turned round and swam right under the kyak!

In a second the kyak turned bottom side up in the water! Menie screamed. The people watching on the shore gave a great howl, and Koko's father started up the beach after his own kyak.

He thought perhaps Kesshoo could not manage both the ice raft and the seal, and he meant to go to help him.

But in one second Kesshoo was right side up again. No water could get into the kyak because Kesshoo's skin coat was drawn tight over the hole in the deck, and Kesshoo was in the coat!

Kesshoo often turned somersaults in the water in that way. Sometimes he even did it for fun! He said afterward that he could have turned the boat right side up again with just his nose, without using either his paddle or his arms, if only his nose had been a little bigger, and though he meant this for a joke, the twins believed that he really could do it.

The moment he was right side up again, Kesshoo gave chase once more to the bladder. The seal was very weak now, and Kesshoo knew that it would soon come to the surface and float and that then he could tow it in.

He had not long to wait. The bladder bobbed about for a while and then was still. Kesshoo drew up the line, and paddled back to the ice raft, towing the big seal after him.

"Catch this," he said to Menie. He threw him the end of the line. "Wind the line six times round the harpoon," he said, "and hold tight to the end of it."

Menie did as he was told. Then Kesshoo tied together the two ends of the harpoon line, which he had cut, and began to tow the ice raft back to share again.

Menie kept tight hold of the other line and towed the seal!

Kesshoo paddled slowly and carefully along, until at last there was only a little strip of water between the kyak and the solid ice.

But how in the world could Menie get across that strip of water to safety?

The kyak was between him and the solid ice, and Menie could not possibly get into the kyak. Neither could he swim. But Kesshoo knew a way.

He came up closer to the solid ice. Then he gave a great sweep with his paddle and lifted his kyak right up on to it. He sprang out, and, seizing the harpoon line, pulled Menie's raft close up to the edge of the firm ice.

Menie was still holding tight to the line that held the big seal. Kesshoo threw him another line. Menie caught the end of it.

"Now tie the big seal's line fast to that," Kesshoo said. Menie was a very small boy, but he knew how to tie knots. He did just what his father told him to.

"Now," said his father, "pull up the harpoon." Menie did so. "Tie the harpoon line to the little seal." Menie did that. "Now throw the harpoon to me," commanded Kesshoo.

Menie threw it with all his might. His father caught it, and stood on the firm ice, holding in his hands the line that the big seal was tied to, and the harpoon, with its line fastened to the little seal.

"Now hold on to the little seal, and I will pull you right up against the solid ice, and when I say 'Jump,' you jump," said Kesshoo.

Slowly and very, carefully he pulled, until the raft grated against the solid ice.

"Jump!" shouted Kesshoo.

Menie jumped. The ice raft gave a lurch that nearly sent him into the water, but Kesshoo caught him and pulled him to safety.

A great shout of joy went up from the shore, and Menie was glad enough to shout too when he felt solid ice under his feet once more!

While he helped his father pull in the little seal, all the people came running out on to the ice to meet them, but Kesshoo sent back every one except Koko's father. He was afraid the ice might break again with so many people on it. Koko's father helped pull the big seal out of the water and over the ice to the beach.

Menie dragged his own little seal after him by the harpoon line, and when he came near the beach, the people all cried out, "See the great hunter with his game!" And Koolee was so glad to see Menie and so proud of her boy that she nearly burst with joy!

"I knew the charm would work," she cried. "Not only does he spy bears -- he kills seals! And he only five years old!"

She put her arms around him and pressed her flat nose to his. That's the Eskimo way of kissing.

Menie tried to look as if he killed seals and got carried away on an ice pan every day in the week, but inside he felt very proud, too.

When Kesshoo and Koko's father came up with the big seal, Koolee and the other women dragged it to the village, where it was skinned and cut up. Every one had a piece of raw blubber to eat at once, and the very first piece went to Menie.

While they were eating it, Koko came back. He had gone so far up the shore hunting little auks that he hadn't seen a thing that had happened. And he hadn't killed any little auks either.

Koko felt that things were very unequally divided in this world. He wanted to kill a seal and get lost on a raft and be a hero too.

But Koolee gave him a large piece of blubber, and that made him feel much more cheerful again. He just said to Monnie, "If I had been with Menie, this never would have happened! I should not have let him get so near the edge of the ice! But then, you know, I am six, and he is only five, so, of course, he didn't know any better."

Everybody in the village had seal meat that night, and the Angakok had the head, which they all thought was the best part. He said he didn't feel very well, and his Tornak had told him nothing would cure him so quickly as a seal's head. So Koolee gave it to him.

The skin of the little white seal Koolee saved and dressed very carefully. She chewed it, all over, on the wrong side, and sucked out all the blubber, and made it soft and fine as velvet; and when that was done, she made out of it two beautiful pairs of white mittens for the twins.



VIII. The Woman-Boats

The Woman-Boats

I.


During the long, dark hours of the winter Kesshoo found many pleasant things to do at home. He was always busy. He carved a doll for Monnie out of the ivory tusk of a walrus.

Monnie named the doll Annadore, and she loved it dearly. Koolee dressed Annadore in fur, with tiny kamiks of sealskin, and Monnie carried her doll in her hood, just the way Koko's mother carried her baby.

For Menie, his father made dog harnesses out of walrus hide. He made them just the right size for Nip and Tup.

Menie harnessed the little dogs to his sled. Then he and Monnie would play sledge journeys. Annadore would sit on the sled all wrapped in furs, while Menie drove the dogs, and Monnie followed after.

Nip and Tup did not like this play very well, and they didn't always go where they were told to. Once they dashed right over the igloo and spilled Annadore off.

Annadore rolled down one side of the igloo, while Nip and Tup galloped down the other. Annadore was buried in the snow and had to be dug out, so it was quite a serious accident, you see, but Nip and Tup did not seem to feel at all responsible about it.

Kesshoo made knives and queer spoons out of bone or ivory for Koolee, and for himself he made new barbs for his bladder-dart, new bone hooks for fishlines, and all sorts of things for hunting.

He made salmon spears, and bird darts, and fishlines, and he ornamented his weapons with little pictures or patterns. He carved two frogs on the handle of his snow knife, and scratched the picture of a walrus on the blade.

Sometimes Koolee carved things, too, but most of the time she was busy making coats or kamiks, or chewing skins to make them soft and fine for use in the igloo; or to cover the kyaks, or to make their summer tent.

Once during the winter the whole family went thirty miles up the coast by moonlight to visit Koolee's brother in another village. They went with the dog sledge, and it took them two days.

They had meat and blubber with them and plenty of warm skins, and when they got tired, Kesshoo made a snow house for them to rest in. The twins thought this was the best fun of all.


II.

When spring came on, there were other things to do. As the days grew longer, the ice in the bay cracked and broke into small pieces and floated away.

The water turned deep blue, and danced in the sunlight, and ice floated about in it. Often there were walrus on these ice-pans.

The twins sometimes saw their huge black bodies on the white ice, and heard their hoarse barks. Then all the men in the village would rush for their kyaks and set out after the walrus.

The men were brave and enjoyed the dangerous sport, but the women used to watch anxiously until they saw the kyaks coming home towing the walrus behind them.

Then they would rush down to the shore, help pull the kyaks up on the beach, where they cut the walrus in pieces and divided it among the families of the hunters.

When the snow had melted on the Big Rock, hundreds of sea-birds made their nests there and filled the air with their cries.

Sometimes Kesshoo went egg hunting on the cliff, and sometimes he set traps there for foxes, and he helped Menie and Koko make a little trap to catch hares. There was plenty to do in every season of the year.

At last the nights shortened to nothing at all. The long day had begun. The stone but, which they had found so comfortable in winter, seemed dark and damp now.

Menie and Monnie remembered the summer days when they did not have to dive down through a hole to get into their house, so Menie said to Monnie one day, "Let's go and ask father if it isn't time to put up the tents."

They ran out to find him. He was down on the beach talking with Koko's father and the other men of the village.

On the beach were two very long boats. The men were looking them over carefully to see if they were water tight.

Koko was with the men. When he saw the twins coming, he tore up the slope to meet them, waving his arms and shouting, "They're getting out the woman-boats! They're getting out the woman-boats!"

This was glorious news to the twins. They ran down to the beach with Koko as fast as their legs could carry them.

They got there just in time to hear Koko's father say to Kesshoo, "I think it's safe to start. The ice is pretty well out of the bay, and the reindeer will be coming down to the fiords after fresh moss."

All the men listened to hear what Kesshoo would say, and the twins listened, too, with all their ears.

"If it's clear, I think we could start after one more sleep," said Kesshoo.


III.

The twins didn't wait to hear any more. They flew for home, and dashed down the tunnel and up into the room.

Koolee was gathering all the knives and spoons and fishing-things and sewing things, and dumping them into a large musk-ox hide which was spread on the floor.

The musk-ox hide covered the entrance hole. The first thing Koolee knew something thumped the musk-ox skin on the under side, and the knives and thimbles and needle cases and other things flew in all directions. Up through the hole popped the faces of Menie and Monnie!

"Oh, Mother," they shouted. "We're going off on the woman-boats! After only one more sleep, if it's pleasant! Father said so!"

Koolee laughed. "I know it!" she said. "I was just packing. You can help me. There's a lot to do to get ready."

The twins were delighted to help. They got together all their own treasures -- the sled, and the fishing rods, the dog harnesses, and Annadore, and bound them up with walrus thongs. All but Annadore. Annadore rode in Monnie's hood as usual.

Koolee gathered all her things together again and wrapped them in the musk-ox hide. She took down the long narwhal tusks that the dog harnesses were hung on.

These were the tent poles. She and the twins carried all these things to the beach. The men stayed on the beach and packed the things away in the boats. The other women brought down their bundles from their igloos. There was room for everything in the two big boats.

Only the skins were left on the sleeping bench in the hut. When everything else was ready, Koolee and the twins went up on top of the igloo.

They pulled the moss and dirt out of the chinks between the stones that made the roof, and then Koolee pulled up the stones themselves and let them fall over to one side. This left the roof open to the sky.

"What makes you do that?" Menie asked.

"So the sun and rain can clean house for us," said Koolee.

Everybody else in the village got ready in the same way.

At last Kesshoo came up from the beach and said to Koolee, "Let us have some meat and a sleep and then we will start. Everything is ready. The boats are packed and it looks as if the weather would be clear."

Koolee brought out some walrus meat and blubber for supper, though it might just as well be called breakfast, for there was no night coming, and the twins ate theirs sitting on the roof of the igloo with their feet hanging down inside.

Once Menie's feet kicked his father's head. It was an accident, but Kesshoo reached up and took hold of Menie's foot and pulled him down on to the sleeping bench and rolled him over among the skins.

"Crawl in there and go to sleep," he said.

Monnie let herself down through the roof by her hands and crept in beside Menie. Then Kesshoo and Koolee wrapped themselves in the warm skins and lay down, too.

It took Menie and Monnie some time to go to sleep, for they could look straight up through the roof at the sky, and the sky was bright and blue with little white clouds sailing over it. Besides, they were thinking about the wonderful things that would happen when they should wake up.



IX. The Voyage

The Voyage

I.


When the twins awoke, the sun was shining as brightly as ever, and Nip and Tup were barking at them through the hole in the roof.

Kesshoo and Koolee were gone!

Menie and Monnie were frightened. They were afraid they were left behind. They sat up in bed and howled!

In a moment Koolee's face looked down at them through the roof.

"What's the matter?" she said.

"We thought we were left," wailed Monnie!

"As if I could leave you behind!" cried Koolee.

She laughed at them. "Hand up the skins to me," she said. She reached her arm down the hole and pulled out all the skins from the bed as fast as the twins gave them to her.

Then she put her head down into the opening and looked all around. "We haven't left a thing," she said; "come along."

The twins couldn't climb out through the roof, though they wanted to, so they went out by the tunnel, and helped their mother carry the skins to the beach.

All the people in the village and all the dogs were there before them. The great woman-boats were packed, the kyaks of the men waited beside them in a row on the beach, with their noses in the water.

The dogs barked and raced up and down the beach, the babies crowed, and the children shouted for joy. Even the grown people were gay. They talked in loud tones and laughed and made jokes.


II.

At last Kesshoo shouted, "All ready! In you go!" He told each person where to sit.

He put the Angakok in one boat to steer. He put Koko's father in the other.

In Koko's father's boat he placed Koko and his mother and the baby, Koolee and the twins, the pups, all three dogs, and four of the women who lived in the other igloos. So you see it was quite a large boat.

In the Angakok's boat he placed his two wives, and all the rest of the women and children and dogs. The women took up the paddles. One end of the boat was partly in the water when they got in. The men gently pushed it farther out until it floated.

Then the men got into their kyaks at the water's edge, fastened their skin coats over the rims, and paddled out into deep water.

At last, when all the boats, big and little, were afloat, Kesshoo called out, "We are going north. Follow me."

The women obeyed the signal of Koko's father and the Angakok. The paddles dipped together into the water. The great boats moved! They were off!

The children all sat together in the bottom of the boat, but the twins and Koko were big enough to see over the sides. While the babies played with the dogs, they were busy watching the things that passed on the shores. Soon they passed the Big Rock with little auks and puffins flying about it. They could see the red feet of the puffins, and a blue fox sitting on the top of the rock, waiting for a chance to catch a bird.

Then the Big Rock hid the village from sight.


III.

Beyond the Big Rock the country was all new to the twins and Koko. They looked into narrow bays and inlets as the boat moved along, and saw green moss carpeting the sunny slopes in sheltered places.

They could even see bright flowers growing in the warm spots which faced the sun. The sky was blue overhead. The water was blue below.

Beyond the green slopes they could see the bare hillsides crowned with the white ice cap which never melts, and streams of water dashing down the hillsides and pouring themselves into the waters of the bay.

When they had gone a good many miles up the coast, Kesshoo waved his hand and pointed to a strange sight on the shore.

There was a great river of ice! They could see where it came out of a hollow place between two hills. It looked just like a river, only it was frozen solid, and the end of it, where it came into the sea, was broken off like a great wall of ice, and there were cakes of ice floating about in the water.

Suddenly there was a cracking sound. Menie had heard that sound before. It was the same sound that he had heard when he went seal-hole hunting and got carried away on the ice raft. Menie didn't like the sound anymore. It scared him!

Right after the cracking noise Kesshoo's voice shouted, "Row farther out! Follow me!"

He turned his kyak straight out to sea. All the other boats followed.

They had gone only about half a mile when suddenly there was a loud crick-crick-CRACK as if a piece of the world had broken off, and then there was a splash that could be heard for miles, if there had been any one to hear it.

The end of the glacier, or ice river, had broken off and fallen down into the water! It had made an iceberg!

The splash was so great that in a moment the waves it made reached the boats. The boats rocked up and down on the water and bounced about like corks.

The twins and Koko thought this was great fun, but the Angakok didn't like it a bit. One wave splashed over him, and some of the water went down his neck.

All the grown people knew that if they hadn't rowed quickly away from shore when Kesshoo called they might have been upset and drowned.


IV.

When the waves made by the iceberg had calmed down again, Kesshoo paddled round among the boats.

He said, "I think we'd better land about a mile above here. There's a stream there, and perhaps we can get some salmon for our dinner."

He led the way in his kyak, and all the other boats followed. They kept out of the path of the iceberg, which had already floated some distance from the shore, and it was not long before they came to a little inlet.

Kesshoo paddled into it and up to the very end of it, where a beautiful stream of clear water came dashing down over the rocks into the sea.

The hills sloped suddenly down to the shore. The sun shone brightly on the green slopes, and the high cliffs behind shut off the cold north winds. It was a little piece of summer set right down in the valley.

"Oh, how beautiful!" everybody cried.

The boats were soon drawn up on the beach, the women and children tumbled out, and then began preparations for dinner.

The women got out their cooking pots, and Koolee set to work to make a fireplace out of three stones.

They had blubber and moss with them, but how could they get a fire? They had no matches. They had never even heard of a match.

The Angakok sat down on the beach. He had some little pieces of dry driftwood and some dried moss.

He held one end of a piece of driftwood in a sort of handle which he pressed against his lips. The other end was in a hollow spot in another piece of wood.

The Angakok rolled one driftwood stick round and round in the hollow spot of the other. He did this by means of a bow which he pulled from one side to the other. This made the stick whirl first one way, then back again. Soon a little smoke came curling up round the stick.

Koolee dropped some dried moss on the smoking spot. Suddenly there was a little blaze!

She fed the little flame with more moss, and then lighted the moss on the stones of the fireplace. She put a soapstone kettle filled with water over the fire, and soon the kettle was boiling.

While all this was going on down on the beach, the men took their salmon spears and went up the river, and Koko and the twins went with them.

The wives of the Angakok went to find moss to feed the fire. They brought back great armfuls of it, and put it beside the fireplace.

Koolee was the cook. She stayed on the beach and looked after the babies and the dogs, and the fire. Everything was ready for dinner, except the food!

Meanwhile the men had found a good place where there were big stones in the river. They stood on these stones with their spears in their hands. There were hundreds of salmon in the little stream. The salmon were going up to the little lake from which the river flowed.

When the fish leaped in the water, the men struck at them with their fish spears. There were so many fish, and the men were so skillful that they soon had plenty for dinner.

They strung them all on a walrus line and went back to the beach. Koolee popped as many as she could into her pot to cook, but the men were so hungry they ate theirs raw, and the twins and Koko had as many fishes' eyes to eat as they wanted, for once in their lives.

When everybody had eaten as much as he could possibly hold, the babies were rolled up in furs in the sand and went to sleep. The Angakok lay down on the sand in the sunshine with his hands over his stomach and was soon asleep, too.

The men sat in a little group near by, and Menie and Koko lay on their stomachs beside Kesshoo.

The women had gone a little farther up the beach. The air was still, except for the rippling sound of the water, the distant chatter of the women, the snores of the Angakok, and the buzzing of mosquitoes!

For quite a long time everybody rested. Menie and Koko didn't go to sleep. They were having too much fun. They played with shells and pebbles and watched the mosquitoes buzzing over the Angakok's face. There were a great many mosquitoes, and they seemed to like the Angakok. At last one settled on his nose, and bit and bit. Menie and Koko wanted to slap it, but, of course, they didn't dare. They just had to let it bite!

All of a sudden the Angakok woke up and slapped it himself. He slapped it harder than he intended to. He looked very much surprised and quite offended about it. He sat up and looked round for his wives, as if he thought perhaps they had something to do with it. But they were at the other end of the beach. The Angakok yawned and rubbed his nose, which was a good deal swollen.

Just then Kesshoo spoke, "I think we shall look a long time before we find a better spot than this to camp," he said. "Here are plenty of salmon. We can catch all we need to dry for winter use, right here. There must be deer farther up the fiord. What do you say to setting up the tents right here?"

When Kesshoo said anything, the others were pretty sure to agree, because Kesshoo was such a brave and skillful man that they trusted his judgment.

All the men said, "Yes, let us stay."

Then the Angakok said, "Yes, my children, let us stay! While you thought I was asleep here on the sand I was really in a trance. I thought it best to ask my Tornak about this spot, and whether we should be threatened here by any hidden danger. My Tornak says to stay!"

This settled the matter.

"Tell the women," said Kesshoo. Koko's father went over to the place where the women and children were.

"Get out the tent poles," he called to them. "Here's where we stay."


V.

The women jumped up and ran to the woman-boats. They got out the long narwhal tusks, and the skins, and set them down on the beach.

"Come with me," Koolee called to the twins. She gave them each a long tent pole to carry. She herself carried the longest pole of all, and a pile of skins.

Koolee led the way up the green slope to a level spot overlooking the stream and the bay. It was beside some high rocks, and there were smaller stones all about.

There was a flat stone that she used for the sleeping bench. When the poles were set up and securely fastened, she got the tent skins and covered the poles.

She put on one layer of skin with the hair inside and over that another covering of skin with the fur side out. She sewed the skins together over the entrance with leather thongs and left a flap for a door.

Then she placed stones around the edge of the tent covering to keep the wind from blowing it away. She piled the bed skins on the rock, and their summer house was ready.

The twins brought the musk-ox hides, with all their treasures in them, and the cooking pots and knives and household things from the beach, while Koolee made the fireplace in the tent.

She made the fireplace by driving four sticks into the ground and lashing them together to make a framework.

She hung the cooking kettle by straps from the four corners. Under the kettle on a flat stone she placed the lamp. Then the stove was ready.

"We shall cook out of doors most of the time," she said to the twins, "but in rainy weather we shall need the lamp."

It was only a little while before there was a whole new village ready to live in, with plenty of fish and good fresh water right at hand.


VI.

Menie and Monnie were happy in their new home. They climbed about on the rock and found a beautiful cave to play in. They gathered flowers and shells and colored stones and brought them to their mother.

Then later they went for more fish with the men, and Kesshoo let them stand on the stones and try to spear the fish just the way the men did.

Menie caught one, and Koko caught one, but Monnie had no luck at all. "Anyway, I caught a codfish once," Monnie said, to comfort herself.

In two hours everything was as settled about the camp as if they had lived there a week, and every one was hungry again. Hungriness and sleepiness came just as regularly as if they had had nights and clocks both, to measure time by.

When the food was ready, Kesshoo called "Ujo, ujo," which meant "boiled meat," and everybody came running to the beach.

The men sat in one circle, the women and children in another. Pots of boiled fish were set in the middle of the circles, and they all dipped in with their fingers and took what they wanted.

When everybody had eaten, the children played on the beach. They skipped stones and danced and played ball, and their mothers played with them.

The men had their fun, too. They sat in their circle, told stories, and played games which weren't children's games, and the Angakok sang a song, beating time on a little drum. All the men sang the chorus.

By and by, Koolee saw Monnie's head nodding. So she said to the twins, "Come, children, let's go up to the tent."

She took their hands and led them up the slope.

"We're not sleepy," the twins declared.

"I am," said Koolee, "and I want you with me."

They went into the tent, which was not so light as it was out of doors in the bright sunlight. Then they undressed, crawled in among the deerskins, and were soon sound asleep, all three of them. After a while Kesshoo came up from the beach and went to sleep too.



X. The Summer Day

The Summer Day

I.


The summer days flew by, only one really shouldn't say days at all, but summer day. For three whole bright months it was just one daylight picnic all the time!

The people ate when they were hungry and slept when they were sleepy. The men caught hundreds of salmon, and the women split them open and dried them on the rocks for winter use. The children played all day long.

The men hunted deer and musk-ox and bears up in the hills and brought them back to camp. They hunted game both by land and by sea. There was so much to eat that everybody grew fatter, and as for the Angakok, he got so very fat that Koko said to Menie, "I don't believe we can ever get the Angakok home in the woman-boat! He's so heavy he'll sink it! I think it would be a good plan to tie a string to him and tow him back like a walrus!"

"Yes," said Menie. "Maybe he would shrink some if we soaked him well. Don't you know how water shrinks the walrus hide cords that we tie around things when we want them to hold tight together?"

It was lucky for Menie and Koko that nobody heard them say that about the Angakok. It would have been thought very disrespectful.

When the game grew scarce, or they got tired of camping in one spot everything was piled into their boats again, and away they went up the coast until they found another place they liked better. Then they would set up their tents again.

Sometimes they came to other camps and had a good time meeting new people and making new friends.

At last, late in August, the sun slipped down below the edge of the World again. It stayed just long enough to fill the sky with wonderful red and gold sunset clouds, then it came up again. The next night there was a little time between the sunset sky and the lovely colors of the sunrise.

The next night was longer still. Each day grew colder and colder. Still the people lingered in their tents. They did not like to think the pleasant summer was over, and the long night near.

But at last Kesshoo said, "I think it is time to go back to winter quarters. The nights are fast growing longer. The snow may be upon us any day now. I don't know of a better place to settle than the village where we spent last winter. The igloos are all built there ready to use again. What do you say? Shall we go back there?"

"Yes, let us go back," they all said.


II.

The very next day they started. The boats were heavily loaded with dried fish, there were great piles of new skins heaped in the woman-boats, and every kyak towed a seal.

For days they traveled along the coast, stopping only for rest and food. The twins and Koko sat in the bottom of the boat with the dogs, and listened to the regular dip of the paddles, to the cries of the sea-birds as they flew away toward the south, and to the chatter of the women. These were almost the only sounds they heard, for the silence of the Great White World was all about them. They talked together in low voices and planned all the things they would do when the long night was really upon them once more.

When at last they came in sight of the Big Rock, they felt as if they had reached home after a very long journey.

Koko stood up in the boat and pointed to it. "See," he cried, "there's the Big Rock where we found the bear!"

"Yes," Monnie said, "and where we slid downhill."

"And I see where I got caught on the ice raft," Menie shouted.

"Sit down," said Koko's mother. "You'll tip the boat and spill us all into the water."

Koko sat down; the boat glided along through the water, nearer and nearer, until at last they came round the Big Rock, and there, just as if they had not been away at all, lay the whole village of five igloos, looking as if it had gone to sleep in the sunshine.

The big boats waited until the men had all paddled to the shore and beached their kyaks, then they were drawn carefully up on to the sand, and every one got out. The beach at once became a very busy place. The men pulled the walruses and seals out of the water and took care of the boats, while the women set up the tents, cut the meat into big pieces for storage, and carried all their belongings to the tents.

Although the village looked just the same, other things looked quite different. Nip and Tup were big dogs by this time. They ran away up the beach with Tooky and the other dogs the moment they were out of the boats. They did not stay with the twins all the time now, as they used to do. The twins were much bigger, too. Koolee looked at them as they helped her carry the tent-skins up from the beach, and said to them, "My goodness, I must make my needles fly! Winter is upon us and your clothes are getting too small for you! You must have new things right away." The twins thought this was a very good idea. They liked new clothes as well as any one in the world.

Koolee set up the tent beside their old igloo, and there they lived while the men of the village went out every day in their kyaks for seal and walrus, or back into the hills after other game to store away for food during the long winter. The women scraped and cured the skins and cut up the meat and packed it away as fast as the men could kill the game and bring it home.

Each day it grew colder, and each night was longer than the last, until one short September day there came a great snow storm! It snowed all day long, and that night the wind blew so hard that Koolee and the twins nearly froze even among the fur covers of their bed, and when morning came they found themselves nearly buried under a great drift.

That very day Koolee put the stones over the roof of the igloo once more, and the twins helped her fill in the chinks with moss and earth, and cover it with a heavy layer of snow, patted down with the snow shovel, until everything was snug and tight again.

Then they moved in. By the next day all the igloos in the village were in use, and when night came their windows shone with the light of the lamps, just as they had so many months before.

Nip and Tup slept outside with Tooky now, in a snow house which Kesshoo had built for them. Menie and Monnie missed them, but Koolee said, "You are getting so big now you must begin to do something besides play with puppies. Monnie must learn to sew, and Menie must help Father with feeding the dogs and looking after their harnesses, and driving the sledge."

"Maybe Father will teach you both to carve fine things out of ivory this winter! Monnie will soon need her own thimble and needles. They must be made. And she can help me clean the skins and suck out the blubber, and prepare them for being made into clothes!"

"Dear me! what a lot there is to do to keep clothes on our backs and food in our mouths! The Giants are always waiting before the igloo and we must work very hard to keep them outside!"

She did not mean real giants. She meant that Hunger and Want are always waiting to seize the Eskimo who does not work all the time to supply food for himself and his family. She meant that Menie must learn to be a brave strong hunter, afraid of nothing on sea or land, and that Monnie must learn to do a woman's work well, or else the time would come when they would be without food or shelter or clothing, and the fierce cold would soon make an end of them.

It was lucky they got into the warm igloo just when they did, for the winter had come to stay. The bay froze over far out from shore, and the white snow covered the igloos so completely that if it had not been for the windows, and for people moving about out of doors, no one could have told that there was any village there.

The Last Day of all was so short that Menie and Monnie and Koko saw the whole of it from the top of the Big Rock! They had gone up there in the gray twilight that comes before the sunrise to build a snow house to play in. They had been there only a little while when the sky grew all rosy just over the Edge of the World. The color grew stronger and stronger until the little stars were all drowned in it and then up came the great round red face of the sun itself! The children watched it as it peered over the horizon, threw long blue shadows behind them across the snow, and then sank slowly, slowly down again, leaving only the flaming colors in the sky to mark the place where it had been. They waved their hands as it slipped out of sight. "Good bye, old Sun," they shouted, "and good bye, Shadow, too! We shall be glad to see you both when you come back again."

Then, because the wind blew very cold and they could see a snow cloud coming toward them from the Great White World where the Giants lived, the children ran together down the snowy slope toward the bright windows of their homes.


The End



Suggestions To Teachers

To arouse the children's interest and thus to make the reading of this story most valuable as a school exercise, it is suggested that at the outset the children be allowed to look at the pictures in the book in order to get acquainted with "Menie" and "Monnie" and with the scenes illustrating their home life and surroundings.

During the reading, point out the North Pole, Greenland, etc., on a map of the world or on a globe, and tell the children something about the many years of effort before Peary succeeded in reaching his goal; also about the work of subsequent explorers in this part of the world, and around the South Pole as well. Thus this supplementary reading material may be connected with the work in geography.

The text is so simply written that the second grade child can read it without much or any preparation. It may be well to have the children read it first in a study period in order to work out the pronunciation of the more difficult words. But many classes will be able to read it at sight, without the preparatory study. The possibilities in the story for dramatization and for language and constructive work will be immediately apparent.

In connection with the reading of the book, teachers should tell to the children stories describing Eskimo life, and the experiences of explorers and pioneers in the North. Grenfell's Adrift on an Ice-Pan is suitable, for example. Holbrook's Northland Heroes and Schultz's Sinopah, the Indian Boy, while not belonging to the land of the Eskimos, contain stories of allied interest. Let the children bring to class pictures of scenes in the North, clipped from magazines and newspapers.

The unique illustrations in The Eskimo Twins should be much used, both in the reading of the story and in other ways. Children will enjoy sketching some of them; their simple treatment makes them especially useful for this purpose.

The book is printed on paper which will take watercolor well, and where the books are individually owned some of the sketches could be used for coloring in flat washes. They also afford suggestions for action sketching by the children.

An excellent oral language exercise would be for the children, after they have read the story, to take turns telling the story from the illustrations; and a good composition exercise would be for each child to select the illustration that he would like to write upon, make a sketch of it, and write the story in his own words.

These are only a few of the many ways that will occur to resourceful teachers for making the book a valuable as well as an enjoyable exercise in reading.

<eob>

When Buffalo Ran

By

George Bird Grinnell



The Plains Country.


Seventy years ago, when some of the events here recounted took place, Indians were Indians, and the plains were the plains indeed.

Those plains stretched out in limitless rolling swells of prairie until they met the blue sky that on every hand bent down to touch them. In spring brightly green, and spangled with wild flowers, by midsummer this prairie had grown sere and yellow. Clumps of dark green cottonwoods marked the courses of the infrequent streams -- for most of the year the only note of color in the landscape, except the brilliant sky. On the wide, level river bottoms, sheltered by the enclosing hills, the Indians pitched their conical skin lodges and lived their simple lives. If the camp were large the lodges stood in a wide circle, but if only a few families were together, they were scattered along the stream.

In the spring and early summer the rivers, swollen by the melting snows, were often deep and rapid, but a little later they shrank to a few narrow trickles running over a bed of sand, and sometimes the water sank wholly out of sight.

The animals of the prairie and the roots and berries that grew in the bottoms and on the uplands gave the people their chief sustenance.

In such surroundings the boy Wikis was born and grew up. The people that he knew well were those of his own camp. Once a year perhaps, for a few weeks, he saw the larger population of a great camp, but for the most part half a dozen families of the tribe, with the buffalo, the deer, the wolves, and the smaller animals and birds, were the companions with whom he lived and from whom he learned life's lessons.

The incidents of this simple story are true.

The life of those days and the teachings received by the boy or the girl who was to take part in it have passed away and will not return.




The Attack on the Camp.


It is the first thing that I can recollect, and comes back to me now dimly -- only as a dream. My mother used to tell me of it, and often to laugh at me. She said I was then about five or six years old.

I must have been playing with other little boys near the lodge, and the first thing that I remember is seeing people running to and fro, men jumping on their horses, and women gathering up their children. I remember how the men called to each other, and that some were shouting the war cry; and then that they all rode away in the same direction. My mother rushed out and caught me by the hand, and began to pull me toward the lodge, and then she stopped and in a shrill, sweet voice began to sing; and other women that were running about stopped too, and began to sing songs to encourage their husbands and brothers and sons to fight bravely; for enemies were attacking the camp.

I did not understand it at all, but I was excited and glad to hear the noise, and to see people rushing about. Soon I could hear shooting at a distance. Then presently I saw the men come riding back toward the camp; and saw the enemy following them down toward the lodges, and that there were many of these strangers, while our people were only a few. But still my people kept stopping and turning and fighting. Now the noise was louder. The women sang their strong heart songs more shrilly, and I could hear more plainly the whoops of men, and the blowing of war whistles, and the reports of guns.

Presently one of our men fell off his horse. The enemy charged forward in a body to touch him, and our few men rushed to meet them, to keep them from striking the fallen one, and from taking the head. And now the women began to be frightened, and some of them ran away. My mother rushed to the lodge, caught up my little sister, and threw her on her back, and holding me by the hand, ran toward the river. By this time I was afraid, and I ran as hard as I could; but my legs were short and I could not keep up, even though my mother had a load on her back. Nevertheless, she pulled me along. Every little while I stumbled and lost my feet; but she dragged me on, and as she lifted me up, I caught my feet again, and ran on.

Before long I began to tire, and I remember that I wanted to stop. In after years mother used to laugh at me about this, and say that I had asked her to throw away my sister, and to put me on her back and carry me instead. She used to say, too, that if she had been obliged to throw away either child I should have been the one left behind, for as I was a boy, and would grow up to be a warrior, and to fight the enemies of our tribe, I might very likely be killed anyway, and it might as well be earlier as later.

When we reached the river, my mother threw herself into it. Usually it was not more than knee-deep, but at this time the water was high from the spring floods, and my mother had to swim, holding my sister on her back, and at the same time supporting me, for though I could swim a little, I was not strong enough to breast the current, and without help would have been carried away.

After we had crossed the river and come out on the other side, we looked back toward the village, and could see that the enemy were retreating. They might easily have killed or driven off the few warriors of our small camp, but not far from us there was a larger camp of our people, and when they heard the shooting and the shouting, they came rushing to help us; and when the enemy saw them coming, they began to yield and then to run away. Our warriors followed and killed some of them; but the most of them got away after having killed four warriors of our camp, whose hard fighting and death had perhaps saved the little village.

After the enemy had retreated, my mother crossed the river again, being helped over by a man who was on the side opposite the camp, and who let us ride his horse, while he held its tail and swam behind it.

In the village that night there was mourning for those who had lost their lives to save their friends. Their relations cried very pitifully over the dead; and early the next day their bodies were carried to the top of a hill near the village, and buried there.

After the mourning for the dead was ended, the people had dances over the scalps that had been taken from the enemy, rejoicing over the victory. Men and women blackened their faces, and danced in a circle about the scalps, held on poles; and old men and old women shouted the names of those men who had been the bravest in the fight. We little boys looked on and sang and danced by ourselves away from the circle.

It was soon after this that my uncle made me a bow and some blunt-headed arrows, with which he told me I should hunt little birds, and should learn to kill food, to help support my mother and sisters, as a man ought to do. With these arrows I used to practice shooting, trying to see how far I could shoot, how near I could send the arrow to the mark I shot at; and afterwards, as I grew a little older, hunting in the brush along the river, or on the prairie not far from the camp with the other little boys. We hunted the blackbirds, or the larks, or the buffalo birds that fed among the horses' feet, or the other small birds that lived among the bushes and trees in the bottom. If I killed a little bird, as sometimes I did, my mother cooked it and we ate it.
This was a happy time for me. We little boys played together all the time. Sometimes the older boys allowed us to go with them, when they went far from the village, to hunt rabbits, and when they did this, sometimes they told us to carry back the rabbits that they had killed; and I remember that once I came back with the heads of three rabbits tucked under my belt, killed by my cousin, who was older than I. Then we used to go out and watch the men and older boys playing at sticks; and we had little sticks of our own, and our older brothers and cousins made us wheels; and we, too, played the stick game among ourselves, rolling the wheel and chasing it as hard as we could; but, for the most part, we threw our sticks at marks, trying to learn how to throw them well, and how to slide them far over the ground.
I remember another thing -- a sad thing -- that happened when I was a very little boy.

It was winter; the snow lay deep on the ground; a few lodges of people were camped in some timber among the foothills; buffalo were close, and game was plenty; the camp was living well. With the others I played about the camp, spinning tops on the ice, sliding down hill on a bit of parfleche, or on a sled made of buffalo ribs, and sometimes hunting little birds in the brush. All this I know about from having heard my mother tell of it; it is not in my memory. This is what I remember: One day, with one of my friends, I had gone a little way from the camp, and down the stream. A few days before there had been a heavy fall of snow, and after that some warm days, so that the top of the snow had melted. Then had come a hard cold, which had frozen it, so that on the snow there was a crust over which we could easily run.

As we were playing we went around the point of a hill, and suddenly, close to us, saw a big bull. He seemed to have come from the other side of the river, and was plowing his way through the deep snow, which came halfway up to the top of his hump. When we saw the bull we were a little frightened; but as we watched him we saw that he could hardly move, and that after he had made a jump or two he stood still for a long time, puffing and blowing, before he tried to go further. As we watched him he came to a low place in the prairie, and here he sank still deeper in the snow, so that part of his head was hidden, and only his hump showed above it. My friend said to me, "Let us go up to this bull, and shoot him with our arrows." We began to go toward him slowly, and he did not see us until we had come quite close to him, when he turned and tried to run; but the snow was so deep that he could not go at all; on each side it rose up, and rolled over, away from him, as the water is pushed away and swells out on either side before a duck that is swimming. My friend was very brave, and he said to me, "I am going to shoot that bull, and count a coup on him"; and he ran up close to the bull, and shot his blunt-headed arrow against him, and then turned off. The bull tried hard to go faster, but the snow was too deep; and when I saw that he could not move, I, too, ran up close to him, and shot my arrow at him, and the arrow bounded off and fell on the snow. Again my friend did this, and then I did it; and each time the bull was frightened and struggled to get away: but the last time my friend did it the bull had reached higher ground, where the snow was not so deep, and he had more freedom. My friend shot his arrow into him, and I was following not far behind, expecting to shoot mine; but when the bull felt the blow of the last arrow, he turned toward my friend and made a quick rush; the snow was less deep; he went faster; my little friend slipped, and the bull caught him with his horns and threw him far. My friend fell close to me, and where he fell the snow was red with his blood, for the great horn had caught him just above the waist, and had ripped his body open nearly to the throat.

I went up to him in a moment, and, catching him, pulled him over the smooth crust, far from the bull; but when I stopped and looked at him, he was still, his eyes were dull, and he did not breathe; he was dead.

I did not know what to do. I had lost my friend, and I cried hard. Also, I wished to be revenged on the bull for what he had done; but I did not wish to be killed. I covered my friend with my robe, and started running fast to the camp, where I told my mother what had happened. Soon all the men in the camp, and some of the women, had started with me, back to where the bull was. My friend's relations were wailing and mourning, as they came along, and soon we reached his body, and his relations carried him back to the camp. Two of the men went to where the bull stood in the snow and killed him; and after he was dead I struck him with my bow.




Standing Alone.


Always as winter drew near, the camps came closer together, and the people began to make ready to start off on the hunt for buffalo. By this time food was scarce, and the people needed new robes; and now that the cold weather was at hand, the hair of the buffalo was long and shaggy, so that the robes would be soft and warm, to keep out the winter cold.

I remember that before the tribe started there used to be a great ceremony, but I was too young to understand what it all meant, though with the others I watched what the old men did, and wondered at it, for it seemed very solemn. There was a big circle about which the people stood or sat, and in the middle of the circle there were buffalo heads on the ground, and before them stood old men, who prayed and offered sacrifices, and passed their weapons and their sacred implements over the skulls, and then people danced; and not long after this the women loaded their lodges and their baggage on the horses, and put their little children into the cages on the travois, or piled them on the loaded pack horses; and then presently, in a long line, the village started off over the prairie, to look for buffalo.

Most of the way I walked or ran, playing with the other little boys, or looking through the ravines to try and find small birds, or a rabbit, or a prairie chicken. Sometimes I rode a colt, too young yet to carry a load, or to be ridden by an older person, yet gentle enough to carry me. In this way I learned to ride.

When buffalo were found, the young men killed them, and then the whole camp, women and children, went out to where the buffalo lay, and meat and hides were brought in to the camp, where the women made robes, and dried meat. Food was plenty, and everybody was glad.

My grandmother lived in our lodge. She was an old woman with gray hair, and was always working hard. Whenever there were skins in the lodge she worked at them until they were tanned and ready for use. Often she used to talk to me, telling me about the old times; how our tribe used to fight with its enemies, and conquer them, and kill them; and how brave the men always were. She used to tell me that of all things that a man could do, the best thing was to be brave. She would say to me: "Your father was a brave man, killed by his enemies when he was fighting. Your grandfather, too, was brave, and counted many coups; he was a chief, and is looked up to by everyone. Your other grandfather was killed in a battle when he was a young man. The people that you have for relations have never been afraid, and you must not be afraid either. You must always do your best, because you have many relations who have been braves, and chiefs. You have no father to tell you how you ought to live, so now your other relations must try to help you as much as they can, and advise you what to do."
She used to tell me of the ancient times, and of things that happened then, of persons who had strong spiritual power, and did wonderful things, and of certain bad persons and animals, who harmed people, and of the old times before the people had bows, when they did not kill animals for food, but lived on roots and berries. She told me that I must remember all these things, and keep them in my mind.

Sometimes my grandmother had hard pains in her legs, and it hurt her to walk, and when she had these pains she could not go about much, and could not work. When this happened, sometimes she used to ask me to go down to the stream and fetch her a skin of water; and I would whine, and say to her, "Grandmother, I do not want to carry water; men do not carry water." Then she would tell us some story about the bad things that had happened to boys who refused to carry water for their grandmothers; and when I was little these stories frightened me, and I would go for the water. So perhaps I helped her a little in some things after she was old. Yet she lived until I was a grown man; and so long as she lived she worked hard; except when she had these pains.

Sometimes my mother and some of her relations would go off and camp together for a long time; and then perhaps they would join a larger camp, and stay with them for a while. In these larger camps we children had much fun, playing our different games. We had many of these. Some, like those I have spoken of, we played in winter, and some we played in summer. Often the little girls caught some of the dogs, and harnessed them to little travois, and took their baby brothers and sisters, and others of the younger children, and moved off a little way from the camp, and there pitched their little lodges. The boys went too, and we all played at living in camp. In these camps we did the things that older people do. A boy and girl pretended to be husband and wife, and lived in the lodge; the girl cooked and the boy went out hunting. Sometimes some of the boys pretended that they were buffalo, and showed themselves on the prairie a little way off, and other boys were hunters, and went out to chase the buffalo. We were too little to have horses, but the boys rode sticks, which they held between their legs, and lashed with their quirts to make them go faster. Among those who played in this way was a girl smaller than I, the daughter of Two Bulls -- a brave man, a friend to my uncle. The little girl's name was Standing Alone; she was pretty and nice, and always pleasant; but she was always busy about something -- always working hard, and when she and I played at being husband and wife, she was always going for wood, or pretending to dress hides. I liked her, and she liked me, and in these play camps we always had our little lodge together; but if I sat in the lodge, and pretended to be resting longer than she thought right, she used to scold me, and tell me to go out and hunt for food, saying that no lazy man could be her husband. When she said this I did not answer and seemed to pay no attention to her words, but sat for a little while, thinking, and then I went out of the lodge, and did as she said. When I came in again, whether I brought anything or not, she was always pleasant.

Once, when we were running buffalo, one of the boys, who was a buffalo, charged me when I got near him, and struck me with the thorn which he carried on the end of his stick, and which we used to call the buffalo's horn. The thorn pierced me in the body, and, according to the law of our play, I was so badly wounded that I was obliged to die. I went a little way toward the village, and then pretended to be very weak. Then my companions carried me into the camp, and to the lodge, and Standing Alone mourned over her husband who had been killed while hunting buffalo. Then one of the boys, who pretended that he was a medicine man, built a sweat lodge, and doctored me, and I recovered.




The Way to Live.


I must have been ten years old when my uncle first began to talk to me. Long before this, when he had made a bow and some arrows for me, he had told me that I must learn to hunt, so that in the time to come I would be able to kill food, and to support my mother and sisters. "We must all eat," he had said, "and the Creator has given us buffalo to support life. It is the part of a man to kill food for the lodge, and after it has been killed, the women bring in the meat, and prepare it to be eaten, while they dress the hides for robes and lodge skins."

My uncle was a brave man, and was always going off on the warpath, searching for the camps of enemies, taking their horses, and sometimes fighting bravely. He was still a young man, not married; but was quiet and of good sense and all the people respected him. Even the chiefs and older men used to listen to him when he spoke; and sometimes he was asked to a feast to which many older men were invited.

All my life I have tried to remember what he told me this first time that he talked with me, for it was good advice, and came to me from a good man, who afterwards became one of the chiefs of the tribe.

One day, soon after he had returned from one of his warpaths, he said to me, early in the morning: "My son, get your bow and arrows, and you and I will go over into the hills, hunting. We will try to kill some rabbits, and perhaps we may find a deer."

I was glad to go with my uncle; no grown man had ever before asked me to go with him, and to have him speak to me like this made me feel glad and proud. I ran quickly and got my bow, and we set out, walking over the prairie. We walked a long way, and I was beginning to get tired, when we came to a place where we started first one rabbit and then another, and then a third. I shot at one, but missed it; and my uncle killed all three. After this we went up to the top of a high hill, to look over the country. We saw nothing, but as we sat there my uncle spoke to me, telling me of the things that he had done not long before; and after a time he began to tell me how I ought to live, and what I ought to do as I grew older.

He said to me: "My son, I am going to tell you some things that will be useful to you; and if you listen to what I say, your life will be easier for you to live; you will not make mistakes, and you will come to be liked and respected by all the people. Before many years now you will be a man, and as you grow up you must try more and more to do the things that men do. There are a few things that a boy must always remember.

"When older people speak to you, you must stop what you are doing and listen to what they say, and must do as they tell you. If anyone says to you, 'My son, go out and drive in my horses,' you must go at once; do not wait; do not make anyone speak to you a second time; start at once.

"You must get up early in the morning; do not let the sun, when it first shines, find you in bed. Get up at the first dawn of day, and go early out into the hills and look for your horses. These horses will soon be put in your charge, and you must watch over them, and must never lose them; and you must always see that they have water."

"You must take good care of your arms. Always keep them in good order. A man who has poor arms cannot fight."

"It is important for you to do all these things. But there is one thing more important than anything else, and that is to be brave. Soon you will be going on a warpath, and then you must strive always to be in the front of the fighting, and to try hard to strike many of the enemy. You must be saying all the time to yourself, 'I will be brave; I will not fear anything.' If you do that, the people will all know of it, and will look on you as a man."

"There is another thing: if by chance you should do anything that is great, you must not talk of it; you must never go about telling of the great things that you have done, or that you intend to do. To do that is not manly. When you are at war you may do brave things, and other people will see what you have done, and will tell of it. If you should chance to perform any brave act, do not speak of it; let your comrades do this; it is not for you to tell of the things that you have done."

"If you listen to my words you will become a good man, and will amount to something. If you let the wind blow them away, you will become lazy, and will never do anything."

So my uncle talked to me for a long time, and just as he had finished his talking, we saw, down in the valley below us, a deer come out from behind some brush, and feed for a little while, and then it went back into another patch of brush, and did not come out again.

"Ah," said my uncle, "I think we can kill that deer." We went around a long distance, to come down without being seen to where the deer was, and we had crept up close to the edge of the bushes before the deer knew that we were there. When we reached the place we walked around it, he on one side and I on the other; and presently the deer sprang up out of the bushes, and my uncle shot it with his arrow; and after it had run a distance it fell down, and when we got to it, was dead. I also shot at it with one of my sharp-pointed arrows, but I did not hit it. After we had cut up the meat of the deer, and made it into a pack, done up in the hide, we started back to the camp. I felt proud to have gone on a hunt with a man and to be carrying the rabbits.

As we walked along to the camp that night, my uncle told me other things. He said: "Always be careful to do nothing bad in camp. Do not quarrel and fight with your fellows. Men do not fight with each other in the camp; to do that is not manly."

You see, my uncle thought that I was now old enough to be taught some of the things a man ought to do, and he tried to help me; for my father was dead, and I had no one else to teach me. The words he spoke were all good words, and I have tried always to remember them.

The white people gather up their children and send them all to one place to be taught; but that is not the way we Indians do. Nevertheless, we try to teach our children in our way; for children must be taught, or they will not know anything, and if they do not know anything they will have no sense, and if they have no sense they will not know how to act.

When our children are small, the mother tries to keep them from making a noise. It is not fitting that young children should disturb older people. I am telling you about the way I was taught in the old times, when there were but few white people in the country.

Because we have no schools, like the white people, we have to teach our children by telling them what to do; it is only in this way that they can learn. They have lived but a short time, and cannot know much. We older ones, after we have lived many years, and have listened to what our fathers and brothers have taught us, know a good many things; but little children know nothing. We want them to be wise, so that they may live well with their people. But we want them to be wise also, so that when they are the chiefs and braves of the tribe they may rule the people well. We remember that before very long we ourselves shall no longer be here; and then the ones who are caring for the people's welfare will be these children that now are playing about the camps. Their relations, therefore, talk to the children, for they want their lives to be made easier for them; and they want also to have the next generation of people wise enough to help all the people to live. The men must hunt and go to war; the women must be good women, not foolish ones, and must be ready to work, and glad to take care of their husbands and their children. This is one of the reasons why we like to have them play at moving the camp, harnessing the old dogs to the travois, pitching the lodges, making clothing for the dolls; while the boys play at hunting buffalo and at making war journeys against their enemies. All are trying to learn how to live the life that our people have always lived.

My grandfather was an old man, who long before this had given up the warpath. He spent most of his time in the camp, and he used to make speeches to the little and big boys, and give them much good advice. Once I heard him talk to a group of boys playing near the lodge, and this is what he said: "Listen, you boys; it is time you did something. You sit here all day in the sun, and throw your arrows, and talk about things of the camp, but why do you not do something? When I was a boy it was not like this; then we were always trying to steal off and follow a war party. Some of those who did so were too little to fight; but we used to follow along, and try to help. In this way, even though we did nothing, we learned the ways of warriors. I do not want you boys to be lazy. It is not a lazy man who does great things, so that he is talked about in the camp, and his name is called aloud by all the people, when the war party returns."



Lessons of the Prairie.


Once when I was a little older, I was out on the hills one day, watching the horses. They were feeding quietly, and I lay on a hill and went to sleep. Suddenly I was awakened by a terrible crash close to my head, and I knew that a gun had been fired close to me, and I thought that the enemy had attacked me and were killing me, and would drive off the horses. I was badly frightened. I sprang to my feet, and started to run to my horse, and in doing this I ran away from the camp, but before I reached the horse I heard someone laughing, and when I looked around my uncle sat there on the ground, with the smoke still coming from his gun. He signed to me to come to him and sit down, and when I had done so, he said:

"My son, you keep a careless watch. You do not act as a man ought to do. Instead of sitting here looking over the prairie in all directions to see if enemies are approaching, or if there are any signs of strange people being near, you lie here and sleep. I crept up to you and fired my gun, to see what you would do. You did not stop to see where the noise came from, nor did you look about to see if enemies were here. You thought only of saving your body, and started to run away. This is not good. A warrior does not act like this; he is always watching all about him, to see what is going to happen, and if he is attacked suddenly, he tries to fight, or, if he cannot fight, he thinks more of giving warning to the people than he does of saving himself."

When my uncle spoke to me like this he made me feel bad, for of all people he was the one whom I most wished to please, and with him I wished to stand well. I considered a little before I said to him: "I was trying to run to my horse, and if I had got him I think I should have tried to reach the camp, and perhaps I should have tried to drive in some of the horses; but I was badly frightened, for I had been asleep and did not know what had happened."

"I think you speak truly," said my uncle, "but you should not have gone to sleep when you were sent out here to watch the horses. Boys who go to sleep when they ought to be looking over the country, and watching their horses, or men who get tired and go to sleep when they are on the warpath, never do much. I should like to have you always alert and watchful."

I made up my mind that I would hold fast to the words which my uncle spoke to me, and after this would not sleep when I was on herd.

It was not long after this that my uncle again told me to get my arrows, and come and hunt with him. He told me also to take my robe with me, and that we would go far up the river and be gone one night. I was glad to go, and we started.

All through the day we traveled up stream, going in low places, and traveling cautiously; for, although we were close to the camp, still my uncle told me no one could be sure that enemies might not be about, and that we might not be attacked at any time; so we went carefully. If we had to cross a hill, we crept up to the top of it, and lifted our heads up little by little, and looked over all the country, to see whether people were in sight; or game; or to see what the animals might be doing.

Once, when we stopped to rest, my uncle said to me: "Little son, this is one of the things you must learn; as you travel over the country, always go carefully, for you do not know that behind the next hill there may not be some enemy watching, looking over the country to see if someone may not be about. Therefore, it is well for you always to keep out of sight as much as you can. If you have to go to the top of the hill, because you wish to see the country, creep carefully up some ravine, and show yourself as little as possible. If you have to cross a wide flat, cover yourself with your robe, and stoop over, walking slowly, so that anyone far off may perhaps think it is a buffalo that he sees. In this respect the Indians are different from the white people; they are foolish, and when they travel they go on the ridges between the streams, because the road is level, and the going easy. But when they travel in this way everyone can see them from a long way off, and can hide in the path, and when they approach can shoot at them and kill them. The white people think that because they cannot see Indians, there are none about; and this belief has caused many white people to be killed."

As I walked behind my uncle, following him over the prairie, I tried to watch him, and to imitate everything that he did. If he stopped, I stopped; if he bent down his head, and went stooping for a little way, I also stooped, and followed him; when he got down to creep, I, too, crept, so as to be out of sight.

That day, as the sun fell toward the west, my uncle went down to the river, and looked along the bank and the mud-bars, trying to learn whether any animals had been to the water; and when he saw tracks he pointed them out to me. "This," he said, "is the track of a deer. You see that it has been going slowly. It is feeding, because it does not go straight ahead, but goes now in one direction, and then in another, and back a little, not seeming to have any purpose in its wandering about, and here," showing me a place where a plant had been bitten off, "is where it was eating. If we follow along, soon we will see its tracks in the mud by the river." It was as he had said, and soon, in a little sand-bar, we saw the place where the animal had stopped. "You see," he said, "this was a big deer; here are his tracks; here he stopped at the edge of the water to drink; and then he went on across the river, for there are no tracks leading back to the bank. You will notice that he was walking; he was not frightened; he did not see nor smell any enemies."

Further up the river, on a sand-bar, he showed me the tracks of antelope, where the old ones had walked along quietly, and other smaller tracks, where the sand had been thrown up; and these marks, he said, were made by the little kids, which were playing and running.

"Notice carefully," he said, "the tracks that you see, so that you will remember them, and will know them again. The tracks made by the different animals are not all alike. The antelope's hoof is sharp-pointed in front. Notice, too, that when his foot sinks in the mud there is no mark behind his footprint; while behind the footprint of a deer there are two marks, in soft ground, made by the little hoofs that the deer has on his foot."

We kept on further up the river, and when night came we stopped, and sat down in some bushes. All day long we had seen nothing that we could kill; but from a fold in his robe my uncle drew some dried meat, and we built a little fire of dried willow brush, that would make no smoke, and over this we roasted our meat, and ate; and my uncle talked to me again, saying: "My son, I like to have you come out with me, and travel about over the country. You have no father to teach you, and I am glad to take you with me, and to tell you the things that I know. It is a good thing to be a member of our tribe, and it is a good thing to belong to a good family in that tribe. You must always remember that you come of good people. Your father was a brave man, killed fighting bravely against the enemy. I want you to grow up to be a brave man and a good man. You must love your relations, and must do everything that you can for them. If the enemy should attack the village, do not run away; think always first of defending your own people. You have a mother, and sisters, who will depend on you for their living, and for their credit. They love you, and you must always try to do everything that you can for them. Try to learn about hunting, and to become a good hunter, so that you may support them. But, above all things, try to live bravely and well, so that people will speak well of you and your relations will be proud.

"You are only a boy now, but the time will come when you will be a man, and must act a man's part. Now your relations all respect you. They do not ask you to do woman's work; they treat you well. You have a good bed, and whenever you are hungry, food is given you. Do you know why it is that you are treated in this way? I will tell you. Your relations know that you are a man, and that you will grow up to go to war, and fight; perhaps often to be in great danger. They know that perhaps they may not have you long with them; that soon you may be killed. Perhaps even to-night or to-morrow, before we get back to the camp, we may be attacked, and may have to fight, and perhaps to die. It is for this cause that you are treated better than your sisters; because at any moment you may be taken away. This you should understand."

After we had eaten it began to grow dark, and pretty soon my uncle stood up and tied up his waist again, and we set out once more, going up the river. I wanted to ask my uncle where we were going, but I knew that he had some reason for moving away from the camp, and before I had spoken to him about it we had gone a mile or two, and it was quite dark, and we stopped again in another clump of bushes. Here we sat down, and my uncle said to me: "My son, here we will sleep. Where we stopped and ate, just before the sun set, was a good place to camp, but it may be that an enemy was watching from the top of some hill, and may have seen us go into those bushes. If he did, perhaps he will creep down there to-night, hoping to kill us; and if there were several persons they may go down there and surround those bushes. I did not want to stop there where we might have been seen, and so when it grew dark we came on here. We will sleep here, but will build no fire."

The next morning, before day broke, my uncle roused me, and we went to the top of a high hill not far off. We reached it before the sun rose, and lay on top of it, looking off over the prairie. From here we could see a long way. Many animals were in view, buffalo and antelope, and down in the river bottom a herd of elk. For a long time we lay there watching, but everywhere it was quiet. The animals were not moving; no smokes were seen in the air; birds were not flying to and fro, as if waiting for the hunter to kill a buffalo, or for people to fight and kill each other, when they might feed on the flesh.

After we had watched a long time, my uncle said: "I see no signs of people. Let us creep down this ravine, and get among the bushes, and perhaps we can kill one of these elk." We did as he had said; and before very long had come near to the elk. Then he told me to wait there. I stopped and for a few moments I could see him creeping up nearer and nearer to the elk. Presently they started and ran; and one cow turned off to cross the river, and as she was crossing it she fell in the water.

My uncle stood up and motioned to me to go down to where the elk lay. We met there and cut up the elk, and my uncle took a big load of meat on his back, and I a smaller load, and we started back toward the village.

As we were returning, he spoke to me again, saying: "I want you to remember that of all the advice I give you the chief thing is to be brave. If you start out with a war party, to attack enemies, do not be afraid. If your friends are about to make a charge on the enemy, still do not be afraid. Watch your friends, and see how they act, and try to do as the others do. Try always to have a good horse, and to be in the front of the fighting. To be brave is what makes a man. If you are lucky, and count a coup, or kill an enemy, people will look on you as a man. Do not fear anything. To be killed in battle is no disgrace. When you fight, try to kill. Ride up close to your enemy. Do not think that he is going to kill you; think that you are going to kill him. As you charge, you must be saying to yourself all the time, 'I will be brave; I will not fear anything.'

"In your life in the camp remember this too; you must always be truthful and honest with all your people. Never say anything that is not true; never tell a lie, even for a joke -- to make people laugh. When you are in the company of older people, listen to what they say, and try to remember; thus you will learn. Do not say very much; it is just as well to let other people talk while you listen. If you have a friend, cling close to him; and if need be, give your life for him. Think always of your friend before you think of yourself."

That night we reached the camp again. My uncle left the meat that he had killed at my mother's lodge.




On a Buffalo Horse.


I had lived twelve winters when I did something which made my mother and all my relations glad; for which they all praised me, and which first caused my name to be called aloud through the camp.

It was the fall of the year, and the leaves were dropping from the trees. Long ago the grass had grown yellow; and now sometimes when we awoke in the morning it was white with frost; little places in the river bottom, where water had stood in the springtime, and which were still wet, were frozen in the morning; and all the quiet waters had over them a thin skin of clear ice. Great flocks of water birds were passing overhead, flying to the south; and many of them stopped in the streams, resting and feeding. There were ducks of many sorts, and the larger geese, and the great white birds with black tips to their wings, and long yellow bills; and the cranes that fly over, far up in the sky, looking like spots, but whose loud callings are heard plainly as they pass along. Often we saw flocks of these walking on the prairie, feeding on the grasshoppers; and sometimes they all stopped feeding and stuck up their heads, and then began to dance together, almost as people dance.

We boys used to travel far up and down the bottom, trying to creep up to the edge of the bank, or to the puddles of water, where the different birds sat, to get close enough to kill them with our arrows. It was not easy to do this, for generally the birds saw us before we could get near enough; and then, often, even if we had the chance to shoot, we missed, and the birds flew away, and we had to wade out and get back our arrows.

One day I had gone with my friend a long way up the river, and we had tried several times to kill ducks, but had always missed them. We had come to a place where the point of a hill ran down close to the river, on our side, and as we rounded the point of this hill, suddenly we saw close before us three cranes, standing on the hillside; two of them were gray and further off, but one quite near to us was still red, by which we knew that it was a young one. I was ahead of my friend, and as soon as I saw the cranes I drew my arrow to its head, and shot at the young one, which spread its wings and flew a few yards, and then came down, lying on the hillside, with its wings stretched wide, for the arrow had passed through its body. I rushed upon it and seized it, while the old cranes flew away. Then I was glad, for this was the largest bird that I had ever killed; and you know that the crane is a wise bird, and people do not often kill one.

After my friend and I had talked about it, I picked up the bird and put it on my back, holding the neck in one hand, and letting the legs drag on the ground behind me; and so we returned to camp. When we reached the village some of the children saw us coming, and knew me, and ran ahead to my mother's lodge, and told her that her boy was coming, carrying a great bird; and she and my sisters came out of the lodge and looked at me. I must have looked strange, for the crane's wings were partly spread, and hung down on either side of me; and when I had nearly come to the lodge, my mother called out: "What is the great bird that is coming to our lodge? I am afraid of it," and then she and the children ran in the door. Then they came out again, and when I reached the lodge, all looked at the bird, and said how big it was, and how fine, and that it must be shown to my uncle before it was cooked. They sent word to him, asking him to come to the lodge, and soon he did so, and when he saw what I had killed, he was glad, and told me that I had done well, and that I was lucky to have killed a crane. "There are many grown men," said he, "who have never killed a crane; and you have done well. I wish to have this known."

He called out in a loud voice, and asked Bellowing Cow, a poor old woman, to come to the lodge and see what his son had done; and he sent one of the boys back to his lodge, telling him to bring a certain horse. Soon the boy returned, leading a pony; and when Bellowing Cow had come, my uncle handed her the rope that was about the pony's neck, and told her to look at this bird that his son had killed.

"We have had good luck," he said; "my son has killed this wise bird; he is going to be a good hunter, and will kill much meat. In the time to come, after he has grown to be a man, his lodge will never lack food. His women will always have plenty of robes to dress."

Then Bellowing Cow mounted her horse and rode around the village, singing a song, in which she told how lucky I had been; that I had killed a crane, a bird that many grown men had not killed; and that I was going to be a good hunter, and always fortunate in killing food. My uncle did not give the bird to Bellowing Cow; he kept it, and told my mother to cook it; and he said to her: "Save for me the wing bones of this bird, and give them to me, in order that I may make from them two war whistles, which my son may carry when he has grown old enough to go to war against his enemies."

I was proud of what had happened, and it made me feel big to listen to this poor old woman as she rode through the village singing her song.

What he did at this time showed some things about my uncle. It showed that he liked me; it showed that he was proud of what I had done; and it showed, too, that he was a person of good heart, since he called to see what I had done a poor old woman who had nothing, and gave her a horse. It would have been as easy for him to have called some chief or rich man who had plenty of horses, and then sometime this chief or rich man would have given him a horse for some favor done him.

I had killed the crane with a pointed arrow, of which I had three, though in my hunting for little birds I still used blunt arrows. My uncle had made me another bow, which was almost as large as a man's bow; and I was practicing with it always, trying to make my right arm strong, to bend it, so that it might send the arrow with full force.

The next summer, when the tribe had started off to look for buffalo, I spoke one night to my uncle, as he was sitting alone in his lodge, and said to him: "Father, is it not now time for me to try to kill buffalo? I am getting now to be a big boy, and I think big enough to hunt. I should like to have your opinion about this." For a time he sat smoking and considering, and then he said: "Son, I think it is time you should begin to hunt; you are now old enough to do some of the things that men do. I have watched you, and I have seen that you know how to use the bow. The next time that we run buffalo, you shall come with me, and we will see what we can do. You shall ride one of my buffalo horses, and you shall overtake the buffalo, and then we shall see whether you are strong enough to drive the arrow far into the animal."

It was not long after this that buffalo were found, and when the tribe went out to make the surround, my uncle told me to ride one of his horses, and to keep close to him. As we were going toward the place where the surround was to be made, he said to me: "Now, to-day we will try to catch calves, and you shall see whether you can kill one. You may remember this, that if you shoot an arrow into the calf, and blood begins to come from its mouth, it will soon die, you need not shoot at it again, but may go on to overtake another, and kill it. Then, perhaps, after a little while you can chase big buffalo. One thing you must remember. If you are running buffalo, do not be afraid of them. Ride your horse close up to the buffalo, as close as you can, and then let fly the arrow with all your force. If the buffalo turns to fight, your horse will take you away from it; but, above all things, do not be afraid; you will not kill buffalo if you are afraid to get close to them."

We rode on, and before the surround was made we could see the yellow calves bunched up at one side of the herd. My uncle pointed them out to me, and said, "Now, when the herd starts, try to get among those calves, and remember all that I have told you."

At length the soldiers gave the word for the charge, and we all rushed toward the buffalo. They turned to run, and a great dust rose in the air. That day there were many men on fast horses, but my uncle's horse was faster than all; and because I was little and light, he ran through the big buffalo, and was soon close to the calves. When he was running through the buffalo I was frightened, for they seemed so big, and they crowded so on each other, and their horns rattled as they knocked together, as the herd parted and pushed away on either side, letting me pass through it.

In only a short time I was running close to a yellow calf. It ran very fast, and for a little while I could not overtake it; but then it seemed to go slower, and my horse drew up close to it. I shot an arrow and missed it, and then another, and did not miss; the arrow went deep into it, just before the short ribs, and a moment afterward I could see blood coming from the calf's mouth; and I ran on to get another. I did kill another, and then stopped and got down. The herd had passed, and I began to butcher the last calf; and before I had finished my uncle rode up to me and said, "Well, son, did you kill anything?" I told him that I had killed two calves; and we went back and looked for the other. He helped me to butcher, and we put the meat and skins of both calves on my horse and then returned to the camp.

When we reached there, my uncle stood in front of the lodge, and called out with a loud voice, saying: "This day my son has chased buffalo, and has killed two calves. I have given one of my best horses to Red Fox." This he called out several times, and at the same time he sent a young man to his lodge, telling him to bring a certain good horse, which he named. Before very long the young man came with the horse, and about the same time the old man Red Fox, who was poor and lame, and without relations, was seen limping toward the lodge, coughing as he came.

In his young days Red Fox had been a brave and had done many good things, but he had been shot in the thigh, in battle, and his leg had never healed, so that he could not go to war. After that, his wife and then his children one by one had died, or been killed in battle, and now he had nothing of his own, but lived in the lodge with friends -- people who were kind to him. After Red Fox had mounted his horse, and had ridden off about the circle of the lodges, singing a song, in which he told what I had done, and how my uncle was proud of my success, and of how good his heart was toward poor people, so that when he made gifts he gave them to persons who had nothing, and not to people who were rich and happy, my uncle turned about and went into the lodge. He told the young man who had brought the horse to go out and call a number of his friends, and older people, to come that night to his lodge, to feast with him.

After they had come, and all had eaten, and while the pipe was being smoked, my uncle said: "Friends, I have called you to eat with me, because this day my son has killed two calves. He has done well, and I can see that he will be a good man. His lodge will not be poor for meat nor will his wife lack skins to tan, or hides for lodge skins. We have had good luck, and to-day my heart is glad; and it is for this reason that I have asked you to come and hear what my son has done, in order that you may be pleased, as I am pleased."

When he had finished speaking, Double Runner, an old man, whose hair was white, stood up on his feet and spoke, and said that I had done well. He spoke good words of my uncle because he had a kind heart and was generous, and liked to make people happy. He spoke also of my father, and said that it was bad for the tribe when the enemy killed him; but, nevertheless, he had died fighting, as a brave man would wish to die.

From that time on, so long as the buffalo were seen, I went out with the men of the camp. Sometimes I went alone, or with companions of my own age, and we tried to kill calves, but more than once I went with my uncle. The second time I rode with him he said to me that I had killed calves, and now I must try to kill big buffalo. I remembered what he had said about riding close to the buffalo, but I was afraid to do this, and yet I was ashamed to tell him that I was afraid. When the surround was made, my uncle and I were soon among the buffalo. I was riding my uncle's fast buffalo horse. My uncle rode on my right hand, and when we charged down and got among the buffalo we soon passed through the bulls and then drew up slowly on the cows, and those younger animals whose horns were yet straight. I thought we were going to pass on through these, and kill calves, but suddenly my uncle crowded his horse up close to me, and, pointing to a young bull, signed to me to shoot it. I did not want to, but my uncle kept crowding his horse more and more on me, and pushing me close to the bull. I was afraid of it; I thought that perhaps it would turn its head toward me and frighten my horse, and my horse could not get away because of my uncle's horse, and then my horse, and perhaps I, myself, would be killed; but there was not much time to think about it. I felt that I was not strong enough to kill a buffalo; I did not want to try; but all the time my uncle was signing to me, "Shoot, shoot." There was no way for me to escape, and I drew the arrow and shot into the buffalo. The point hit the animal between the ribs, and went in deep, yet not to the feathers. When I shot, my uncle sheered off, and I followed him; and in a moment, looking back, I saw that the blood was coming from the bull's nose and mouth; and then I knew that I had killed it. In a few moments it fell, and I went back to it. Then truly I thought that I had done something great, and I felt glad that I had killed a big buffalo. I forgot that a little while before I had been frightened, and had wanted to get away without shooting. I forgot that, except for my uncle, I should not have made this lucky shot. I felt as if I had done something, and something that was very smart and great. You see, I was only a boy.

This feeling did not last very long; after a little I remembered that except for my uncle I should have still been afraid of big buffalo, and should not have dared to go near enough to kill one, but should have been content to kill calves. My mind was still big for what I had done, and I felt thankful to my uncle for making me do it. I wanted to pass my hands over him -- to express my gratitude to him -- for all his kindness to me. No father could have done more for me than he had done, and always did.

That night when we came back to the camp my horse was carrying a great pile of meat; and when I stopped in front of the lodge, I called out to my mother to come and take my horse, and take the meat from it; for so my uncle had told me to do. "Now," he said, "you have become a man; you are able to hunt, and to kill food, and you must act as a man acts."

When my mother came out of the lodge she was astonished; she could hardly believe that it was I who had killed this buffalo. Nevertheless, she took the rope from me, and began to take the meat from the horse; and I went into the lodge and lay down on the bed by the fire to rest, for this too was what my uncle had told me to do.

The next time the camp made a surround, I rode alone, and this time I did not do so well. It is true that I killed a cow, but also I shot another animal, which carried away three of my arrows. It was afterward killed by a man a long way off, and the next day he gave me back my arrows, which he had taken from the cow. I felt ashamed of this, but, nevertheless, I kept on, and before the hunt was over I killed many buffalo, and my mother dressed the hides.



In the Medicine Circle.


Soon after I had killed my big buffalo, my uncle had sent for me and when I had gone to his lodge, he said, "Come with me"; and we walked out on the prairie where his horses were feeding. He carried a rope in his hand, and, throwing it over the fast buffalo horse, that he had told me to ride when I first hunted buffalo, he put the rope in my hand, and said: "Son, I give you this horse; he is fast, and he is long-winded. You have seen that he can overtake buffalo. I tell you now that he is a good horse for war. If you ride him when you go on the warpath, you can get up close to your enemy, and strike him; he will not be able to run away from you."

This was the first horse I had, and I was proud to own it. Also, later, my uncle said to me, "My son, if you need horses for riding, catch some of those out of my band, and use them." This I did, sometimes. My uncle had plenty of horses, and was always going to war and getting more.

I was now a big boy, and began to think more and more about going to war. Ever since I had been little I had talked with my companions, and they with me, about the time when we should be big enough to do the things that our fathers and uncles did; and the thing that we most wished to do was to go to war against the enemy, and to do something brave, so that we should be looked up to by the people. As we grew older the wish to do this increased. That summer, when the old men used to come out of their lodges, and sit in the sun, smoking, or to gather in little groups, and gossip with one another, I used to listen to their talk of the things that had happened in past years, when they were young. They told of many strange things that had happened; of war; journeys that they had made against their enemies, of fights that they had had, and horses that they had taken. They spoke, too, of treaties that they had made with other tribes; and told how they had visited the camps of people who lived far off, whose names I had heard, but of whom I knew nothing.

Sometimes, too, I was present in my uncle's lodge when he gave a feast to friends; and often among them were chiefs and older men, who in their day had done great things, and brought credit to the tribe. At such feasts, after all had eaten, and my uncle had filled the pipe, and pushed the tobacco board back under the bed, he gave the pipe to some young man, who lighted it and handed it back to him; and then he smoked, holding the pipe to the sky, and to the earth, and to the four directions, and made a prayer to the spirits, and then passed the pipe along to the end of the circle on his left; and, beginning there, each man smoked and made a prayer, and the pipe passed from hand to hand. After this the guests talked and joked, and laughed, and stories were told, perhaps of war or adventure, perhaps of hard times when food was scarce and the cold bitter, perhaps of those mysterious persons who rule the world, and of the kindly or the terrible things that they have done.
I remember well one such feast, when for the first time my uncle told me to sit on his right hand, and behind him; and when he had filled it, told me to light the pipe. I reached over to the fire, and with a tongs made of willow took up a small coal and lighted the pipe, and after it was going well, passed it to my uncle. And so I lighted all the pipes that were smoked that night. It was during the second of these pipes that an old man, Calf Robe, told a story of a thing that had happened in the tribe long ago, when he was a young man. He was a little man, thin and dried up, but in his time he had been a great warrior. Now he was old and poor, his left arm thin, withered and helpless, and on his side a great scar, much larger than my two hands, where people said his ribs on that side had all been torn away. I had heard of his adventures, how once the animals had taken pity on him, and brought him, after he was sorely wounded on a war journey, safe back to his people and his village. It was on this night that I first heard the story of the Medicine Circle. This was what he said:

"It was winter. The people were camped on Lodgepole Creek near the Big Horn Mountains. Buffalo were close and small game plenty. The snow was deep, and the people did not watch their horses closely, for they thought no war parties would be out in such cold and in such deep snow.

"The chief of this camp had strong mysterious power. On the ground at the right of his bed in his lodge was always a space, where red painted wooden pegs were set in the ground in a circle. Above this hung the medicine bundles. No one was allowed to step or sit in this circle. No one might throw anything on the ground near it. No one might pass between it and the fire. It was sacred.

"It was a very cold night. The wind blew the snow about so that one could hardly see. The chief had gone to a feast in a lodge near his own, and his wives were in bed, but one of them was still awake. The fire had burned down, and the lodge was almost dark. Suddenly the curtain of the doorway was thrown back. A person entered, passed around to the back of the lodge, and sat down in the medicine circle.

"'Now what is this?' the woman thought; 'why does this person sit in the medicine circle?'

"She said to him: 'You know that is the medicine circle. Quick! get up, and sit down somewhere else. My husband will be angry if he sees you there.'

"The person did not speak nor move, so the woman got up and put grass on the fire, and when it made a light, she saw that the man was a stranger, for his clothing was different from ours; but she could not see his face; he kept it covered, all but his eyes. The woman went out and ran to the lodge where her husband was, and said to him: 'Come quickly! A stranger has entered our lodge. He is sitting in the medicine circle.'

"The chief went to his lodge, and many with him -- for chiefs and warriors had been feasting together -- and they carried in more wood and built a big fire. Then the stranger moved toward the fire, nearer and nearer, and they saw he was shaking with cold. His moccasins and leggings were torn and covered with ice, and his robe was thin and worn.

"The chief was greatly troubled to see this person sitting in his medicine circle, and he asked him in signs, 'Where did you come from?'

"He made no answer.

"Again he asked, 'Who are you?'

"The stranger did not speak. He sat as close to the fire as he could get, still shivering with cold.

"The chief told a woman to feed him; and she warmed some soup and meat over the fire, and set it before the stranger. Then he threw off his robe, and began to eat like a dog that is starved; and all the people sat and looked at him. He was a young man; his face was good, and his hair very long; but he looked thin, and his clothes were poor.

"The stranger ate all the soup and meat, and then he spoke, in signs: 'I came from the north. I was with a large party. We traveled south many days, and at last saw a big camp by a river. At night we went down to it, to take horses, but I got none, and my party rode off and left me. They told me to go with them and they would give me some of the horses that they had taken, but I was ashamed. I had taken no horses, and I could not go back to my people without counting a coup. So I came on alone, and it is now many days since I left my party. I had used up all my arrows, and could kill no food. I began to starve. To-day I saw your camp. I thought to take some horses from you, but my arrows are gone; I should have starved on the road. My clothes are thin and torn; I should have frozen. So I made up my mind to come to your camp and be killed.

"'Come, I am ready. Kill me! I am a Blackfoot.'

"A pipe was filled, lighted, and passed around. But the chief sat thinking. Everyone was waiting to hear what he would say.

"At last he spoke: 'An enemy has come into our camp. The Blackfeet are our enemies. They kill us when they can. We kill them. This man came here to steal our horses, and he ought to be killed. But, you see, he has come into my lodge and sat down in the medicine circle. Perhaps his medicine led him to the place. He must have a powerful helper.

"'There are many lodges in this camp, and in each of these lodges many seats, but he has come to my lodge, and has sat down in my medicine circle. I believe my medicine helped him too. So now I am afraid to kill this man, for if I do, it may break my medicine. I have finished.'

"Everyone said the chief's talk was good. The chief turned to the Blackfoot and said: 'Do not be afraid; we will not kill you. You are tired. Take off your leggings and moccasins, and lie down in that bed.'

"The Blackfoot did as he was told, and as soon as he lay down he slept; for he was very tired.

"Next morning, when he awoke, there by his bed were new leggings for him, and warm hair moccasins, and a new soft cow's robe; and he put these on, and his heart was glad. Then they ate, and the chief told him about the medicine circle, and why they had not killed him.

"In the spring a party of our people went to war against the Crows and the Blackfoot went with them, and he took many horses. He went to war often, and soon had a big band of horses. He married two women of our tribe, and stayed with us. Sometimes they used to ask him if he would ever go back to his people, and he would say: 'Wait, I want to get more horses, and when I have a big band -- a great many -- I will take my lodge, and my women and children, and we will go north, and I will make peace between your tribe and the Blackfeet.'

"One summer the people were running buffalo. They were making new lodges. One day the men went out to hunt. At sundown they came back, but the Blackfoot did not return. Next day the men went out to look for him, and they searched all over the country. Many days they hunted for the Blackfoot, but he was never seen again. Some said he had gone back to his people. Some said that a bear might have killed him, or he might have fallen from his horse and been killed, and some said that a war party must have killed him and taken the horse with them. Neither man nor horse was seen again."




Among Enemy Lodges.


It was late in the winter, when I was fifteen years old, that I made my first trip to war. We were camped on a large river, and not far from our camp was a village of the Arapahoes.

One day I went to visit their camp, taking with me only my buffalo robe and my bow and arrows. At the camp I found a number of young men of my tribe, and I went into the lodge where they were sitting, and sat down near the door. Soon after I had entered a young man of my tribe proposed that our young men should gamble against the young men of the Arapahoes, and when they had agreed, we all left the lodge where we were sitting, and went off to that owned by Shaved-head. I followed along after the others, and when I entered the lodge I found that they were making ready to gamble. The counters were lying between the lines, ten of the sticks lying side by side, and two lying across the ten.

When all was ready, the leader of the Arapahoes threw down on the ground the bone they were to gamble with, and the leader of our young men threw down his bone, and then all the young men of both parties began to sing, and dance, and yell, each trying to bring luck to his side. Some of them danced all around the lodge, singing as hard as they could sing. After a time all sat down, and then one of the Arapahoes chose a man from his side, and called him out and told him to sit down in front of his line. The leader took up the bone, and held it up to the sun, and to the four directions, praying that his side might win, and then handed it to this man, who let the robe fall back from his shoulders, rose to his knees, and after rubbing his hands on the ground, began to pass the bone from one hand to the other. Then the leader of our party stood up, and looked over his men, to choose someone who was good at guessing. He chose a man, and called him out in front of the line, to guess in which hand the Arapahoe held the bone. Then everybody began to sing hard, and four young men pounded with sticks on a parfleche, in time to the music. Presently our man guessed and guessed right. Then our people chose a man to pass the bone for them, and when the Arapahoes guessed, they guessed wrong. So it kept on. The Arapahoes did not win one point, and our people won the game. Then the Arapahoes would play no more, and the gambling stopped. Afterward they had a dance. It was now night. I had heard the young men talking to one another, and I knew that they were about to start off to war. After the dance was over, one of them said to the others, "Come, let us go about the camp to-night, and sing wolf songs." They did so, and I went with them. Every little while they would stop in front of some lodge and sing; and perhaps the man who owned the lodge would fill a pipe, and hold it out to them, and all would smoke; or someone would hand out a bit of tobacco, or a few arrows, or five or six bullets, or some caps, or a little powder. In this way they sang for a long time; and then, when they were tired, they went to the different lodges and slept.

The next morning I saw them making up the packs which they were to carry on their backs, and packing the dogs which they had with them to carry their moccasins. I watched them, and as I looked at them I wished that I, too, might go to war; and the more I thought about it the more I wished to go. At last I made up my mind that I would go. I had no food, and no extra moccasins, but I looked about the camp, and found some that had been thrown away, worn out; and I asked one kind-hearted woman to give me some moccasins, and she gave me three pairs. By this time the war party had started, and I followed them.

The snow still lay deep on the ground; and as we marched along, one after another, each man stepped in the tracks of the man before him. We traveled a long way, until we came to some hills, from which we could see a river; and before we got down to the river's valley we stopped on a hill, and took off our packs, and looked about and rested. After a time someone said, "Well, let us go down to the river and camp." They all started down the hill, but I remained where I was, waiting to see what they would do. You see, I did not belong to the party, and I did not know how the others felt toward me; so I was shy about doing anything; I wanted to wait and see what they did.

When the others reached the level ground near the stream they threw down their packs and began to go to work. Some of the men scraped away the snow from the ground where they were to sleep; others went off into the timber, and soon returned with loads of wood on their backs, and started fires; others brought poles with which to build lodges; others, bark from old cottonwood trees, and others, still, brush. Everyone worked hard.

Presently I grew tired of sitting alone on the hill, and went down to the others. When I reached there, I found that they were building three war lodges, and as I drew near, all the young men began to call out to me, each one asking me to come over to him. I was the littlest fellow in the party, and they all wanted me, thinking that I might bring them luck. When they called to me, they did not speak to me by my name, but called me Bear Chief, the name of one of the greatest warriors of the tribe. They were joking with me, to tease me.

When I was near the lodges I stopped, uncertain what to do, or where to go, and Gray Eyes, a man a little older than the others, walked up to me, and took me by the arm, saying: "Friend, come to our lodge. If you go to one of the others, the young men will be making fun of you all the time." I went to his lodge, and he told me to sit down near the door. This lodge was well built, warm and comfortable. They had taken many straight poles and set them up as the poles of a lodge are set up, but much closer together. Then the poles were covered with bark and brush, so as to keep out the wind; and within, all about the lodge, were good beds, with bark and brush under them, so as to keep those who were to sleep there from the snow. A good fire burned in the middle of the lodge.

When I grew warm I began to wonder what we should have to eat. We had traveled all day, and I was hungry; yet I had no food, and could see none, and there was nothing to cook with, not even a kettle. A man sitting by the fire seemed to know what was in my mind, and said to me, "Take courage, friend, soon you shall have plenty to eat." A little while after this, a man called out, saying, "If anyone has food to eat, let him get it out." When he said that, the young men began to open their packs. While they were doing this, someone cried, "The hunters are coming"; and when I looked I saw three or four men coming, each with an antelope on his back. When these men had come near to the camp, everyone rushed for them, and they threw their loads on the snow, and each man cut off meat for his lodge. Then they cut it into pieces and it was set up on green willow twigs, stuck in the ground near the fire, to roast. One of the men in our lodge said, "Let our young friend here be the first one to eat," and someone cut a piece of the short ribs of an antelope, and gave it to me. So we all ate, and were warm and comfortable. That night we slept well, lying with our feet to the fire, as people always lie in a war lodge.

The next day we traveled on. Just before we camped at night I heard the sound of guns, and someone told me that the young men were killing buffalo. Soon after we had made camp, they began to come in, some carrying loads of meat on their backs, and others dragging over the snow a big piece of buffalo hide, sewed up into a sack, and full of meat. Everyone was good-natured, and each young man was laughing and joking with his fellows, and sometimes playing tricks on them. That night a friend took a piece of buffalo hide and sewed it up, and partly dried it over the fire, and then turned it inside out, and stuffed it full of meat, and gave it to me, saying, "Here is a pack for you to carry."

We traveled on for several days; but it was not long after this that the scouts came in, and told us that they had seen signs of people, a trail where a large camp had passed along only a few days before. When I heard this I was a little frightened, for I thought to myself, "Suppose we were to be attacked, how could I run away with this big pack on my back?" But I said nothing, and no one else seemed to be afraid; all were happy because there was a chance that we might meet enemies. They laughed and talked with one another, and said what a good time we should have if there should be a fight. Nevertheless, that night the leader told the young men to bring logs out of the timber, and pile them up around the war lodges, so that if we should be attacked we might fight behind breast works. Also, he told them that if we should be attacked we must not run out of the lodges, but must stay in them, where we could fight well, and be protected and safe. Also, he said, "Everyone must be watchful; it may be that enemies are near; therefore, act accordingly."

The next morning the leader sent out two parties of scouts, to go in two directions to look for enemies. He told them where they should go, and where they should meet the main party, which was to keep on its way, traveling carefully, and out of sight.

At night, after we had reached the appointed place, and had camped there, the scouts came in, and told us that they had found the enemy, and that their camp was not far off. When the leader learned that, he said, "It will be well for us to go to-night to the camp of these enemies, and try to take their horses." The distance was not great, and after we had eaten, all set out. When we had come near to the camp, we could see in some of the lodges the fires still burning, and knew that all the people had not gone to bed. In a low place we stopped, and there put down all our things. Here the leader told us what we must do, calling out by name certain men who should go into the camp, and certain other men, younger, who should go about through the hills and gather up loose horses, and drive them to the place where we had left our packs. My name he did not speak, and I did not know what to do. While I sat there, doubtful, all the others started off. Then I made up my mind that I, too, would go into the camp, and would try to do something, and I followed the others. After a little time I overtook them, and followed along, and as we went on and drew nearer and nearer to the camp, men kept turning off to one side, until presently, when we were quite near the camp, most of them had disappeared into the darkness; but I could still see some, walking along ahead of me. Presently we reached the outer circle of the lodges, and a moment or two after that I could see none of our people. I was walking alone among the lodges. Now I was afraid, for I did not know how to act, nor what I wanted to do, and I thought that perhaps one of the enemy might see me, and see that I did not belong to his tribe, and attack me and kill me. I held my head down, and walked straight along. Not many people were about, and no one passed me. Presently I came to a lodge in which a little fire was burning, and not very far away was another lodge, in which people were singing and drumming, as if for a dance. I stopped, and looked into the first lodge. The fire was low, but still it gave some light, and I could see plainly that no one was there. Then suddenly it came to me that I would go into this lodge, and take something out of it, which should show to my friends that I, too, had been in the camp. I did not think much of the danger that someone might come in, but, stooping down, entered the lodge, and looked about. Hanging over the bed, at the back of the lodge, was a bow-case and quiver full of arrows. I stepped quickly across and took this down, and putting it under my robe, went out of the lodge, and walked back the way I had come.

As I had entered the camp I had seen horses standing, tied in front of the lodges, and now, as I was going back, I stooped down in front of a lodge, where all was dark, cut loose a horse, and walked away, leading it by its rope. No one saw me, and when I had passed beyond the furthest lodge I mounted the horse and rode along slowly. After I had gone a little further, I went faster, and soon I was at the place where we had left our things. There were many horses there, brought in by the younger men that had been looking for loose horses, and some cut loose by those who had gone into camp. Every minute other men kept coming up, and presently all were there. The young men had filled their saddle-pads with grass, and now each one chose a good horse, and mounting it drove off the herd. I had only one horse, yet my heart was glad, for it was the first I had ever taken.

For a time we rode slowly, but presently, faster; and when day had come we had gone a long way. The horses were still being driven in separate bunches, so that each man should know which were his -- the ones he had taken; but soon after day broke, and there had been time for each to look over his animals, they were bunched together, and we went faster. Nevertheless, the leader said to us: "Friends, do not hurry the horses too much; they are poor, and we must not run them too hard. The horses on which the Crows will follow us are poor also, and they cannot overtake us."

We rode fast until afternoon, when we came down into the valley of a river, and there stopped to let our horses feed. Two young men with fresh horses were left behind, on top of the highest hills, to watch the trail, to see whether the enemy were following us. After we had been there for a time, and the horses had eaten, the leader called out, "Friends, the enemy are pursuing; we must hurry on the horses." In a moment we had caught our animals, and mounted, and were driving on the herd; for, far back, we could see the scouts who had been left behind coming toward us, riding fast, and making signs that people had been seen. After we had left the valley, and were among the hills, the leader left two other young men, on fresh horses, behind, to see whether the enemy crossed the river, and followed; while we went on with the horses. We rode all that night and part of the next day, and then stopped again; and that night, in the middle of the night, the scouts overtook us, and told us that the enemy had not crossed the river, where we had first slept, but had turned about there, and had gone back. "There were only a few of them," they said. "We two were almost tempted to attack them, but we had been told only to watch them, and we thought it better to do that." Four days afterward we reached our village.

I had no saddle, and when I reached the camp I was very sore and stiff from riding so long without a saddle. Nevertheless, I was pleased, for I had taken a horse that was fast, long-winded and tough; and I had taken also a fine bow and arrows, with an otter-skin case. The leader spoke to me, and told me that I had done well to go into this lodge. He said to me, "Friend, you have made a good beginning; I think that you will be a good warrior." Also, when we reached the village, my uncle praised me, and said that I had done well. He looked at the bow and the arrows, and told me that to have taken them was better than to have taken a good horse, and that he hoped that I would be able to use them in fighting with my enemies. Such was my first journey to war.




A Grown Man.


That summer my uncle gave me a gun, and now I was beginning to feel that I was really a man, and I hunted constantly, and had good luck, killing deer and elk, and other game.

One day the next year, with a friend, I was hunting a two days' journey from the camp. We had killed nothing until this day, when we got a deer, and toward evening stopped to cook and eat. The country was broken with many hills and ravines, and before we went down to the stream to build our fire I had looked from the top of a little hill, to see whether anything could be seen. My friend was building a fire to cook food, and I had gone down to the fire and spread my robe on the ground, and was lying on it, resting, while our horses were feeding near by, when suddenly I had a strange feeling. I seemed to feel that I was in great danger, and as if I must get away from this place. I was frightened. I felt there was danger; that something bad was going to happen. I did not know what it was, nor why I felt so, but I was afraid. I seemed to turn to water inside of me. I had never felt so before. I sat up and looked about; nothing was to be seen. My friend was cutting some meat to cook over the little fire, and just beyond him the horses were feeding. My friend was singing to himself a little war song, as he worked.

My feelings grew worse instead of better. I stood up, took my gun, and walked toward a little hill not far from where we were, and my friend called out to me, "Where are you going? I thought you wished to rest." I said to him, "I will go to the top of that little hill, and look over it." When I got there I looked about; I could see nothing. It was early summer, and the grass was green. The soil was soft and sandy. For a long time I looked about in all directions, but could see nothing, but then I could not see far, for there were other little hills, nearly as high, close to me.

Presently I looked at the ground a few steps before me, and I thought I saw where something had stepped. It was hard for me to make up my mind to walk to this place, but at length I did so. When I got there I saw where a horse had stood -- a fresh horse track. Near it were two tracks made by a man, an enemy. I could see where he had stood, with one foot advanced before the other. When I saw these tracks I knew what had happened; an enemy had stood there looking over at us, and when he saw me with my gun start toward the top of the hill he had gone away. Standing where he had stood, I looked back toward our horses; I could hardly see their backs, but a man taller than I could have seen more of them, and the heads of the two men. I turned to follow the tracks a little way, and as I walked, it did not seem to me that my bones were stiff enough to support my body; I seemed to sway from side to side, and felt as if I should fall down. I was frightened.

I saw where the man had led his horse a little way back from the hill, and then had jumped on it and ridden off as hard as he could gallop. A little further on was the place where another horse had stood; it, too, had turned and gone off fast; its rider had not dismounted. One of the men had said to the other: "You wait here, and I will go up and take a look. If these people sleep here we will attack them when it is dark, and kill them and take their horses."

I cannot tell you how much I wanted to run back to my friend and tell him what I had seen; but I had courage enough to walk. I felt angry at myself for being so frightened. I said to myself: "Come, you are a man; you belong to brave people; your uncle and your father did not fear things that they could not see. Be brave. Be strong." It was no use for me to say this; I was so frightened I could hardly control myself. I felt as if I must run away.

I walked until I was close to my friend. He was cooking meat, and was still singing to himself. When I was pretty near to him I said, "Friend, put the saddle on your horse, and I will saddle mine, and we will go away from here." He turned and looked at me, and in a moment he had dropped the meat that he was cooking, and was saddling up. He told me the next day that my face had changed so that he hardly knew me; my face was like that of one dead. I said to him, "Do you go ahead, and go fast, but do not gallop." He started off without a word, and I followed him. It was now growing dark, but you could still see a long way. As I rode I seemed to have three heads, I looked in so many different directions. We traveled fast. My courage did not come back to me. I was still miserable.

About the middle of the night I said to my friend, "Let us stop here, so that the horses may eat." We stopped and took off our saddles, and held the ropes of our horses in our hands, and lay down on the ground together, looking back over the trail that we had come. My friend's horse was eating, but mine stood with his head high, and his ears pricked, and kept looking back toward where we had come from. Every now and then he would snort, as if frightened. Sometimes he would take a bite or two of grass, and then would again stand with his head up, looking and snorting. This made me more afraid than ever; and now my friend was as badly frightened as I.

At last I could stand it no longer, and I said to him, "Let us turn off the trail, and go along a divide where no one is likely to follow us." We started, loping. After we had gone some distance we stopped, took off our bridles, and again lay down, looking back over the way we had come. The night was dark, but we could see a little, and we watched and listened. Still my horse would not eat, but kept looking back over the trail. Suddenly, my friend said, "There he is. Do you see?" I looked, and looked, but could see nothing. "Where is it?" said I. With my head close to the ground I looked in the direction in which he pointed, but could see nothing. My friend saw it move, however. I said to him, "Here, let us change places;" and I moved to his place, and he to mine. Then I looked, and in a moment I saw just in front of my face a weed-stalk, and when I moved my head the stalk moved. This was what he had seen.

For the first time since this feeling had come over me in the afternoon I laughed, and with a rush my courage came back to me. I felt as brave and cheerful as ever. All through the evening I had not wished to smoke, and if I had wished to, I should have been afraid to light my pipe. Now I filled my pipe, lighted it, and we smoked. When I laughed my friend's courage came back too. We lay down and slept, and the next day went on to the village.




A Sacrifice.


During the next two years I went to war five times, always as a servant, but always I had good luck. This was because early, after my first trip to war, I had asked an old man, one of my relations, to teach me how to make a sacrifice which should be pleasing to those spirits who rule the world.

It was in the early summer, when the grass was high and green, not yet turning brown, that, with this old man, Tom Lodge, I went out into the hills to suffer and to pray, to ask for help in my life, and that I might be blessed in all my warpaths. Tom Lodge had told me what I must do, and before the time came I had cut a pole, and brought it and a rope, and a bundle of sinew, and some small wooden pins near to the place where we were to go, and had hidden them in a ravine.

It was before the sun had risen that we started out, and when we came to the hill where the things were, I carried them to the top of the hill, and there Tom Lodge and I dug a hole in the soil with our knives, and planted the pole, stamping the earth tightly about it, and then putting great stones on the earth, so that the pole should be held firmly. Then Tom Lodge tied the rope to the pole, and with sinew tied the pins to the rope, and then holding the pins and his knife up to the sun, and to the sky, and then placing them on the earth, he prayed to all the spirits of the air, and of the earth, and of the waters, asking that this sacrifice that I was about to make should be blessed, and that I should have help in all my undertakings. Then he came and stood before me, and taking hold of the skin of my breast on the right side, he pinched it up and passed his knife through it, and then passed the pin through under the skin, and tied the end to the rope with another strand of sinew. In the same way he did on the left side of my breast. Then he told me that all through the day I should walk about this pole, always on the side of the pole toward which the sun was looking, and that I should throw myself back against the rope and should try to tear the pins from my skin. Then, telling me to pray constantly, to have a strong heart, and not to lose courage, he set out to return to the village.

All through the long summer day I walked about the pole, praying to all the spirits, and crying aloud to the sun and the earth, and all the animals and birds to help me. Each time when I came to the end of the rope I threw myself back against it, and pulled hard. The skin of my breast stretched out as wide as your hand, but it would not tear, and at last all my chest grew numb, so that it had no feeling in it; and yet, little by little, as I threw my whole weight against the rope, the strips of skin stretched out longer and longer. All day long I walked in this way. The sun blazed down like fire. I had no food, and did not drink; for so I had been instructed. Toward night my mouth grew dry, and my neck sore; so that to swallow, or even to open my mouth in prayer hurt me. It seemed a long time before the sun got overhead and the pole cast but a small shadow; but it seemed that the shadow of the pole grew long in the afternoon much more slowly than it had grown short in the morning.

I was very tired, and my legs were shaking under me, when at last, as the sun hung low over the western hills, I saw someone coming. It was my friend, Tom Lodge; and when he had come close to me, he spoke to me and said, "My son, have you been faithful all through the day?" I answered him, "Father, I have walked and prayed all day long, but I cannot tear out these pins." "You have done well," he said; and, drawing his knife, he came to me, and taking hold first of one pin and then of the other, he cut off the strips of skin which passed about the pins, and set me free. He held the strips of skin that he had cut off, toward the sky, and toward the four directions, and prayed, saying: "Listen! all you spirits of the air, and of the earth, and of the water; and you, O earth! and you, O sun! This is the sacrifice that my son has made to you. You have heard how he cries to you for help. Hear his prayer." Then at the foot of the pole he scraped a little hole in the earth and placed the bits of skin there, and covered them up. Then he gave me to drink from a buffalo paunch waterskin that he had brought.

"Now, my son," said he, "you shall sleep here this night, and to-morrow morning, as the sun rises, leave this; hill, and everything on it, as it is, and return to the camp. It may be that during the night something will come to you, to tell you a thing. If you are spoken to in your sleep, remember carefully what is said to you."

After he had gone I lay down, covering myself with my robe, and was soon asleep, for I was very tired. That night, while I slept, I dreamed that a wolf came to me, and spoke, saying: "My son, the spirits to whom you have cried all day long have heard your prayers, and have sent me to tell you that your cryings have not been in vain. Take courage, therefore, for you shall be fortunate so long as these wars last. You shall strike your enemies; your name shall be called through the camp, and all your relations will be glad.

"Look at me, and consider well my ways. Remember that of all the animals, the wolves are the smartest. If they get hungry, they go out and kill a buffalo; they know what is going to happen; they are always able to take care of themselves. You shall be like the wolf; you shall be able to creep close to your enemies, and they shall not see you; you shall be a great man for surprising people. In the bundle that you wear tied to your necklet, you shall carry a little wolf hair, and your quiver and your bow-case shall be made of the skin of a wolf." The wolf ceased speaking, yet for a time he sat there looking at me, and I at him; but presently he yawned, and stood up on his feet, and trotted off a little way, and suddenly I could not see him.

So then in these five times that I went to war, once I counted the first coup of all on an enemy; and three times I crept into camp and brought out horses, twice going with other men who went in to cut loose the horses, and once going in alone. For these things I came to be well thought of by the tribe. My uncle praised me, and said that the time was coming when I would be a good warrior. All my relations felt proud and glad that I had such good luck.

I knew why all this had come to me. I had done as the wolf had said, and often I went out from the camp -- or perhaps I stopped when I was traveling far from the village -- and went up on a hill, and, lighting a pipe, offered a smoke to the wolf, and asked him not to forget what he had said to me.

I was now a grown man, and able to do all the things that young men do. I was a good hunter; I had a herd of horses, and had been to war, and been well spoken of by the leaders whose war parties I went with. I was old enough, too, to think about young girls, and to feel that some day I wanted to get married, and to have a lodge and home of my own. There were many nice girls in the camp; many who were hard workers, modest, and very pretty. I liked many of them, but there was no one whom I liked so much as Standing Alone. I often saw her, but sometimes she would not look at me, and sometimes she looked, but when she saw me looking at her she looked down again; but sometimes she smiled a little as she looked down. It was long since we had played together, but I thought that perhaps she had not forgotten the time, so many years ago, when she pretended to be my wife, and when she had mourned over me once when I was killed by a buffalo.

As I grew older I felt more and more that I wished to see and talk with her. Of course I was too young to be married yet, but I was not too young to want to talk with Standing Alone. I used to go out and stand by the trail where the women passed to get water, hoping that I might speak to her, but often there was no chance to do so. Sometimes she was with other girls, who laughed and joked about me, and asked whom I was waiting for. They could not tell who was standing there, for my robe or my sheet covered my whole body, except the hole through which I looked with one eye. But one day when Standing Alone was going by with some girls, one of them recognized the sheet that I had on, and called out my name, and said that she believed that I was waiting for Standing Alone. I was surprised that she should know me, and felt badly, but I did not move, and so I think neither she nor the girls with her knew that she had guessed right; and the next time I went I wore a different sheet, and different moccasins and leggings.

One evening I had good luck; all the women had passed, and Standing Alone had not appeared. I supposed that all had got their water, and was about to go away when she came hurrying along the trail, and passed me and went to the water's edge. She filled her vessel and came back, and when she passed me again I took hold of her dress and pulled it, and dropped my sheet from my head. She stopped and we stood there and talked for a little while. We were both of us afraid, we did not know of what, and had not much to say, but it was pleasant to be there talking to her, and looking at her face. Three times she started to go, but each time I said to her, "Do not go; wait a little longer"; and each time she waited. The fourth time she went away. After that, I think she knew me whenever I stood by the trail, and sometimes she was late in coming for water, and I had a chance to speak to her alone.
In those days I was happy; and often when the camp was resting, and there was nothing for me to do, I used to go out and sit on the top of a high hill, and think about Standing Alone, and hope that in the time to come I might have her for my wife, and that I might do great things in war, so that she would be proud of me; and might bring back many horses for her, so that she could always ride a good horse, and have a finely ornamented saddle and saddle-cloth. If I could take horses enough, I should be rich, and then whatever Standing Alone might desire, I could give a horse for it.




A Warrior Ready to Die.


It was not long after this that buffalo were found, and we began to kill them, as we used to do in the old times; and then a great misfortune happened to me.

One day I was chasing buffalo on a young horse, and as it ran down a steep hill, it stumbled among the stones, and fell down, rolling over, and I was thrown far; and, as I fell to the ground, my knee struck against a large stone. When I got up my leg was useless, and I could not walk, but I managed to catch my horse, and crawling on it I reached the camp. After a little my knee got better, and then again worse, and then better again. Still I could not walk, and for two years I stayed in the camp, crippled, and unable to go from place to place, except when I was helped on my horse. I grew thin and weak, and thought that I should die.

Many of the young men of my age, my friends, were sorry for me. They used to come to my lodge and eat and talk, telling me the news. Sometimes, when I was sitting out in the shade of the lodge, looking over the camp, and feeling the pleasant breeze blow on my face, or the warm sun shine on my body, I saw the young men and boys walking about, and running, and wrestling, and kicking, and jumping on their horses and galloping off, and it made me feel badly to think that I could no longer do the things that I used to do; could no longer hunt, and help to support my relations; could no longer go off on the warpath with my fellows, to fight the enemy, or to take plunder from them. I was useless.

Often during this time, older men -- my uncle's friends -- used to come to the lodge, and stop there and talk with me for a little time, to cheer me up, for I think they too felt sorry for me. The doctors tried hard to cure my leg, but though they did many things, and I and my uncle paid them many horses, and saddles and blankets, they could not help me. Once in a while, in the morning, after all the men had gone out to chase buffalo, or to hunt for smaller animals, deer or elk or antelope, Standing Alone would come to my mother's lodge, perhaps bringing some little present for her, and would sit and talk with her, and sometimes look at me, and I could see that her eyes were full of tears, and that she too felt sorry. Sometimes she spoke to me, but not often; but it always made me glad to see her, and made me feel more than ever that she had a good heart.

At the end of two years I sent word to my uncle, asking him to come to see me; and when he had come and sat down, I asked my mother and my sisters to leave the lodge, and when they had gone I spoke to my uncle. "Father, you have seen how it has been with me for two years; that I am no longer able to go about; that I am a cripple, lying here day after day, useless to my relations, and very unhappy. Now, I have thought of this for a long time, and I have made up my mind what I shall do. It is time for me to go off with some of the young men on the warpath, and when we meet the enemy, I will ride straight into the midst of them, and will strike one, and he shall kill me. I am no longer glad to live, and it will be well for me to die bravely."

For a long time my uncle said nothing, but sat there looking at the ground. After he had thought, he raised his head and spoke to me, saying: "Son, you can remember how it has been with us since you were a little boy. You have been my son, and I have loved you. I have been glad when you went to war, and glad when you returned with credit; yet I should not have mourned if you had been killed in battle, for that is the way a man ought to die. I have seen your sufferings now for two years, and I know how you feel. I think that it will be well for you to do as you have said, and for you to give your body to the enemy, and to be killed on the open prairie, where the birds and the beasts may feed on your flesh, and may scatter it over the plain. Now, when you are ready to do this, tell me, so that I may see that you go to war as becomes a warrior who is about to die."

It was not very long after this that a party of young men set out to war, all mounted, to go south to look for the Utes. Among them was the one who had been my close friend, and to him I had told what was in my mind; and when I spoke to the leader of the party, he was glad to have me go with him, as were all of them.

I told my uncle, and he gave me his best war horse to ride, and gave me also a sacred headdress that he wore, which had in it some of the feathers of the thunder bird. I took with me no arms, except a stone axe that my father had had from his father, and he from his father, and which had come down in our family through many generations.

The party started, and we traveled fast and far to the south. At first I was very weak, and got very tired during the long marches, but after a time I grew stronger, and could eat better, and felt better; but my leg was as bad as ever.

We had been out many days and were still traveling south, east of the mountains, when, one day our scouts came upon the carcasses of buffalo that had been killed only a little time before, and the meat cut from the bones. From this we knew that enemies were close by, and we went carefully. Not far beyond these carcasses, as we rode up on a hill, we saw before us in the valley two persons butchering a buffalo, and as we watched them at their work, we could see that they were Utes -- enemies. All the young men jumped on their horses, and we charged down on them. Before we were near them they had seen us, and had run to their horses, and jumped on them and ridden away. By this time I was far ahead of my friends, for my horse was the fastest of all; and soon I was getting close to these enemies. They rode almost side by side, but one a little ahead of the other.

The one who was on the left and a little behind carried a bow and arrows, while the man on the right had a gun. I said to myself: "I will ride between these two persons, and the man with the bow will then have to shoot toward his right hand, and will very likely miss me, while I may be able to knock him off his horse with my axe." I was not afraid, for I had made up my mind to die.

Before long I had overtaken the Utes, and, riding between them, made ready to strike them. The man with the arrows turned on his horse, and shot at me, but I bent to one side, and the arrow passed by without hitting me, and I struck him with my axe and knocked him off his horse. Then the man with the gun turned and was aiming at me, but when he pulled the trigger his gun snapped and did not go off. I was close to him and caught the barrel in my hand, and struck him with my axe, and knocked him off his horse. Then I rode on, holding his gun in my hand. Before the two men whom I had struck could get on their horses again, my friends had overtaken and killed them.

We traveled on further, but found no more enemies, and at last we gave up, and returned to our village. All the time, as we were journeying about, and going back, I kept feeling better and better. I grew stronger slowly. The swelling on my knee began to go down, so that before we reached the village I could rest my weight on that foot a little. At last we arrived, and when we came in sight of the camp, we could see people looking from the lodges to see who were coming.

As we rode down the hill to charge upon the village, the leader told me to ride far in front, "For," he said, "you are the bravest of all." When we came into the village the men and the women and the children came out to meet us. All of them shouted out my name, and my heart grew big in my breast, for I felt that all the people thought that I had done well. Among the women who came out to meet us, I saw Standing Alone, running along by my mother, and both were singing a glad song. And when I saw this, I came near to crying.

At last I reached my lodge, and before it stood my uncle; and as I rode toward him he called out in a loud voice, and asked a certain man named Brave Wolf to come to his lodge and see his son who had given his body to the enemy, desiring to be killed, but who had done great things and had survived. And when Brave Wolf came to the lodge, my uncle gave to him the best horse that he had, a spotted war pony, handsome and long-winded and fleet.

All that day I sat in the lodge and rested, and talked to my uncle. I told him about our journey to war, and while he did not say much I could see that his heart was glad. Before he got up to leave the lodge, he said to me, "Friend, you have done well; I am glad to have such a son." This made me feel glad and proud -- more proud, I think, than I felt when I heard the people shout out my name. I loved my uncle and it seemed good that I had done something that pleased him.

All day long people were coming to our lodge and talking about what had happened to us while on our journey. Those who came were my relations and friends, but, besides these, older men, good warriors, people to whose words all the tribe listened, came and sat and talked with me for a little while. My mother and one or two of her relations were busy all day cooking food for the visitors. It was a happy time.

The leader of our war party sent word to me that this night there would be a war dance over the scalps that had been taken. Although I could walk a little, I could not dance, yet I wished to go to the dance and watch the others. All through the afternoon boys and young men were bringing wood to a level place in the circle of the camp, and there they built what we call a "skunk," piling up long poles together in a shape somewhat like a lodge, so that when finished the "skunk" looked like a war lodge.

Late in the night the people gathered near the "skunk," called together by the sound of the singing and the drumming. Leaning on a stick, I walked down there, and before long the "skunk" was lighted, and the members of our war party and the young women began to dance. Although I could not dance, my face was painted black like those of other men of the war party, and I sat there and watched the young people dance and saw the old men and women carry about the scalps. That was one of the last of the old-fashioned war dances that I ever saw held.

The days went by, and before the birds had flown over on their way to the south, and the weather became cold, I could walk pretty well, and could ride easily. One day about this time a doctor whom I had given many presents a year or two before to cure my sickness came to my lodge and asked me if I did not think I ought to give him a present because he had cured me of the swollen knee that I had had so long. I said to him that I believed that not he but the Great Power, to whom I had prayed and to whom I had offered my body as a sacrifice, had cured me. The doctor said that this was a mistake; that really he had cured me, but that his power had not had time to work until after I had started on my warpath.

I did not think that this was true, but I remembered that this man possessed mysterious power, and I felt that perhaps it would not be wise to refuse what he asked. I told him I must have time to think about this, and that in seven days he should return and I would talk further with him about it. Not long after this I told my uncle what the doctor had said. At first he was angry and said that I would do well to refuse what had been asked of me, but after we had talked about it, he came to think as I thought, that perhaps it would be better to make the doctor a present, rather than to have his ill will, for it was possible that he might be able to harm us. My uncle, therefore, told me to give the doctor a certain horse, and a day or two after that he sent me the horse, to be put with my band and later to be given to the doctor. When he received the horse, the doctor was glad, and he told me that after this he would protect me in case any danger threatened me.

The winter passed, the snow melted, the birds went north in spring, and the buffalo began to get poor. It seemed to me now that I was as strong and well as ever I had been. I walked alike on both legs, and was as active as any of the young men. During this summer I joined one of the soldier societies of the tribe, and in this I followed the advice of my uncle, who had belonged to this same society.




A Lie That Came True.


Soon after this something strange happened.

I had a friend named Sun's Road. He was a little younger than I, perhaps eighteen or twenty years old, big enough to have a sweetheart, and there was a girl in the camp that he wished to please. He had been more than once to war and had done well, but he wanted to do still better. He was eager to do great things, to make the people talk about him and say that he was brave and always lucky. Like most other young men, he wished to become a great man.

Our camp was on the South Platte River, a big village of near two hundred lodges. All these had been made during the summer, and were new, white and clean. The camp looked nice, but now the buffalo had all gone away. None were to be found and the people were hungry. They had eaten all the food they had saved and now they were eating their dogs, and most of these were already gone.

One day two boys, each the son of a chief, were out on the prairie hunting, and each killed an antelope and took it to his father's lodge. After these had been cooked the chiefs were called together to feast. There was not enough food to allow them to call any others except the chiefs.

I heard of all this at the time, but it was a good deal later that Sun's Road told me what he had done and what happened to him about this time. He did not wish me to tell anyone about it, but it is a long time ago and those who were important people at that time are now dead, so I think no harm can be done by telling of it.

After these chiefs had eaten, they talked of the suffering of the people and tried to think what could be done to help them. After a time one of the chiefs came out of the lodge and walked through the camp crying aloud to the people, saying, "Listen, listen, you people; we will all stay in this camp." This he called out again and again as he walked around the circle, so that all might hear him.

After a time Sun's Road heard his name called, and the old man shouted: "Sun's Road, Sun's Road; the chief wishes you to go to his lodge. He wishes you to go out to look for buffalo."

Sun's Road went to the chief's lodge and when he had entered they told him where he should sit, by the door, and gave him a little piece of antelope meat to eat. After he had finished eating, the chief said to him: "We want you to-night to go across the river to the other side, and you shall go to where the pile of bones is, where we had the fight with the Pawnees. On the other side of that hill for a long distance the country is level. Look over that country and see if you can see any buffalo and come back and let us know what you have seen. If you see no buffalo do not go farther; come back from there."

The pile of bones was a breastwork of buffalo bones built on the top of a very high hill by some Pawnees who many years before had been surrounded there by men of our tribe.

Sun's Road started on his journey. When he came to the river he took off his leggings and moccasins and waded across. It was cold, for by this time it was late in the night. On the other side of the river he put on his leggings and moccasins again and walked on north, sometimes walking, and sometimes trotting for a little way. After he had walked a long distance and it was beginning to get toward morning he felt tired and thought that he would rest for a little while. He looked about for a place to lie down, and found a little bunch of brush behind a small bank, and there unbelted his robe and lay down to sleep for a little while. He had not slept long when his feet became cold and this woke him, and when he raised his head he saw that day was beginning to break. He said to himself: "I must not stay here longer. I am out looking for buffalo for people who are starving. I must not lie here," so he rose and tied up his waist and started on.

He walked on and on and at length he saw the high hill and on it the pile of bones. As he went on he came nearer and nearer, and he walked up the hill until he was close by the pile of bones. Then he stopped, for he was afraid. He was afraid that when he looked over the hill he would see nothing. He wanted to make a great man of himself, and to take back the news that he had seen buffalo, so that the people would call his name and all would say that Sun's Road was smart and was lucky. He was so afraid that he would see nothing when he looked over the hill that he stopped and stood there and thought. He said to himself: "If I shall not see anything and go back, they will all hear of it and my girl will hear of it. They will not think much of me. If I could only see plenty of buffalo, what a great man I should be!"

He went on and when he came to the top of the hill and peeped over, there down below him he saw and counted thirty bulls and a calf. He looked at them and said, "Those are bulls; they are not much, but something." He looked another way, and presently he saw one bull, and then two, and then others far off, scattered -- in all five or six. He said again, "These are not many, but they will be some help to the people." A little to his right and down the hill a point of the bluff ran out a little way and this point hid a part of the country beyond, and Sun's Road walked down there just a few steps to see what was over that way. When he got there he looked out into a very pretty, level basin with a stream running through it, and said to himself: "This is a pretty place, a good place for buffalo. There ought to be a great many of them here."

At first he could see none, but he kept on looking and at last far off, just specks, he saw a few -- a very few, perhaps ten or fifteen -- cows.

For a long time he stood there trying to think what he should tell the chiefs when he went back to the camp. He said to himself: "If I go back and tell them just what I have seen it will be nothing to tell. Now, I want people to think that I am a great man, and I am going to tell them a lie. Yes, I shall have to tell them a lie. I shall tell them that when I looked over the hill I saw those thirty bulls with one calf, but beyond I saw many buffalo -- hundreds. I know it is a lie, but I shall have to tell it." Then he turned about and went back.

He traveled fast, walking and trotting, and sometimes running, for he wished to reach the camp before night. It was late in the afternoon when he came to the river, waded across and reached the camp. He went into his father's lodge and sat down. His father was at work making a whetstone. He looked up at his son, and said, "Ha, you have returned," and he turned to his wife and said, "Give our son something to eat." His mother was cooking a little dog, the last one they had, and she gave Sun's Road a piece of it and he ate. Then he took off his moccasins, went over to his bed and lay down, covered himself, and went to sleep. He did not speak, and he made no report to the chiefs. Some children were playing in the lodge, and making a little noise, and his father spoke to them, saying, "Go out, you will wake my son; he is tired and has gone to sleep." Sun's Road slept only for a short time, for the lie that he was going to tell troubled him. Pretty soon he heard one of the old chiefs coming -- old Double Head. He could hear him coming, coughing and groaning and clearing his throat, and he knew who it was by the sound. The chief entered the lodge and sat down, and said to Sun's Road's father, "Has your son returned?" The father replied, "Yes, he is asleep." He filled the pipe and Double Head smoked. Sun's Road lay still. In a few moments he heard another old man coming towards the lodge grunting. He knew who it was -- White Cow. He came in, sat down, asked the same question that Double Head had asked, and smoked.

White Cow called to Sun's Road, "Nephew, get up now and tell us what you saw; we are starving."

Sun's Road rolled over, pulled the robe from his head, raised himself on his elbow and said: "I went to the hill of the pile of bones, and on the other side of the hill right over beyond the bones I saw thirty bulls and a calf. Just beyond them, as I looked over, I saw many buffalo."

The old men stood up and went out. Soon he heard them crying out through the camp so that all the people should hear: "Sun's Road has come in. On the other side of the pile of bones he saw thirty bulls and a calf, and just below this he saw many buffalo. Gather in your horses. Get them up. Women, sharpen your knives. Men, whet your arrow points. Tie up your horses, and early in the morning we will go after buffalo. The camp will stay here. All will go on horseback."

Sun's Road was frightened when he heard this, but it was now too late to be sorry for what he had done. Next morning just at break of day, before it was light, all the people were out. The old crier was still shouting out, "Saddle your horses; make ready to start, men, women and all."

Soon all were saddled, and they crossed the river and went on. The chiefs rode first and everyone was behind them. No one rode ahead of them. They went pretty fast, for all were eager to get to the buffalo.

Pretty soon they came in sight of the pile of bones. Sun's Road could hear the old chiefs talking and saying to each other, "There are the bones; soon we will be there at the buffalo." All the time he kept thinking of the lie that he had told, and remembering that there were only a few buffalo, while he had said that there were many. He did not know what he should do.

When they reached the foot of the hill close to the bones, the chiefs stopped and everyone behind them stopped. All the chiefs got off their horses and sat down in a row and filled the pipe and began to smoke. Soon Sun's Road heard one of them call out: "Sun's Road, Sun's Road, go up to the pile of bones and see if you can see your buffalo now. Let us know if they are there." Then Sun's Road was still more frightened. When he first heard his name called, his heart seemed to stop and then it began to beat so fast that it almost choked him. He did not know what to do. He did not move.

Soon old Standing Water, another chief, called out sharply, "Sun's Road, go to the pile of bones and see if you can see those buffalo; come back and tell us what you see."

Then Sun's Road started and rode up towards the pile of bones. Just as he did so a raven flew over him and began to call "Ca, Ca, Ca." He kept riding on, his heart beating fast, but as he rode he held up his hands to the raven and prayed, "Ah, raven, take pity on me and fetch the buffalo." He held his hands up higher and prayed to the Great Power, "O He amma wihio, you are the one who made the buffalo; take pity on me; you know what I need." Then he rode up to the top of the hill.

The moment his head got to where he could see over the hill, he looked and there he saw thirty bulls and the calf. They had hardly moved at all. Then he went on a step or two further, so that he could see beyond them, and the place that he had seen the day before was just full of buffalo. Again he held up his hands to the sky and said: "O raven, O He amma wihio, you have made my words true. The lie that I told you have made come true."

He turned and rode down the hill towards the chiefs. Before he had reached them, one of them called to him to come right to the middle of the line where they were sitting, and when he had come near, they told him to get off his horse and lead it off to one side and then to come back to the middle of the line. They sent a young man to bring a buffalo chip and he brought one and put it down on the ground before the old chief Standing Water, and then went away. The chief placed it on the ground in front of him, about the length of his arm distant from his knees. Then he filled a pipe. Sun's Road still stood out in front of the line, in sight of all the people. He was still badly frightened, for he did not know what they were going to do. He was young, and did not know the ceremonies.

When the pipe was filled, the old chief lighted it and pointed the stem to the east, to the south, to the west and to the north, then up to the sky, and then down to the ground. Then he rested the bowl of the pipe on the buffalo chip and said, "Sun's Road, come here." When he had come close, the chief said, "Take hold of this pipe and draw on it five times." The old man held the pipe, and so did Sun's Road, until he had drawn five times on the pipe. Then the chief said, "Now do you hold the pipe," and Sun's Road held it while the old man took his hands away, and he said: "Sun's Road, pass your hands all down the stem and over the pipe, and then rub your hands over your face and head, and over your arms and body and legs. Then hand me the pipe." Sun's Road did as he was bade. Then the old man put his hand on the buffalo chip and said to Sun's Road, "Did you see bulls?"

And Sun's Road answered, "I saw them."

The old man pulled in the chip a little way toward himself.

"Did you see cows?"

"I saw them."

The chief moved the chip a little further toward himself.

"Did you see two-year-olds?"

"I saw them."

Standing Water moved the chip a little further toward himself.

"Did you see yearlings?"

"I saw them."

"Did you see small calves?"

"I saw them."

After each answer the chip was moved nearer the chief, and when all the questions had been answered it was close to his body. Then Standing Water lifted up his hands toward the sky and thanked He amma wihio for all his goodness to the people.

Standing Water cleaned out the pipe, emptied the ashes on the chip in four piles and left them there. He put his pipe in its sheath and said to the people: "Now, let none of you people go around toward the left and pass in front of this chip -- between it and the camp. Back off and all go around behind it, on the side toward the buffalo. If you should pass in front of it that might make the buffalo all go away." All the people went around it, as they had been told to do.

The chiefs mounted and all rode up on the ridge and all saw the buffalo. The chiefs said: "Now here we will divide into two parties; let half go to the right and half to the left. The chiefs will go straight down from here. Let one party go around below the buffalo, and the other party on the upper side. When you get to your places let all make the charge at the same time."

Sun's Road watched where his girl was riding, and when he saw that she went to the right he went that way too, and she saw him on his fine horse. They charged down on the buffalo and he rode close to a fat cow and killed it.

The people killed plenty of buffalo and took much meat back to the camp and ate, and all were happy.

A day or two afterward someone who was out saw the buffalo quite close and coming toward the river. They went out and chased them and again killed plenty. Two or three days later the buffalo began to come down to the river and then to cross the river and to feed in the hills about the camp. The people stayed in this camp for a long time and killed many buffalo and made plenty of robes.




My Marriage.


The next summer I went with a party to war against the Mexicans. There were seventeen men, and two of them, Howling Wolf and Red Dog, had taken their wives with them. We took many horses, and were coming back, when, while we were passing through the mountains, two of the young men who had been sent ahead as scouts came hurrying back and told us that they had been seen by a camp of enemies, and that many of them were coming. We had a little time, and perhaps if the leaders of the party had been willing to give up the horses we were driving and had told each man to catch his fastest horse, we might have run away, but the leaders did not like to leave the horses and determined to fight those who were coming. Before long we saw them, Utes and Mountain Apaches, a large party -- too many for us to fight with. We started to run.

Our horses were tired, and it was not long before our enemies began to overtake us and some of them to strike us with their whips, counting coups. Howling Wolf, a brave man, rode behind us all, trying to defend us, riding back and forth fighting off the enemy and whipping up the slower horses. As we ran, partly surrounded by the enemy and all in confusion, the girth on the saddle of Howling Wolf's wife broke and she fell off her horse with the saddle, and was left behind and taken prisoner. One of the Utes captured her and took her up behind him on his horse.

After they had taken this prisoner the enemy stopped, and presently one of our men called out to Howling Wolf, saying, "Look, look, there is your wife! They have taken her prisoner!" Howling Wolf said, "Can that be?" and then as he looked he threw down his empty gun, calling out, "Someone pick up that gun." He drew his bow and strung it, and alone charged back on the man who had his wife. The Utes had gathered in a little group about this woman, and Howling Wolf rode straight for this crowd, shooting right and left with his arrows, when he got close to them. He ran against one man, and his horse knocked down horse and rider. He passed through the crowd up to the man who had his wife as prisoner, and shot an arrow through him, and then shot another man who tried to lead off the horse the woman was riding. A third ran up to take the bridle and he shot an arrow through his head. Then all the Utes made a rush at Howling Wolf and his wife. Their horses were separated, and the woman pushed off to one side. All the Utes were shooting at Howling Wolf, and he fought until all his arrows were gone, and then he was pushed off further, and rode to us. We never knew how many of the Utes were wounded. Howling Wolf was not hurt, but his horse was shot through the mane with an arrow.

Long afterwards, we were told that the Utes said to this woman, "Who is that man who is doing all this fighting?" She answered proudly, "That man is my husband." When she said that the Utes rushed upon her and shot her with arrows, so that she died.

The enemy did not follow us further. They had killed two more of our men and this woman, and had captured all the horses we were driving. Perhaps they were satisfied.

For the last year I had been thinking a great deal about Standing Alone. I saw and spoke to her sometimes, but in these later days not so often as when I had been younger and had not been so often going on the warpath against my enemies. Yet she knew how I felt and her family and my mother also knew how I felt. She was wearing a ring of horn that I had given her and I wore her ring.

Three times in the last two years when I had come back from my war journeys with horses I had driven the horses to Two Bulls' lodge and left them there, and had sent him a message telling him that those horses were his. I had not given any present to Standing Alone.

In summer of this year I spoke to my uncle and told him that I wished to send horses to Two Bulls, and to ask him to give me his daughter for my wife. My uncle felt that this would be good and advised me to do it, saying that if I had not so many horses as I wished to send I should go to his band and take any that I liked. I told him that this need not be done for I, myself, could furnish the horses. Besides, my relations would give such other presents as might be needed.

So it happened that about the time the leaves of the cottonwoods began to turn yellow, my aunt, my mother's oldest sister, went to Two Bulls' lodge taking ten horses, which she tied before the lodge, and then, entering, gave the message, saying that Wikis wished Standing Alone for his wife. After she had said this, my aunt returned to her lodge.

That night Two Bulls sent for his relations and told them what I had said. They counseled together and agreed that the young woman should be given to me. When I learned this my heart was stirred.

The news came to my lodge through one of the women of Two Bulls' family, and my mother and sisters prepared our lodge for the coming of Standing Alone.

It was about the middle of the day when they told me that she was coming.

Standing Alone, finely dressed, was riding a handsome spotted horse led by one of her relations, and other women were coming behind, leading other horses which bore loads.

The horse ridden by Standing Alone was led up close to the lodge and my mother ran out to it. Standing Alone put her arms around my mother's neck and slipped out of the saddle on my mother's back. My sisters caught her feet and supported Standing Alone, who was thus carried on my mother's back into the lodge and her feet did not touch the ground. Then she was carried around to the back of the lodge where my sleeping place was and seated next to me on my bed. Presently food was prepared and for the dish to be offered to Standing Alone my mother cut up the meat into small pieces, so that she should have no trouble in eating her food. Then Standing Alone and I ate together and so I took her for my wife.

Many of the gifts that Two Bulls had sent with Standing Alone were distributed among my relations.

That day all my near relations came, bringing gifts of many sorts to us who were newly married. They brought us a lodge and much lodge furniture -- robes and bedding, backrests, mats and dishes -- all the things that people used in the life of the camp. Of these presents some were sent to the relations of Standing Alone and they in turn sent other presents to us, so that as husband and wife Standing Alone and I began our life well provided with all that we needed.

I did not again go to war that year, but spent much of my time hunting -- providing food for my own family and often leaving meat at my father-in-law's lodge.

Up to this time, as I look back on it to-day, it seems to me that life had been easy for me and for the tribe. We had many skins for robes, lodges and clothing. Food was plenty. If we needed horses we made journeys to war against our enemies to the south and took what we required -- but hard times were coming.

It was but a few years after I took Standing Alone for my wife, when my oldest boy was four years old, that the wars were begun between the white people and my tribe.

This was a hard time. It is true we killed many white people and captured much property, but though most of the tribe did not seem to see that it was so, my uncle and I felt that the Indians were being crowded out, pushed further and further away from where we had always been -- where we belonged. After each expedition through the country by white troops and after each fight that we had with the white men, we felt as if some great hand that was all around my tribe and all the other tribes, was closing a little tighter about us all, and that at last it would grasp us and squeeze us to death.

Of that bad time and of what followed that time, I do not wish to speak, and so my story ends.

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Rollo's Philosophy

By

Jacob Abbott



Chapter I.

Lost In The Snow.


One pleasant morning, very early in the spring, Rollo's cousin Lucy came to call for Rollo to go on an expedition, which they had planned the day before. It was near the end of March, and the snow had become so consolidated by the warm sun in the days, and the hard frosts at night, that it would bear the children to walk upon it. The children called it the crust; but it was not, strictly speaking, a crust, for the snow was compact and solid, not merely upon the top, but nearly throughout the whole mass, down to the ground.

Rollo and Lucy were going to have an expedition upon the crust. Rollo had a sled, and they were going to put upon the sled such things as they should need, and Rollo was to draw it, while Lucy and Nathan, Rollo's little brother, were to walk along by his side.

Rollo's sled was ready at the back door, when Lucy came. Lucy brought with her some provisions for a luncheon, in a basket. This was her part of the preparation. Rollo got his axe, and one or two boards a little longer than the sled, which he said were to make seats. He also had a tinder-box, and some matches, to enable him to make a fire. When all things were ready, the three children set out together.

Rollo drew the sled, with the boards, the basket, and some other things upon it, all bound together securely with a cord. The load appeared to be considerable in bulk, but it was not heavy, and Rollo drew it along very easily. They were not obliged to confine themselves to the roads and paths, for the snow was hard in every direction, and they could go over the fields wherever they pleased. In one place, where the snow was very deep on the side of a hill, they went right over the top of a stone wall.

It was a cloudy day, but calm. This was favorable. The sky being overcast, kept the sun from thawing the snow; but yet their father told them that probably it would begin to grow soft before they came home, and, if so, they would have to come home in a certain sled road, which Jonas had made that winter by hauling wood. He advised them not to encamp at any great distance from the sled road.

They came at last to a pleasant spot on the margin of a wood, near where there was a spring. The rocks around the spring were all covered with snow, and the little stream, which in summer flowed from the spring, was frozen and buried up entirely out of sight. But the spring itself was open, which Rollo said was very fortunate, as they might want some water to drink.

Here they encamped. Rollo cut some stakes, which he drove down into the snow, and contrived to make a rude sort of table with his boards. He also cut a large number of hemlock branches, which Lucy and Nathan dragged out and spread around the table for them to sit upon. Then Rollo built a fire of sticks, which he gathered in the wood. The ground was covered with snow, so that it would have been very difficult for him to have found any sticks, were it not that some kinds of trees, in the woods, have a great many small branches near the bottom, which are dead and dry. These Rollo cut off, and Lucy and Nathan dragged them out, and put them on the fire when he had kindled it. The fire was a little way from the table, with the carpet of hemlock boughs between.

There was a high hill covered with snow at a little distance, and, after they had eaten their luncheon, Rollo said, -- 

"O Lucy, we will play go up the mountains. There is a hill for us. That shall be Chimborazo."

"Well," said Lucy, "if you will cut us some long staves."

Accordingly Rollo went into the wood, and selected some tall and slender young trees, about an inch in diameter, and cut two for Lucy, two for Nathan, and two for himself. These he trimmed up smoothly, and each of the children took one in each hand. They played that Rollo was the guide, and Lucy was the philosopher. Nathan was the philosopher's servant. Rollo conducted them safely to the summit; but just after they got there, it began to snow.

The snow descended in large flakes, and Rollo was delighted to see it; but Lucy seemed a little anxious. She said that, if there should be much snow, it would make it hard for Nathan to get home, and she thought that they had better go down the mountain immediately, and set out for home. Rollo was rather unwilling to go, but he allowed himself to be persuaded, and so they all came down the mountain together.

They packed up their things as quick as they could, leaving the fire to burn itself out, only Rollo first piled on all the hemlock branches, -- which made a great crackling. The snow began to fall faster. The air was full of the large flakes, which floated slowly down, and lodged gently upon the old snow.

The children went along very successfully for some time, but at length Rollo lost his way. The air was so full of snow-flakes, that he could see only a very little way before him; and the old snow covered the ground, so as to hide all the old marks, and to alter the general aspect of the fields so much, that Rollo was completely lost. He, however, did not say anything about it, but wandered on, Lucy and Nathan wondering all the while why they did not get home; until at length they came across a track in the snow.

"O! see this track," said Rollo. "Here is a track, where somebody else has been along with a sled."

"Yes," said Lucy, "some boys, who have gone out to slide, perhaps."

The track was partly obliterated by the snow which had fallen upon it since the boys that made it had gone along. Rollo wondered whose track it could be. He said that he thought it very probable it was Henry's. Lucy thought that it might be the track of some children, that had gone out to find them.

"At any rate," said Rollo, "we will follow the track a little way, and see what it leads to. Perhaps we shall overtake the boys."

Accordingly Rollo turned along in the track, but Lucy stopped.

"No, Rollo," said she, "we must go the other way if we want to find the boys; -- the track is going the other way. But never mind," she added, "I don't want to find the boys; I want to go home; so we will go this way."

Rollo went on, secretly pleased to find the track, for he supposed that by retracing it, as he was doing, it would lead him back home. He had, however, a great curiosity to know who could have made it; and in fact the mystery was soon unraveled.

For, after following the track a short distance, they saw before them a large, dark spot upon the snow, and, on drawing near to it, to see what it was, they found it was the place of their own encampment; and the track which they were following was their own track, leading them back to the mouldering remains of their own fire. They had gone round in a great circle, and come back upon their own course. Rollo looked exceedingly blank and confused at this unexpected termination of the clew, which he had hoped was to have led him out of his difficulty. What he was to do now, he did not know.

The fact, however, that they were lost, was no longer to be concealed; and Lucy proposed that they should go into the woods, where the tops of the trees would act as a sort of umbrella, to keep the snow from falling upon them, and wait there until it stopped snowing; and then the air would be clear, and they could find their way out.

"O," said Rollo, "I can easily make a hut of hemlock branches, and we can go into that for shelter."

"But, Rollo," said Nathan, "how do you know but that it will snow all day? We can't stay in the woods all day."

"No," said Rollo; "when it snows in great flakes, it is not going to snow long. Jonas told me so."

So the children went into the woods, and Rollo began to make his hut; but he was soon interrupted, and the attention of all the children was called off by a little bird, which they saw there, hopping about, and appearing benumbed with cold. After some effort, Rollo succeeded in catching her in his cap.

"We'll carry her home," said Nathan; "we'll carry her home, and show her to mother."

"Yes," said Rollo, "I'll carry her in my cap."

"No," said Lucy, "you must have your cap on your head, or you will take cold. Let me carry her in my hands."

"No," said Rollo, "you will have to lead Nathan. I'll tell you what we will do. We will put her into the basket, for a cage."

Lucy, on the whole, liked this plan, and they accordingly put the bird in the basket, and Rollo contrived to make a cover of boughs, to keep her from getting away.

By the time that this was all arranged, the children found, to their great satisfaction, that it had ceased snowing; and they immediately set out for home. Rollo drew the sled, with the basket and bird upon it, secured as before with the cord; and Lucy led Nathan. They now had no difficulty in finding their way, and soon reached home in safety.

They kept the bird until the next day, and then, as it was mild and pleasant, they let her fly away.


Questions.

By what process had the snow become hardened at this time? Did Rollo's father expect that it would continue hard till noon? Why not? Did it continue hard? What prevented its melting? How did Rollo get sticks for his fire? What name did he give to the hill which they ascended? What occasioned the difficulty in the way of Rollo's finding his way home? What conversation took place when he found the track? Was this track in the new snow, or in the old snow? How had it become partly obliterated? How did they carry the bird home?



Chapter II.

Flying.


Nathan became very much interested in the bird, and that evening, as his father was sitting by the fire, with a book in his hand, which he had been reading, Nathan came up to him, and said, -- 

"Father, are you busy now, -- thinking, or anything?"

"No," said his father.

"Because," said Nathan, "if you are not, I want to read you something out of my little book."

So Nathan's father took him up into his lap, and Nathan opened his little book, and began to read as follows: -- 

"'With fins for the water, and wings for the air, And feet for the ground, I could go everywhere.'

"Isn't that funny?" said Nathan.

"Rather funny," said his father.

"I wish I had wings," said Nathan.

"Why?" said his father.

"Why, then I could fly."

"That is not certain," said his father. "There are two difficulties which prevent boys from flying. One is, they have no wings; and the other is, they have not strength to use them."

"O father," said Nathan, "I could use them; I am pretty strong. I can wheel Rollo's wheelbarrow."

His father smiled. "Very possibly," said he; "but I do not think that you would be strong enough to use wings, even if you had them."

"Why, at any rate, I am stronger than a bird," said Nathan.

"Yes," said his father, "you have more actual strength than a bird, but not more in proportion to your size. You are absolutely stronger, but not relatively."

"What do you mean by that?" said Nathan.

"Why, you have actually more strength than a bird, -- a robin, for instance; you could hold him so that he could not get away; and you could lift more than he could too. But then you are a great deal larger, and you are not as much stronger than he is, as you are larger. If you are a hundred times as heavy as he, you are not a hundred times as strong. That's what I mean by saying that you are absolutely stronger, but not relatively. That is, you are not as many times stronger, as you are larger and heavier. You are absolutely stronger, but not relatively; that is, in proportion to your size and weight.

"Now I can prove to you," continued his father, "that you would not be strong enough to fly with wings, even if you had them. Suppose there was a pole fastened across the room, and another pole just above it; could you pull yourself up, from one pole to the other, by your hands alone, without touching your feet? -- Or a ladder," continued his father, -- "it will be better to suppose a ladder. Now, if there was a ladder leaning up against a building, could you climb up on the under side by your hands, drawing yourself up, hand over hand, without touching your feet?"

Here Rollo, who was reading in a little chair at the back part of the room, when his father first commenced the conversation with Nathan, but who had been listening for a few minutes past to what his father had been saying, jumped up, and came across the room to his father, and said, -- 

"Yes, sir, yes, sir; I can. I have done it often in the barn."

"How high up could you go?" said his father.

"O, almost up to the loft," said Rollo. "Only, you see, father, the rounds are too far up. I can't reach up very well. If they were nearer together, I could climb up so, very well."

"Well," said his father, "a bird, when flying, has to climb up in much the same way. He has to pull himself up by the air, with his wings, just as you do with your hands and arms, by the rounds of the ladder; only the air is not fixed, like the ladder, but constantly gives way under his wing; and so, to make the case the same, you must suppose that the ladder is not firm, but is floating in the air, and sinks down with your weight, so that you have to climb up faster than you pull the ladder down. Do you think you would have strength enough in your arms to do that?"

Rollo and Nathan looked very much interested in what their father was saying, but they both admitted that they could not climb up such ladders as those.

"The air," added their father, "gives way continually under the bird's wing; and yet they have to pull themselves up by it. And this is very hard. They must either have very large wings, and prodigious strength to use them, so as to pull upon the air with very hard and heavy strokes, or else, if they have small wings, they must have strength to strike very quick and often with them.

"The wings of sparrows move so quick, that you cannot count the strokes; and those of humming-birds, which are smaller still, so fast that you cannot see them. They make a hum."

"I could make my wings go so fast," said Nathan; and he began to imitate the flapping of the wings of a bird, with his arms, as rapidly and forcibly as he could.

"So can I," said Rollo; and he made the same motions. "That is as fast as crows' wings move, when they are flying."

"Yes," said his father, "crows move their wings as fast as that, whereas you only move hands and arms. If you had great wings, as long, in proportion, as the crows, you could not move them so fast."

"How large would they be?" said Rollo.

"O, I don't know, -- perhaps as big as the top of the dining-table."

"O father," said Rollo, "I don't think they would be as big as that. The crow's wings are not longer than his body, and so mine would not be longer than my body."

"Perhaps you never saw a crow's body," said his father. "His feathers and his tail, which are very light, swell out his body, and make it appear much larger than it really is. I presume his wings, when they are spread, are twice or three times as long as his body. If you had wings in proportion, it would be with the utmost difficulty that you could use them at all. You certainly could not strike the air with them fast enough to pull yourself up by them."

"I did not think that the birds pulled themselves up by the air," said Nathan. "I did not know that the air was anything real."

"O yes; it is something real," said his father.

"I've seen birds fly without moving their wings at all," said Rollo.

"Yes," said his father, "and so have I seen a stone."

"A stone!" repeated Rollo.

"What, a stone fly?" said Nathan.

"Yes," replied his father; "did you never see a stone fly through the air, without any wings at all?"

"Why, yes," said Rollo, "when somebody threw it."

"Very well," said his father. "If you set the stone in motion, it will continue in motion for some time, without any wings; and so will a bird."

"But, father, they don't throw birds," said Nathan; and he laughed aloud at such an idea.

"Birds throw themselves," said his father; "that is, they strike their wings upon the air, hard and quick, and thus get into very quick motion, and then they can keep their wings still for a time, and go on, as long as the impulse they have given them lasts. This shows what prodigious strength they have in their wings. They can not only strike the air hard and frequently enough to raise themselves up, and move along, but they can do it so easily, as to get such a velocity, that they can rest their wings for some time, and sail away through the air, only expending the impulse they had accumulated."

Rollo and Nathan were silent. Rollo was thinking how he had seen the swallows sailing swiftly round and round in the air, with their wings spread out motionless by their side.

"So, you see," continued his father, "the difficulty in the way of a boy's flying, is not the want of wings, but the want of strength to use them. It would be very easy to make wings."

"Would it?" said Nathan.

"Yes," said his father. "At least it would not be very difficult. Ingenious mechanics would soon find out modes of making something to answer the purpose of wings, to strike upon the air, if there was the necessary power to work them. The great difficulty in almost all cases in mechanics is, in getting the power; there is very little difficulty in applying it to any purpose it is wanted for. So, you see, next time, Nathan, when you want to fly, you must wish, not that you had wings, but that you were strong enough to use them."

"Well, father," said Rollo, "men are strong enough to paddle themselves along in the water; why can't they in the air?"

"Because," said his father, "water supports them by its buoyancy, and they have nothing to do but to move themselves along upon it. But air cannot support them; and, of course, a great part of the effort which they would make, would be required to keep them up. And then, besides, the water is generally nearly at rest, but the air is generally in a state of rapid motion."

"Why, father," said Rollo, "I'm sure water is sometimes in rapid motion. The rivers run very swiftly, often."

"Yes," replied his father; "but then, when they do, men cannot paddle, or row boats upon them. A current that should run at the rate of four or five miles an hour, would be very hard to row against. But the air is seldom in a state of less motion than that. It is very often moving at the rate of fifteen or twenty miles an hour; sometimes sixty. So, you see, there is a double reason why men cannot fly in the air, as well as paddle on the water."

"If we were only light enough," said Rollo, "to float in the air, then we could fly."

"We could paddle about in it, when it was calm," replied his father, "but that would not be flying."

"Is there anything light enough to float in the air?" said Rollo.

"No," said his father, "I don't think of any visible substance that is."

"What do you mean by visible substance?" said Nathan.

"Why, anything that you can see," replied his father. "There are some other kinds of air, which are lighter than common air, but there is nothing else, so far as I know."

"Why, father, there are clouds. They float, and they are visible, I am sure."

"Yes," said his father. "There is some mystery about the floating of clouds. I don't fully understand it. Clouds are formed of small globules or little balls of water; and water, I should think, whatever the size of the little drops might be, would be heavier than air. And yet they seem to float. If they are large, like rain drops, they fall quickly to the ground. If they are small, like mist, they fall slowly. That I should expect. If they are finer still, like vapor or fog, I should think that they would fall still more slowly; but still I should suppose that they would descend. But they do not appear to descend; they seem to float, nearly at rest; though perhaps all the clouds we see, may be slowly descending all the time, while we do not perceive it."

"The smoke goes up from the top of the chimney," said Rollo.

"Yes," said his father, "there is no difficulty about that. The vapor from a fire is carried up by the warm air, no doubt. Air swells when it is heated, and so becomes lighter, and rises; and the hot air from the top of the chimney carries the vapor up with it, no doubt. After it rises a little way, and becomes cool, it ceases to ascend, but floats away horizontally. Perhaps it begins to descend when it gets cool, though very slowly; and perhaps all clouds are really descending all the time, though too slowly for us to perceive the motion."

"Only," said Rollo, "after a little time, they would get down to the ground."

"Perhaps not," said his father; "for, when they get down nearer the earth, where it is warm, they may be gradually dissolved, and disappear, and thus never reach the earth. I should think they would descend, being composed of globules of water, which, however small, must, I should think, be heavier than air."

"A soap bubble will float in the air," said Rollo.

"I never saw one that would," said his father, "unless it got into a current, which carried it up. A soap bubble -- make it ever so thin -- shows a tendency to descend, unless you put it out in the open air, where there are currents to carry it up. It descends very slowly, but still it descends. It is heavier than the air. I am not absolutely certain, but I believe there is no visible substance that is lighter than the air; and it is very well for us there is not."

"Why, father?" said Rollo.

"Because, if there were any, they would immediately rise from the earth, and float upwards, till they got up where the air was so light and thin, that they could not go up any higher."

"And so," said Rollo, "we should lose them."

"That would not be all," said his father. "They would float about, above us, and, if there were enough of them, they would form a perpetual cloud over our heads, to keep out the sun, and to make the world dark and gloomy. There seems to have been no way to keep all the solid and visible substances of the earth down upon its surface, but to make them all heavier than the air.

"And thus," continued his father, "all solid substances being heavier than the air, they sink in it, like stones or iron in water. Only those that are very much expanded in surface, sink very slowly, and sometimes almost seem to float."

"What do you mean by expanded, father?" said Nathan.

"Spread out," said his father. "An umbrella, for example, when it is spread out, is said to be expanded; other things are expanded in a little different way. A feather is expanded, that is, it is spread out in fine filaments, which extend, in every direction, into the air, all around the stem of it. Things that are expanded take a great deal of air with them when they descend, and so can only descend slowly."

"And water is expanded in a soap bubble," said Rollo.

"Yes," replied his father, "and there is a great deal of air included in it, which all has to be brought down when the bubble itself descends. And thus, you see, the bubble must descend slowly. Water is expanded, too, in clouds; for, in that case, it is divided into millions of small particles, by which it is spread out over a great deal of air, and cannot descend without bringing a large portion of the air with it. Men have contrived, on this principle, to make an apparatus to prevent being hurt by falling from great heights."

"What is it?" said Rollo.

"Why, it is called a parachute. It is a sort of umbrella; in fact, it is an umbrella, only made very large. It is folded up, and fastened under a balloon, just over the car, which the man is in. Then, if the balloon bursts, or any other accident happens to it, and the man begins to fall, the parachute opens and spreads, and then the man falls very slowly. The reason is, that the parachute takes hold of a large mass of air, and brings it down with it; and so it cannot descend very fast."

*    *    *    *    *

A few days after this, Nathan said to Rollo, as they were playing in the yard, that he wished that he had a parachute.

"I know where there is one," said Rollo.

"A parachute," said Nathan; "a real parachute?"

"Yes," said Rollo, "or, what is the same thing, a great umbrella."

"Is that just the same?" said Nathan.

"Yes," said Rollo; "for father said that a parachute was in fact only a large umbrella; and father has got a large umbrella in the closet, and I have a great mind to go and get it for a parachute."

"But you haven't got any balloon," said Nathan.

"O, no matter for that," said Rollo.

"Then how are you going to get up into the air?" asked Nathan.

"Why, I can climb up on the shed, and jump off that, and hold the umbrella over my head."

Just at this moment, Rollo's cousin James came into the yard, and Rollo ran to him, to explain to him about the parachute. After describing to him the construction of it, and its use by men who go up in balloons, he said he was going to get his father's umbrella, which would make an excellent parachute.

"And then," continued he, "I am going to get upon some high place, and jump off, and hold the parachute over my head, and then I shall come down as light as a feather."

"O Rollo," said James, "I don't believe you will."

"Yes I shall," said Rollo: "you see the parachute is expanded, and so brings down a great deal of air with it, and this makes it come very slowly. Air is a real thing, James, and it keeps the parachute back a great deal."

"James and Nathan both ran towards him, thinking that he must be hurt." -- Page 37.

So Rollo ran off after the umbrella, very much interested in proving to James, by actual experiment, that the air was a real thing. When he came with it, he was himself inclined to make the first experiment from the low side of the shed. He could climb up, by means of a fence at the corner. James advised him, however, to try it first from the end of a woodpile, which was pretty high, but yet not so high as the shed. James was not quite sure that the experiment would succeed, and he was afraid that Rollo might get hurt.

Rollo said that he was not afraid to jump off the shed. He knew the parachute would bear him up. He did not believe but that he could jump off the house with it; and, at any rate, he could jump off the shed, he knew. He accordingly clambered up, and, taking his station upon the eaves, he spread the umbrella over his head, and then jumped off.

Down he came with great violence; his cap flew off in one direction, and his umbrella rolled away in another, as he had to put out both his hands, to save himself, when he reached the ground. As it was, he came down upon all fours, and in such a way, that James and Nathan both ran towards him, thinking that he must be hurt.

"Did you hurt yourself, Rollo?" said James.

"No," said Rollo, "not much."

"I don't think the umbrella did you much good."

"No," said Rollo, as he got up rubbing his elbows, "it didn't, and I don't see what the reason is."

"You came down just as hard as you would without it."

"Yes," said Nathan, "and he almost broke his back; I don't believe the air is any real thing at all."

The fact was, that the umbrella did do some good. Rollo did not come down quite so hard as he would have done without it. It retarded his descent a little. But it was not large enough to enable him to descend in safety. When his father said that a parachute was in fact only a large umbrella, he meant a great deal larger than Rollo had supposed. A parachute, such as is used with balloons, is a great deal larger than any umbrella that ever was made.


Questions.

What was Nathan's wish, after he had read his father something out of his book? Did he think that he could fly if he had wings? Did his father think so? What deficiency did his father think was even more important than that of wings? Did Nathan think that a boy was stronger than a bird? Is a boy absolutely stronger than a bird? Is he relatively stronger? What is the meaning of relatively stronger? Would a man be strong enough to work wings that were sufficiently large to bear him up into the air? Would there be any great difficulty in constructing wings for him if he were strong enough?

Is any visible substance lighter than air? What would be the consequence if any of the loose substances about the earth's surface were light enough? What are clouds composed of? What difficulty did Rollo's father point out, in regard to their floating in the air? What is a parachute? Describe Rollo's experiment with the umbrella.



Chapter III.

Valve Making.


One morning, when Rollo awaked, he heard a sharp clicking against the window.

"Nathan," said he, "Nathan, I believe there is a snow-storm."

But Nathan was too sleepy to hear or understand.

Rollo looked up, but there was a curtain against the window, and he could not see very well. He listened. He heard a low, moaning sound made by the wind, and a continuance of the sharp clicking which he had heard at first.

When he had got up, and dressed himself, he found that there was a violent snow-storm. At first he was glad of it, for he liked snow-storms. But then, pretty soon, he was sorry, for it had been winter a long time, and he was impatient for the spring.

After breakfast, he and Nathan read and studied for two hours, under their mother's direction. When they were released from these duties, Rollo proposed to Nathan that they should go out into the shed, and see how the storm came on. There was a large door in the shed, opening towards the street, where they could stand, protected from the wind, and see the drifts of snow.

They accordingly put on their caps, and went. They found that the snow was pretty deep. It was heaped up upon the fence and against the windows; and there was a curious-shaped drift, with the top curled over in a singular manner, running along from the corner of the shed towards the garden gate.

"Ah," says Rollo, "when it clears up, I mean to go and wade through it."

"And I too," said Nathan.

"O Nathan," said Rollo, "it is over your head."

"Hark!" said Nathan; "who is that pounding in the barn?"

"It is Jonas, I suppose," said Rollo. "I mean to go out and see what he is doing."

"How are you going to get there?" said Nathan.

"O, I can put on my boots," said Rollo, "and go right out through the snow."

"I wish I could go," said Nathan.

"Well," said Rollo, "I can carry you on my back."

Nathan clapped his hands at this proposal, being doubly pleased at the prospect of both getting into the barn to see what Jonas was doing, and also of having a ride, on the way.

So Rollo put on his boots, while Nathan went and got Rollo his straps, to fasten his pantaloons around them. When all was ready, Rollo sat down upon the step of the door, in order that Nathan might get on easily.

"We'll play that I am a camel," said Rollo, "and that I'm kneeling down for you to get on."

"Do camels kneel down," said Nathan, "when the men want to ride?"

"Yes," said Rollo; and so saying, he rose laboriously, with his heavy burden upon his shoulders. He staggered along with some difficulty, but yet safely, until he came to the great drift; and, after wallowing into the midst of it, he lost his balance, and both camel and driver rolled over together into the snow. The snow got up under Nathan's sleeve, and he began to cry.

"O Nathan," said Rollo, "don't cry. I'll run and get Jonas to come and carry you in."

So Rollo ran into the barn, and called to Jonas to come quick. Jonas laid down his hammer upon the bench, and followed Rollo. He found Nathan in the snow, and took him up in his arms, and carried him into the barn.

As soon as he got him under cover, he brushed the snow off, and told him not to cry. "I've got a fire in the shop," said he, "and you shall see me do my work. I'm mending the bellows."

So he led Nathan through the barn, and thence along under a shed to a sort of shop-room, where there was a large fireplace and a fire. Rollo put on some sticks, which made a great blaze; and so Nathan soon got warm and dry, and forgot all his troubles. Then Jonas sat him up, upon a high stool, near the bench, where he could see him work. He was just drawing out some of the nails, by which the leather of the bellows was nailed to the sides.

"What is the matter with the bellows?" said Nathan.

"The valve is out of order," replied Jonas.

"The valve," repeated Nathan; "what is the valve?"

"The valve is a kind of clapper," said Jonas. "I will show it to you in a few minutes."

So Jonas proceeded to take off the leather from one of the sides of the bellows. There was a hole in one of the sides, but no hole in the other. Nathan had often noticed the hole, but he did not know what it was for.

"What is the hole for?" said Nathan.

"That is to let the air in," said Jonas.

"What do they want the air to come in for?" said Nathan.

"To make wind of," said Jonas.

"Do they make wind out of air?" said Nathan.

"Yes," said Jonas, "they get the bellows full of air, and then blow it out through the nose, and that makes wind."

"Wind is air, put in motion," said Rollo. "I read it in a book."

By this time, Jonas had taken off the leather so far that Nathan could see into the bellows. He saw that there was a little clapper over the hole, in one of the sides of the bellows.

"Is that the valve?" said he to Jonas.

"Yes," said Jonas.

"What is it for?" said Nathan.

"It is to keep the wind from coming out of that hole."

"Why don't they want the wind to go out of that hole?" said Nathan.

"Because," said Jonas, "they want it to go to the fire, -- to blow the fire."

"You see," said Rollo, "it can't go out of the hole, and so it has to go out of the long nose, which is pointed towards the fire."

"What makes it go out at all?" said Nathan.

"Why, when we blow the bellows, we press the two sides together, and that presses the wind out. It can't go out of the hole whence it came in, because the clapper stops it up, and so it goes out the long nose, right into the fire, and makes the fire burn."

By this time, Jonas had got the leather off so far, that he could get at the clapper to mend it. He told the boys that it was old and worn out, and he must make a new one.

"How are you going to make it?" said Rollo.

"You'll see," said Jonas, "if you watch me closely."

So Jonas took some leather, and cut out a piece, of an oblong shape, a little wider than the hole, and about twice as long. Then he laid this down over the hole. It covered it entirely. Then he took some small carpet nails, and nailed one of the ends of the leather down to the board. Then Jonas put his hand down under the board, and run one of his fingers up through the hole, and pushed the leather up a little way.

"There," said he to the boys, "you see I have nailed the leather, so that, when it lies down in its place, it covers the hole completely; and yet I can push it up a little with my fingers, so that there will be an opening."

Then Jonas cut a small leather strap, and nailed one end of it down upon one side of the clapper, and the other end upon the other side of the clapper. He put one little carpet nail into each end of the strap. The strap, when it was nailed, passed directly across the clapper or valve. It was not drawn tight across, but it lay upon the clapper loosely. The ends were nailed tight, but the middle rested loosely upon the clapper.

"Now," said Jonas, "I can push the clapper up a little way, but I can't push it far. The strap keeps it from coming up far."

"But why," said Nathan, "do you want it to go up at all?"

"To let the air in," said Jonas. "When I get the leather all nailed on again, I'll show you the whole operation of it."

"And you can be telling us about it in the mean time," said Rollo.

"Well, then," said Jonas, "when I lift up the upper side of the bellows by the handle, to blow, the air comes in by the hole. The clapper lifts up a little way, and lets it in. Then, when I press down the handle again, it presses the air out through the nose, because it can't go back through the valve hole."

"Why not?" said Nathan.

"Because," said Jonas, "the valve falls down over the hole, and stops it up. It is made so as to lift up easily, and then to fall down and cover the hole exactly, and prevent the air going out the same way it came in. So, as it cannot get out by the valve, it has all to go out through the nose. If the nose were stopped up, it could not get out at all."

"And what then?" said Rollo.

"Why, then," replied Jonas, "you could not bring the two sides of the bellows together again. The air between would keep them apart."

"I should like to try," said Rollo.

"Well," said Jonas; "and there are some other experiments you may perform with it too."

At length, Jonas said that he had got the leather all nailed on, and they might try the experiment. He took hold of the nose of the bellows, and held his thumb near the end of it, ready to stop up the hole.

"Now, Nathan, you may take hold of the handles, and pull them apart as if you were going to blow."

Nathan did so. He pulled the handles apart, and held them open.

"Now," said Jonas, "I will stop up the nose, and the valve will close itself; and then you will find that you cannot bring the sides together again."

So Jonas put his thumb over the hole, and told Nathan to blow.

Nathan pressed hard, and the sides came together again, about as easily as usual.

"What!" exclaimed Jonas with surprise. He did not know what to make of the failure of his experiment.

"There must be a leak somewhere," said he. And he took the bellows out of Nathan's hand to look for it.

He found there was a corner, on the side opposite to the one where he had been working, where the leather was open, he having forgotten to nail it down.

"Ah!" said he, "here is the difficulty. When I have nailed this down, we will try again."

"Is that a leak?" said Nathan.

"Yes," said Jonas. "When you worked the bellows, you pressed the air all out through there. I did not know that that was open. Let me nail this down, and then we will begin our experiment regularly."


Questions.

What was Jonas doing in the shop, when Rollo and Nathan went out to find him? What part of the bellows was out of order? How did he make a new valve? How did he fasten it to its place? Did he nail down only one edge, or both edges? Why did he want the other edge to be left at liberty? How did he prevent its lifting up too far? What was the first experiment which he performed with the bellows, after he had finished the mending? Did it succeed at first? Why not? In working a pair of bellows, where does the air come in? Where does it go out? Why cannot the air escape through the valve where it comes in?



Chapter IV.

Experiments.


When Jonas had finished nailing down the corner, he said, "Now there are several experiments, which we can perform with the bellows. I will be the professor, and you two shall be my class in philosophy, and I will direct you how to make the experiments.

"First," said Jonas, "you, Rollo, may take hold of the nose of the bellows with your hand, in such a way as to put your thumb over the end of it, to stop it up, and then let Nathan try to blow."

Rollo did so, and Nathan tried to blow. He found that he could open the bellows very easily; but when he attempted to press the sides together again, he could not. He crowded the handle belonging to the upper side down, as hard as he could, but it would not move.

"What makes it do so?" said Nathan.

"The air inside," said Jonas. "We have stopped up all the places, where it could get out. The valve stops itself. Rollo stops the nose with his thumb, and I have nailed the leather down close, about all the sides. And so the air can't get out, and that keeps you from bringing the sides together again."

Nathan tried again with all his strength. The sides came together very slowly.

"They're coming," said he.

"Yes," said Jonas. "They come a little, just as fast as the air can leak out through the little leaks all around."

"I thought you stopped all the leaks," said Nathan.

"Yes," replied Jonas, "I stopped all the real leaks, but still I can't make it perfectly tight. Some air can escape between the leather and the nails all around, and just as fast as it can get out, so fast you can press the sides together, and no faster."

Here Nathan tried again with all his strength; but he could only bring the sides together very slowly.

"Now comes the second experiment," said Jonas. "While Nathan is trying to press the two handles together, you, Rollo, may run your finger into the hole, and push up the valve a little."

Rollo did so. He pushed up the valve a little with his finger, and that allowed the air to escape through the opening. The consequence was, that the bellows collapsed at once under the pressure which Nathan was exerting upon them.

"There," said Jonas, "you see that when the air is kept in, you cannot bring the sides together; but when I let the air out, then they come together easily."

"Yes," said Nathan; "do it again, Rollo."

So they performed the experiment again. Nathan pulled the handles apart wide, while Rollo kept his thumb over the nose, to keep the air from issuing through. Then Nathan tried to press them together; but he could not, until Rollo put his finger under, and pushed up the valve a little, and then they came together again very easily.

"The air is a real thing, I verily believe," said Nathan.

"Yes," said Rollo, "I know it is. And now for the third experiment, Jonas."

"The third experiment," said Jonas, "is this. Turn the bellows bottom upwards, and try to blow."

Nathan did so. He found that he could work the bellows easily -- too easily, in fact; but they did not blow.

"Hold your hand opposite the nose, and see if any wind comes," said Jonas.

They did so; there was no wind, or rather scarcely any.

"The reason is," said Jonas, "that, when the bellows are bottom upwards, the valve hangs down off from the hole all the time, and lets the air all out through the hole in the side; and it can come out more easily there than through the nose, and so it don't blow well."

"Well, Jonas," said Rollo, "that's a pretty good experiment; but what is the next? Let me try the next. Nathan, it is my turn."

"The next experiment, which is the fifth, --  -- "

"No, the fourth," said Nathan.

"The fourth, then," said Jonas, "is to prove what I said to you -- that the air, which is blown out at the nose of the bellows, really comes in through the valve. Let me see, -- I want something to make a smoke."

"Will not paper do?" said Rollo.

"Yes," said Jonas, "here is some brown paper, which will do." So Jonas rolled it up, and told Rollo to set it on fire, and then, when it was well burning, to step on it with his foot, and put the flame out.

Rollo did so, and the paper lay in a heap, making a great smoke upon the hearth, just before the fire.

"Now," said Jonas, "put the bellows upon its edge, by the side of the paper, so as to have the valve near the smoke, and then hold still a minute, until the smoke comes up steadily by the valve."

When this was done, Jonas told Nathan to take hold of the nose of the bellows, to steady it, so that Rollo could blow. He then directed Rollo to lean the bellows over a little towards the smoke, so that the moving side should not rub upon the hearth, when he began to blow.

"Now," he continued, "if you work the bellows, you will see that the smoke will be drawn in through the valve, and then will come out through the nose."

This experiment succeeded perfectly well, only just in the midst of the interest that they felt, in seeing the smoke come pouring out through the nose, they heard a bell ring at the house. They knew at once that this bell was for Rollo and Nathan; and so the two boys jumped up from the hearth, and ran out to see what was wanted. They went through the shed into the barn, and thence on till they came to the great barn door, where they had come in. There Rollo stopped, -- for he did not like to go out into the snow, -- and asked Dorothy, who was ringing the bell, what she wanted.

"Where's Nathan?" said Dorothy.

"He's here with me," said Rollo. Nathan was coming along, as fast as he could, through the barn.

"Do you want us?" said Rollo.

"No," said Dorothy, "only we did not know where you were. You may stay half an hour more, and then it will be nearly dinner time."

Dorothy then went in, leaving the boys at the great barn door. The door opened in such a direction, that the wind did not blow in; and Rollo and Nathan looked out for some time, watching the falling snow, and listening to the wind, as it roared through the tops of the trees. At last, when they began to think of returning to the shop, Rollo said, -- 

"O Nathan, let us go and hide, and then Jonas will not know where we are."

"Well," said Nathan, "we will."

The boys accordingly began to look about the barn for a place to hide. It was a large barn, with stalls for oxen and cows, and cribs for horses, and one or two calf-pens. Then there was a granary in one corner, and a tool-room near it, and lofts and scaffolds above. The boys found plenty of places to hide in, and it took them some time to decide which to choose. At last, they found a good warm place, by some bundles of wheat straw, up in the barn chamber; and they amused themselves by choosing out large straws, and making tubes of them to blow through. They called them their bellows.

They entirely forgot that they were hid from Jonas, for nearly half an hour; and then Rollo proposed that they should creep softly down, and see what Jonas was about. So they went down stairs on tiptoe; Rollo first, and Nathan following. They crept softly along to the door leading out into the shed, through which they had to pass in order to get to the shop; and Rollo was going to open this softly, when, to his surprise, he found it fastened.

"Why, Nathan," said he, "this door is fastened."

"How came it fastened?" said Nathan.

"I don't know," said Rollo, "unless Jonas fastened it. I think he must have finished his work, and gone into the house; and so he has fastened this door."

"And now he won't come and find us," said Nathan.

"No," said Rollo, "and we must go out the front door. And I don't care much," he continued, "for it is pretty near dinner time."

The boys then went back to the front door of the barn, and, to their surprise and alarm, found that fastened too.

"What shall we do?" said Rollo; "Jonas has fastened us in." As Rollo said this, his face assumed an expression of great solicitude, and Nathan began to cry.

"Don't cry, Nathan," said he; "we can find some way to get out. But I don't see, I confess, what made Jonas lock us in."

The truth was, that Jonas did not know that the boys were in the barn when he fastened it up. As they did not come back after they had gone to answer the bell, he supposed that they had gone into the house; and when he was ready to come in himself, he shut and fastened the back doors of the barn, as he usually did when he left the shop. He then came around to the front barn door, and although that was on the sheltered side, so that the wind did not blow in, he thought it possible that the wind might change, and so drive the snow in upon the barn floor; and therefore, to make all safe, he thought that he would shut them, too. He accordingly shut the great doors, and put the fid into the staple. The fid is a wooden pin, to be passed through the staple when the doors are shut, to fasten them. The doors cannot be opened again until the fid is taken out.

Rollo went all around the barn, trying to find some place where he could get out; but he could not find any place at all.

"Let us go up stairs," said he, at length, to Nathan.

"O, it will not do any good to go up stairs," said Nathan. "It would kill us to jump out the window."

"I know we can't jump out the window," said Rollo, "but perhaps we can find out some way to get down. O, there is a ladder; I remember now, Nathan, there is a ladder. We can get down from the window by the ladder."

"I shall be afraid to go down the ladder," said Nathan.

"O no," said Rollo, "I will go first, and see if it is safe."

By this time they had reached the barn chamber. There was a window in it, with glass, over the great barn door; but Rollo could not get it open. He told Nathan that, if he could only get it open, and could find a long pole, he could reach it down, and knock the fid out, and so open the great doors. But, with all his efforts, he could not raise the window.

There was another window, which had no glass, but was closed by a wooden shutter, which opened upon hinges like a door. Rollo said he meant to open this window. Now, it happened that this window was upon that side of the barn which was exposed to the wind and storm; and, the moment that Rollo had pushed open the shutter a little way, the wind forced it instantly from his hand, and slammed it back against the side of the barn, with great violence. It almost pulled Rollo himself out of the window.

Nathan looked frightened. Rollo himself looked somewhat astonished at such an unexpected effect; but presently said, -- 

"Well, Nathan, I rather think that, if you had had hold of that shutter, you would have thought that air was a real thing."

"O, that was the wind, Rollo; that was the wind," said Nathan.

Rollo did not answer, but went to the ladder, which was standing up against the hay-loft. It was a pretty long, but yet a very light ladder; and Rollo and Nathan succeeded, after some difficulty, in getting it down, and in running the end out of the window. When the lower end reached the ground, the upper end was two or three feet above the bottom of the window; so that Rollo could easily get upon it to descend. The wind and storm, which raged with great violence, were somewhat terrifying; but he knew that the ladder was secure, the upper part being confined in the window; and so he resolutely descended. When he had fairly reached the ground, he looked up, with an expression of great satisfaction upon his countenance, and said, -- 

"There! now, Nathan, for your turn."

But Nathan was afraid to venture; and Rollo himself was half afraid to have him make the attempt. While they were standing in this perplexity, Rollo heard a voice behind him, calling out, -- 

"Rollo."

Rollo turned, and saw Dorothy standing by the door.

"What are you doing, Rollo?" said Dorothy.

"I am trying to get Nathan out of the barn," said Rollo.

"How came he in the barn?" said Dorothy.

"Why, Jonas locked us in, and I had to come down the ladder; but Nathan is afraid, and I can't get him out."

"Why don't you go to the door, and let him right out?"

"O," said Rollo, laughing, "I never thought of that. Go down, Nathan," he continued, "to the door, and I will go round and knock out the fid."

So Nathan went down, and Rollo, meeting him there, knocked out the fid, and released him from his imprisonment.


Questions.

What was the first experiment with the bellows, described in this chapter? Why could not Nathan press the two sides of the bellows together, while the nose was stopped? What was the second experiment? What was the effect produced by turning the bellows bottom upwards, as in the third experiment? What was the fourth experiment? What was the use of the smoke of the paper? How were the experiments interrupted? What evidence did Rollo and Nathan have that the air was a real substance, when in the barn chamber?



Chapter V.

Pressure.


One evening, just after tea, Rollo came to his father, who was sitting by the side of the fire, and said, -- 

"Father, I wish we could see the air, as we can the water, and then perhaps we could try experiments with it."

"O, we can try experiments with the air as it is," said his father.

"Can we?" said Rollo; "I don't see how."

"We cannot see the air, it is true; but then we can see its effects, and so we can experiment upon it."

"Well, at any rate," said Rollo, "we can't build a dam, and make it spout through a hole, like water."

"No," said his father, "not exactly. In your dam, for instance, when it was full, you had water on one side of the board, and no water on the other; and then, by opening a hole in the board, the water spouted through; but we cannot very well get air on one side of a partition, and no air on the other; if we could, it would spout through very much as the water did."

"Why can't we do that, sir?" said Rollo.

"Because," replied his father, "we are all surrounded and enveloped with air. It spreads in every direction all around us, and rises many miles above us. Whereas, in respect to water, you had one little stream before you, which you could manage just as you pleased. If you were down at the bottom of the sea, then the water would be all around you and above you; and there, even if you could live there, you could not have a dam."

"No, sir," said Rollo, "the water would be everywhere."

"Yes," replied his father, "and the air is everywhere. If, however, we could get it away from any place, as, for instance, from this room, then bore a hole through the wall, the weight of the air outside would crowd a portion of it through the hole, exactly as the weight of the water above the board in your dam crowded a part through the hole in the board."

"I wish we could try it," said Rollo.

"We can try it, in substance," said his father, "in this room; or -- no, the china closet will be better."

There was a china closet, which had two doors in it. One door opened into the parlor, where Rollo and his father were sitting. The other door opened into the back part of the entry. Rollo's father explained how he was going to perform the experiment, thus: -- 

"If we could, by any means, get all the air out of the closet for a moment, then the pressure of the air outside would force a jet of it in through the key-holes of the doors, and the crevices."

"And how can we get the air out?" said Rollo.

"We can't," said his father, "get it all out; but we can get a part of it out by shutting the door quick. The door will carry with it a part of the air that was in the closet, and then the outside air will be spouted in, through the key-hole of the other door. Only we can't see it, as we can the water."

"No," said Rollo; "but I can put my hand there, and feel it."

"A better way," said his father, "would be to hold a lamp opposite to the key-hole, and see if it blows the flame."

Rollo tried the experiment, in the way his father had described. He went into the closet with the lamp. He held the lamp opposite to the key-hole, and pretty near to it, and then he asked Nathan to shut the other door suddenly. Nathan, who was standing all ready by the other door, which was about half open, put his two hands against it, and pushed it to, with all his strength, producing a great concussion.

"O Nathan," said his father, "you need not be quite so violent as that."

"It succeeded, father, it succeeded," said Rollo.

"I'm glad it succeeded," said his father; "but Nathan need not have shut the door with so much force."

"I wanted to drive out all the air," said Nathan.

"I'll show you how to do it," said his father.

Rollo's father accordingly arose, and came to the closet door. He opened the door wide, and then explained to the boys, that the beginning of the movement of the door, when it was wide open, did not drive out any air.

"For," said he, "there is so large a space between the edge of the door and the wall, that the air that is put in motion by the movement of the door, can pass directly round the edge, back into the closet again. It is only when the door is almost shut, when the edge of it comes close to the casing all around, that the movement of the door drives the air out."

Then he took hold of the latch of the door, and put it almost to, very gently. He turned the latch so as to prevent its snapping against the catch, and then pushed it suddenly into its place three or four times, opening the door only a very little way every time.

"Now," said he, "hold the lamp at the key-hole, and watch the flame, while I shut the door two or three times in this way."

Rollo did so, Nathan standing all the time by his side. They observed that the flame of the lamp was driven into the room every time the door was shut; proving that, every time a little of the air was driven out by the door, a little puff rushed in at the key-hole.

"Let us stop up the key-hole," said Rollo, "and then it can't get in."

"Yes," said his father, "there are a great many little crevices all around the closet, where the air can come in."

"Couldn't we stop those up too?" said Rollo.

"No," said his father, "not so as to make the closet air-tight. For, if the crevices could all be stopped exactly, the air would come in through the very wood itself."

"How?" said Rollo.

"Why, there are little pores in wood, that is, little channels that the sap flowed in when the wood was growing, and the air can pass through these."

Here Rollo's father observed that Rollo was looking very intently at the table; and he asked him what he was doing: he said he was trying to find some of the pores.

"You can't see them there," said his father. "St. Domingo mahogany is a very hard and close-grained kind of wood. If it was summer, and you could dig down and get a small piece of the root of the great elm-tree in the yard, you could see the pores and channels there."

After some more conversation on this subject, Rollo asked his father if he could not think of some other experiments for them to try. His father said that he did not just then think of any experiment, but that, if Rollo and Nathan would come and sit down by the fire, he would give them some information on the subject. Rollo's mother said that she should like to hear too. They accordingly waited until she was ready, and then, when all were seated, Mr. Holiday began thus: -- 

"Air is in many respects much like water."

"Yes," interrupted Rollo, "just like water, only thinner, because, you see --  -- "

"You must not interrupt me," said his father, "unless to ask some question, which is necessary to understand what I say. It is entirely irregular for a pupil, instead of listening to his teacher, to interrupt, in order to tell something that he knows himself."

Rollo's father smiled, as he said this, but Rollo looked rather ashamed. Then his father proceeded: -- 

"There is one very remarkable difference between them. Water is not compressible by force; but air is."

"What is the meaning of compressible?" said Nathan.

"Compressible things," said his father, "are those that can be compressed, that is, pressed together, so as to take up less room than they did before. Sponge is compressible. A pillow is compressible. But iron is not compressible, and water is not compressible."

"I should think it was," said Nathan; "it is very soft."

"It is very yielding," replied his father, "when you press it, but it is not pressed into any smaller space. It only moves away. If you have a tumbler half full of water, and press a ball down into it, you could not crowd the water into any smaller space than it occupied at first; but, as fast as the ball went down, the water would come up around the sides of the ball."

"But suppose," said Rollo, "that the ball was just big enough to fit the tumbler all around; then the water could not come up."

"And then," said his father, "you could not crowd the ball down."

"Could not a very strong man?" said Nathan.

"No," replied his father, "the water cannot be sensibly compressed. But now, if the tumbler contained only air, and if a ball were to be put in at the top, just large enough to fit the tumbler exactly, and if a strong man were to crowd it down with all his strength, he would, perhaps, compress the air into half the space which it occupied before."

"Perhaps the tumbler would break," said Nathan.

"Yes," replied his father, "and the tumbler will answer only for a supposition; but for a real experiment it would be best to have a cylinder of iron."

"What is a cylinder?" said Nathan.

"An iron vessel, shaped like a tumbler, only as large at the bottom as it is at the top, would be a cylinder. Now, if there was a cylinder of iron, with the inside turned perfectly true, and a brass piston fitted to it --  -- "

"What is a piston?" said Nathan.

"A piston," said his father, "is a sort of stopper, exactly fitted to the inside of a cylinder, so as to slide up and down. It is made to fit perfectly, and then it is oiled, so as to go up and down without much friction, that is, hard rubbing. There is a sort of stem coming up from the middle of the piston, called the piston rod, which is to draw up the piston, and to press it down by.

"Now," continued his father, "if a strong man had a cylinder like this, with a piston fitted to it, and a strong handle across the top of the piston rod, perhaps he might press the air into one half the space which it occupied before. That is, if the cylinder was full of air when he put the piston in, perhaps he could get the piston down half way to the bottom. Then the air would be twice as dense as it was before; that is, there would be twice as much of it in the same space as there was before. It would be twice as compact and heavy. This is called condensing air. The philosophers have ingenious instruments for condensing air.

"If, however, a man condenses air in this way, by crowding down a piston, he does not begin the condensation when the piston begins to descend. The air is condensed a great deal before he begins. All the air around us is condensed."

"How comes it condensed?" said Rollo.

"Why, you recollect that, when you bored a hole through the board in the bottom of your dam, the water spouted out."

"No, father," said Rollo, "we pulled the plug out; Jonas bored the hole."

"Well," said his father, "the water spouted out."

"Yes," said Rollo.

"What made it?" said his father.

"Why, the water above it was heavy, and pressed down upon it, and crowded it out through the hole."

"Yes," said his father, "and the deeper the water, the more heavily it was pressed."

"Yes, sir," said Rollo, "and the farther it spouted."

"Because it was pressed down by the load of such a high column of water."

"Yes, sir," said Rollo.

"Well," replied his father, "it is just so with the air. The air all around us is pressed down by the load of all that is above us. We are, in fact, down at the bottom of a great ocean of air, and the air here is loaded down very heavy."

"How heavy?" said Rollo.

"O, very heavy indeed," said his father.

"Why, air is pretty light," said Rollo.

"Yes," replied his father, "but then the column of it is very high."

"How high?" said Rollo.

"Why, between thirty and forty miles. But it grows thinner and thinner towards the top; so it is not as heavy, by any means, as a column of air would be, thirty miles high, and as dense all the way up as it is here."

"What makes it grow thinner and thinner towards the top?" said Rollo.

"Because," said his father, "that which is near the top, has not as much load of air above it, to press it down."

"And that which is at the top," said Rollo, "has none above it, to press it down."

"No," replied his father.

"And how thin is it there?"

"Nobody knows," said his father.

"What, nobody at all?" said Nathan.

"No, I believe not; at least I do not; and I don't know that any body does."

"How do they know, then, how high it is?" said Rollo.

"The philosophers have calculated in some way or other, though I don't exactly know how. I believe they have ascertained how great the pressure of the air is here at the surface of the earth, and have calculated in some way, from that, how high the air must be to produce such a pressure."

"And how high must it be?" said Nathan.

"Why, between thirty and forty miles," said Rollo; "father told us once."

"And yet," continued his father, "water, thirty or forty feet deep, would produce as great a pressure as a column of air of thirty or forty miles. That is, the air around presses about as heavily, and would force a jet of air through a hole with about as much force, as water would, coming out at the bottom of a dam, as high as a common three-story house."

These explanations were all very interesting to Rollo and to his mother; but Nathan found it rather hard to understand them all, and he began to be somewhat restless and uneasy. At length he said, -- 

"And now, father, haven't you almost done telling about the air?"

"Why, yes," said his father; "I have told you enough for this time; only you must remember it all."

"I don't think I can remember it quite all," said Nathan.

"Well, then, remember the general principle, at any rate," said his father, "which is this -- that we live at the bottom of a vast ocean of air, and that the lower portions of this air are pressed down by the load of all the air above; that, being so pressed, the lower air is condensed, -- so that we live in the midst of air that is pressed down, and condensed, by the load of all that is above it; and that, consequently, whenever the air is taken away, even in part, from any place, as you removed some of it from the china closet, the pressure upon the air outside forces the air in through every opening it can find."

"I think that is a little too much for me to remember," said Nathan.

Nathan's father and mother laughed on hearing this, though Nathan did not know what they were laughing at. His father told him that he could not expect him to remember all; and that, to pay him for his particular attention, he would tell him a story.

So he took Nathan up in his lap, and told him a very curious story of a boy, who went about the yard with a little dog upon one of his shoulders, a cat upon the other, and a squirrel on his head. The squirrel was tame.


Questions.

Why cannot experiments be performed upon the pressure of air, as conveniently as upon the pressure of water? How did Rollo's father contrive to remove a part of the air from the china closet? Where did they expect that the air would be forced into the closet? How were they to make this effect visible? Did the experiment succeed? Suppose the key-hole had been stopped up; where would the air have been forced in? Suppose all the crevices had been closed. Is water compressible? Is air compressible? What is the shape of a cylinder? What is a piston? How might air be compressed by means of a cylinder and piston? What was the general principle which Rollo's father stated, in conclusion?



Chapter VI.

Ballooning.


The next evening, Rollo and Nathan had another conversation with their father, respecting air. When they were all seated, he commenced as follows: -- 

"I told you yesterday, that air may be compressed by force, while water cannot be. It has another property, which is in some respects the reverse of this. It springs back into its original bulk, when the pressure is removed."

"How?" said Nathan; "I don't exactly understand you."

"Why, you remember what I said about the experiment with the iron cylinder and a piston to fit it."

"Yes, sir," said Rollo.

"What was the experiment?" said his father.

"Why, if a man were to press the piston down hard, he could crowd the air all into the lower half of the cylinder."

"Yes," replied his father. "Now, the property I am going to tell you about this evening is this -- that, if the man lets go of the piston rod, the air that is condensed into the bottom of the cylinder, will spring up, and force the piston up again. This property is called elasticity. It is sometimes called the expansive force of the air. For it is a force tending to expand the air, that is, to swell it out into its original dimensions. This is another great difference between air and water.

"Now, as all the air around us," continued Rollo's father, "is pressed down very heavily, and is condensed a great deal, it is all the time endeavoring to expand; and it would expand, were it not that the great burden of the air above it keeps it condensed. But water is not compressed, and has no tendency to expand. The water of Rollo's dam, for instance, had all the weight of the atmosphere resting upon it, but it did not compress it at all, and so it did not tend to expand.

"And now," said his father, "I cannot perform any experiment, to show you that air tends strongly to expand or swell out into a great space, while water does not; but I can make a supposition, which will illustrate it. Suppose we had a large, but very thin, glass bottle, filled with water, and put down upon the floor in the middle of this room. Suppose, also, that we had another bottle, of the same size and shape, filled with air, and we put that down upon the floor by the side of the other; both bottles being stopped very tight. Now, if we could by any means suddenly take away all the air from the room, so that there should be nothing around the bottles, then the bottle of water would remain just as it is, for the glass would have nothing to support but the weight of the water, and it would be strong enough for that. But the bottle of air would fly all to pieces; for that would not rest quietly, like the water, satisfied with the space which it already has, and only pressing with its own weight upon the sides of the glass; but it would immediately expand with so much force as to break the thin glass all to pieces."

"Would it!" exclaimed Rollo and Nathan together. "And would it make a loud noise?"

"Yes," replied their father, "I presume it would make a loud explosion; that is, if the air in the room around it could by any means be all at once and suddenly removed.

"And so you must remember," he continued, "that there are two very remarkable differences between air and water. Air may be condensed by pressure, and, as it exists all around us, is greatly condensed by the pressure of the air above, and it may be compressed more. And air is expansive, while water is not. Whenever the pressure upon it is removed, it suddenly expands, or spreads out in all directions."

"O dear me!" said Nathan, with a sigh.

"What is the matter?" said his father.

"Why, I can't understand it very well."

"Can't you?" said his father. "Well, I must admit that you are rather too young to study pneumatics."

"Pneumatics?" repeated Rollo.

"Yes," said his father; "that is the name of this science."

"Then it sailed slowly away." -- Page 85.

"What, the science of air?" said Rollo.

"Yes," said his father, "the science which treats of air, and of all other compressible and expansive fluids. But let me think. I must try to tell you something which Nathan can understand and be interested in. If I had a very light feather, I could let him perform an experiment."

"Would a little down do?" said Rollo's mother.

"Yes," replied his father, "that would be better than a feather."

Mrs. Holiday then went and brought a little down, and handed it to Rollo's father. Now, there was a lamp upon the table, of a peculiar kind, called a study lamp. It had a glass tube, called a chimney, around the wick, and consequently around the flame itself, being round, like a ring.

Rollo's father told Nathan to hold the down over the top of this glass chimney, and then to let it go.

Nathan did so. The little tuft of down was wafted up into the air, quite high above the lamp, and then it sailed slowly away, and fell down upon the table.

"I know what makes it rise," said Rollo. "It is the heat. The heat makes it rise."

"Do you think so?" said his father. "Then take the down, and lay it gently upon the hearth, before the fire, as near as you can."

Rollo did so. He had to take his hand away very quick, for it was quite hot there. The little tuft remained quietly upon the hearth where he placed it.

"There," said his father, "is not that a hotter place than it was over the lamp?"

"Yes, sir," said Rollo.

"Then, if it was heat that made it rise, why does not it rise now?"

Rollo could not tell.

"I will tell you how it was," said his father. "Heat makes air more expansive. When air is heated, it swells; when it is cool, it shrinks again. Now, if it swells, it becomes lighter, and so it is buoyed up by the heavier air around it; just as wood at the bottom of the sea would be buoyed up, and would rise to the surface of the water. Now, the heat of the lamp heats the air that is in the glass chimney, and swells it. This makes it lighter; and so the air around it, which is heavier, buoys it up, and it carries up the feather with it."

"No, the down, father," said Nathan.

"Yes, the down," said his father.

"Then it seems to me, after all," said Rollo, "that it is the heat which makes it rise."

"Yes," said his father, "it does, indirectly. It expands the air; that makes it lighter; then the heavy air around it buoys it up, and, when it goes up, it carries up the down. So that it is not strictly correct to say, that the heat carries it up. The heat sets in operation a train of causes and effects, the last of which results in carrying up the feather.

"Now," continued his father, "there is always a stream of air going up, wherever there is a lamp, or a fire, or heat, which heats the air in any way. The expanded air from a fire goes up chimney. The cool and heavy air in the room and out of doors crowds it up."

"The air out of doors?" said Rollo. "How can that crowd it up?"

"Why, it presses in through all the crevices and openings all around the room, and crowds the light air up the chimney. All the smoke is carried up too with it, and it comes pouring out at the top of the chimney all the time."

"You can see that the air presses in at all these crevices," continued Rollo's father, "by experiment."

"What experiment is it?" said Rollo; "let us try it."

"I will let Nathan try it," said his father, "and you may go with him and see the effect. First," he continued, "you see by the smoke, that the air really goes up the chimney; and I will show you that other air really crowds into the space, from other parts of the room."

So he took a lamp from the table, -- not the study lamp; it was a common lamp, -- and held it at various places in the opening of the fireplace, by the jambs and near the upper part; and Rollo and Nathan saw that the flame, in all cases, was turned in towards the chimney.

"Yes," said Rollo, "I see it is drawn in."

"No," said his father; "strictly speaking, it is not drawn in; it is pressed in, by the cool and heavy air of the room."

"I thought," said Rollo's mother, "that the chimney drew the air from the room into it."

"That is what is generally said," replied Mr. Holiday, "but it is not strictly true. The common idea is, that the hot air rises in the chimney, and so draws the air from the room to supply its place; but this is not so. In the first place, nothing can rise unless it is forced up. The lightest things have some weight, and would, if left to themselves, fall. The hottest and lightest air in a chimney would fall to the earth, if there was no cooler and heavier air around it, to force it to rise; -- just as the lightest cork, which would rise very quick from the bottom of the sea, would fall back again very quick, if the water was not there.

"Remember, then, Nathan and Rollo, that, when a fire is built in a fireplace, so as to warm the air in the chimney, it makes this air not so heavy; and then the cool air all around it in the room and out of doors, presses in, and crowds under the light air, and makes it ascend."

"But, father," said Nathan, "you said I might perform an experiment."

"Very well, I am ready now. Take the lamp, and carry it around the room, and hold it opposite any little opening you can find."

"I can't find any little openings," said Nathan.

"O yes," said his father; "the key-hole of the door is a little opening, and there is a narrow crevice all around the door; and you will find little crevices around the windows. Now, hold the lamp opposite any of these, and you will see that the air presses in."

So Nathan went with the lamp, Rollo following him, and held the lamp opposite to the key-hole, and the crevices around the door and windows; only, when he came to the window, his father told him to be very careful not to set the curtain on fire.

Rollo wanted Nathan to let him try it once; and so Nathan gave him the lamp. He said he meant to make a crevice; and so he pushed up the window a very little way, and held the lamp opposite to the opening. The air pressed the flame in towards the room, in all cases.

"People commonly say, that it is drawn in," said his father, "but that is not strictly correct; it is really pressed in. There is no power of attraction, in the air that is in the room, to draw in the air that is out of doors, through the crevices; but the air that is out of doors, is so heavy, that it presses in, and crowds the warm and light air up the chimney.

"And now," said his father, "I cannot tell you anything more this evening; but, if you remember this, I will give you some further instruction another time."

"Well, sir," said Nathan, "only I wish you would tell me a little story, as you did last evening. Have not I been still?"

His father had noticed, that he had been very still and attentive, but did not think before, that it was in expectation of being rewarded with a story.

"Well," said his father, "I will tell you a story, or give you a little advice. How should you like a little advice?"

"Well, father, a little advice; just which you please."

"I advise you, then, -- let me see, -- what shall I advise you? -- No, on the whole, I will tell you a story. Once there was a man, and he was a philosopher. He understood all that I have been explaining to you about the air being light when it was hot. So he got some very thin paper, and made a large paper bag. He cut the paper very curiously, and pasted it together at the edges in such a way, that the bag, when it was done, was round, like a ball; and it had a round opening at the bottom of it. In fact, it was a large paper ball."

"How large was it?" said Nathan.

"It was so large, that, when it was swelled out full, it would have been higher than your head."

"O, what a large ball!" said Nathan. "But what was it for?"

"Why, the man thought, as hot air is lighter than cool air, and floats up, that perhaps, if he could fill his paper ball with hot air, it would go up too."

"And did it?" said Nathan.

"Yes," said his father. "He filled it with hot air; and the hot air was so light, that it rose up and carried the paper ball with it."

"How did he get the hot air into it?" said Rollo.

"Why, he held it over a little fire, with the mouth down. Then the hot air from the fire went up into the ball, and swelled it out full."

"How high did it go?" said Nathan.

"O, it soared away," said his father, "away up into the air, very high; until at length it got cool, and then it came down."

"I should like to see such a ball as that," said Nathan.

"Such a ball as that is called a balloon," said his father.

"I wish I could see a balloon," said Nathan.


Questions.

What is the important difference between air and water, which was explained in the last chapter, and mentioned in this? Does the air tend to expand again after it is compressed? What is this property of the air called? Is the air around us already condensed, or is it in its natural state? What causes it to be condensed? Suppose a thin glass vessel were to be filled with air, and another with water, and the air suddenly removed from the room around them; what would be the effects? What effect does heat have upon the expansibility of air? How may this effect be made to appear over a lamp? In a chimney? What was the story which Rollo's father told Nathan?



Chapter VII.

Philosophical Discussion.


Some time after this, Rollo, and Nathan, and James, were playing in the shed, one pleasant morning in the spring. They were building with sticks of wood, which they piled in various ways, so as to make houses. They took care not to pile the wood, in any case, higher than their shoulders, for Jonas had told them that, if they piled the wood higher than that, there would be danger of its falling down upon them.

After some time, Rollo went into the house a few minutes, and James and Nathan went to the open part of the shed, and began to look out of doors. The sun was shining pleasantly, but the ground was wet, being covered with streams and pools of water, and melting snow-banks.

"What a pleasant day!" said James. "I wish it was dry, so that we could go out better."

"I wish we could fly," said Nathan, "for it is very pleasant up in the air."

"I wish we had a balloon," said James. "If we had a balloon, we could go up in the air, easier than to fly."

"O James," said Nathan, "you could not get into a balloon if you had one."

"Why not?" said James.

"Because," said Nathan, "it would not be big enough."

"Why, Nathan," said James, "a balloon is bigger than this house."

"O James, it is not higher than my head."

"It is," said James, "I know it is. I have read about balloons bigger than a house."

"And my father," said Nathan, putting down his foot in a very positive air, "my father told me himself, that a balloon was about as high as my head."

The boys disputed some time longer upon the subject, and finally, when Rollo came out of the house, they both appealed to him very eagerly to settle the dispute.

"Isn't a balloon higher than Nathan's head?" said James.

"Is it as high as a house?" said Nathan.

"Why, I know," said Rollo, "that a man made a balloon once about as high as Nathan's head, because my father said so; but perhaps it was a little one."

"Yes," said James, "I know it must be a little one; for balloons are big enough for men to go up in them."

"O James," said Nathan, "I don't believe it. Besides, the fire would burn 'em."

"What fire?" said James.

"The fire they burn under the balloons, to make the air hot," said Nathan.

"I don't believe they have any fire," said James.

Just then Nathan, happening to look around, saw Jonas standing behind them; he had just come out of the house, and was going out to his work. Hearing the boys engaged in this dispute, he stopped to listen. The boys both appealed to Jonas.

Jonas heard all that they had to say, and then replied, -- 

"I cannot tell you much about going up in a balloon, but I can tell you something about getting along pleasantly down here upon the earth, which I think may be of service to you."

"What is it?" said James.

"Why, that you will neither of you get along very pleasantly until you can bear to have any body else mistaken, without contradicting them. James, you think Nathan is mistaken about the size of a balloon, do you?"

"Yes, I know he is," said James.

"Well," said Jonas, "now why not let him remain mistaken?"

"Why, -- I don't know," said James.

"He isn't willing to be convinced, is he, that a balloon is as big as a house?"

"No," said James, "he is not."

"Then why don't you let him remain unconvinced? Why should you insist on setting him right, when he don't want to be set right?"

"And you, Nathan, suppose that James is mistaken, in thinking that the balloon is so big."

"Yes," said Nathan, "and that men can get into it, and go up in the air."

"Well, now, if he wants to believe that balloons are so big, why are you not willing that he should? Why should you insist upon it that he should know that they are smaller?"

"Because I know," said Nathan, very positively, "that they are small; and, besides, the paper would not be strong enough to bear a man."

"I did not ask you," said Jonas, "why you believed that men could not go up in balloons, but why you were so anxious to make James believe so. Why not let him be mistaken?"

"Why -- because," said Nathan.

"You see, Nathan," continued Jonas, "the world is full of people that are continually mistaken; and if you go about trying to set them all right by disputing them, you'll have a hard row to hoe."

"A hard what?" said Nathan.

"A hard row to hoe," repeated Jonas. "It's never of any service to attempt to convince people that don't want to be convinced; especially if they are wrong."

"Especially if they are wrong!" repeated Rollo, in astonishment.

"Yes," replied Jonas. "The very worst time to argue with a boy, is when he is wrong, and does not want to be set right. It is a great deal harder to get along in argument with one who is right, than with one who is wrong; for the one who is wrong, disputes; the one who is right, reasons."

"Well, Jonas," said James, "which of us was disputing?"

"Both of you," said Jonas.

"Both of us," said James; "but you said that only the one who was wrong, disputed."

"Well," replied Jonas, "you were both wrong."

"Both wrong! O Jonas!" said James.

"Yes, both wrong," replied Jonas; and so saying, he was going away to his work.

"But stop a minute longer," said James, "and tell us how it is about the balloon; we want to know."

"O no," said Jonas, "you don't want to know; you want to conquer."

"What do you mean by that?" said Nathan.

"Why, you don't really wish to learn any thing; but you want to have me decide the case, because each of you hopes that I shall decide in his favor. You want the pleasure of a victory, not the pleasure of acquiring knowledge."

"No, Jonas," said Nathan, "we do really want to know."

"Well," said Jonas, "I can't stop now to tell you; perhaps I will this evening; but I advise you always, after this, not to contradict people, and dispute with them, when they say things that you don't believe. Do as the gentleman did, when the man said the moon was a fire."

"What did he do?" said Rollo.

"Why, he let him say it as much as he wanted to."

"Tell us all about it," said James.

"Well, then," said Jonas, "once there was a man, and he saw the moon coming up behind the trees, and thought it was a large house burning up. He went along a little way, and he met a vulgar fellow, riding in a carriage."

"Riding in a carriage!" repeated Rollo, astonished.

"Yes," said Jonas, "handsomely dressed. 'Sir,' said the man, 'see that great fire!'

"'It isn't a fire, you fool,' said the vulgar fellow; 'it's nothing but the moon.'

"'The moon! no it isn't,' said the man; 'it is a monstrous great fire. Don't you see how it blazes up?'

"'It is not a fire, I tell you,' said the vulgar fellow.

"'I tell you 'tis,' said the man.

"'You don't know any thing about it,' said the vulgar fellow.

"'And you don't know the moon from a house on fire,' said the man, and so passed on.

"A minute or two after this, he met a gentleman driving a team."

"A gentleman driving a team!" said James.

"Yes," said Jonas, "with a frock on. He was tired and weary, having driven all day. The man asked him if he did not see that house on fire.

"'Ah,' said the gentleman, 'I thought it was the moon.'

"'No,' said the man, 'it is a house on fire.'

"'Well,' said the gentleman, 'I am very sorry if it is. I hope they'll be able to put it out!'

"So saying, he started his team along, and bade the man good evening."

Jonas then, having finished his story, stepped out of the shed, and went along towards the barn; Nathan called out after him to say, -- 

"Well, Jonas, I don't understand how the gentleman came to be driving a team all day."

Jonas did not reply to this, but only began to laugh heartily, and to walk on. Nathan turned back into the shed, saying, he did not see what Jonas was laughing at.

The boys wanted very much to have the question about the balloon settled; and, after some further conversation on the subject, they concluded to go in and ask their mother. So they all three went in. Rollo proposed this plan, and he led the way into the house. He found his mother sitting in the parlor at her work.

"Well, boys," said she, "have you got tired of your play?"

"No, mother," said Rollo, "but we want to know about balloons: how big are they?"

"O, some of them," said she, "are very large."

"Ain't they as big as this house?" said James.

"Yes, I believe they have been made as big," said she.

"But, mother," said Nathan, "father told me, his very self, that they were no higher than my head."

"O no," said his mother; "he said that a man made one which was about as high as your head; but that was only a little one, for experiment. When they make large ones, for use, they are as high as this house."

"For use, mother? what use?" said Nathan.

"Men go up in them, don't they, aunt?" said James.

"Not in them, exactly," said his aunt. "They could not live in them, but they go up by means of them."

"How?" said Nathan.

"Why, they have a kind of basket, which hangs down below the balloon, and they get into that."

"I knew they could not get into the balloon," said Nathan.

"Then you have had a dispute about it," said his mother.

"Why, -- yes," said Nathan, with hesitation, "we disputed a little."

"I am sorry to hear that," said his mother, "for disputing seldom does any good. The fact is, however, that men have often been carried up by balloons, but they never get into them. They could not live in them. They could not breathe the kind of air which balloons are filled with."

"It is hot air," said Nathan.

"No," said his mother, "the kind of balloon which your father told you of was filled with hot air; but the balloons which people generally use to go up with, are filled with another kind of air, which is very light when it is cool. They make an enormous bag of silk, and fill it with this light air, which they make in barrels; and then, when the bag is filled, it floats away above their heads, and pulls hard upon the fastening. There is a net all over it, and the ends of the net are drawn together below, and are fastened to the basket, or car, where the man is to sit. When it is all ready, the man gets into the car, and then they let go the fastenings, and away the great bag goes, and carries the man with it, away up into the air."

"And then how does he get down?" said Nathan.

"Why, he can open a hole in the bag, and let some of the light air out; and then he begins to come down slowly. If he comes down too fast, or if he finds that he is coming into the water, or down upon any dangerous place, there is a way by which he can make his balloon go up again."

"What way is it, aunt?" said James.

"Why, he has some bags of sand in his balloon," said his aunt; "and the balloon is made large enough to carry him and his sand-bags too. Then, if he finds that he is coming down too fast, he just pours out some of his sand, and that makes his car lighter; and so the balloon will carry him up again."

"That's a good plan," said Rollo.

"Yes," said his mother; "the reason why he takes sand is, because that will not hurt any body by falling upon them. If he should take stones, or any other heavy, solid things, and should drop them out of his car, they might possibly fall upon some body, and hurt them. So he takes sand in bags, and, when he wants to lighten his balloon, he just pours the sand out."

Rollo's mother then told the boys that there was a large book, which had several stories in it of men's going up in balloons, and that she would get it for them. So she left her work, and went out of the room; but in a few minutes she returned, bringing with her two very large, square books, with blue covers. One of them had pictures in it, and among the rest there were pictures of balloons. She opened the other book, and found the place where there was an account of balloons, and she showed the place to Rollo.

She told the boys that they had better go out in the kitchen, or into the shed, if it was warm enough, and read the account.

"You and James, Rollo," said she, "can read by turns, and let Nathan hear. Then, when the plates are referred to, you must look into the other book and find them."

"Yes," said Rollo, "we will; only, mother, if you would let us sit down here and read it -- and then, if there is any thing which we cannot understand, you can tell us what it means."

"Very well," replied his mother, "you may sit down here upon the sofa."

So the boys sat down upon the sofa. They put Nathan between them, so that he might look over. Rollo and James took turns to read, and they continued reading about balloons for more than an hour. There was one story of a sheep, which a man carried up in his car, under a balloon, and then let him drop, from a great height, with a parachute over his head, to make him fall gently. And he did fall gently. He came down to the ground without being hurt at all.


Questions.

How was the subject of balloons introduced into the conversation? What was Nathan's opinion about the possibility of being carried up by a balloon? What was the dispute about the size of balloons? What was Nathan's evidence? What was James's evidence? What did Jonas say when they appealed to him? What was the story that he related? Which of the boys did he finally say was wrong? Whom did the boys appeal to afterwards? What did Rollo's mother say about the size of balloons? How did she say that large balloons were filled? How can they make the balloon come down? How can they make it go up again, if they wish to do so?



Chapter VIII.

Tasks.


A few days after this, there commenced a long storm of rain. Rollo and Nathan were glad to see it on one account, for their mother told them it would melt away the snow, and bring on the spring. The first day, they amused themselves pretty well, during their play hours, in the shed and in the garret; but on the second day, they began to be tired. Nathan came two or three times to his mother, to ask her what he should do; and Rollo himself, though, being older, his resources might naturally be expected to be greater, seemed to be out of employment.

At last, their mother proposed that they should come and sit down by her, and she would tell them something more about the air. "How should you like that, Rollo?" said she.

"Why, pretty well," said Rollo; but he spoke in an indifferent and hesitating manner, which showed that he did not feel much interest in his mother's proposal.

"I can't understand very well about the air," said Nathan.

Their mother, finding that the boys did not wish much to hear any conversation about the air, said nothing more about it just then, and Rollo and Nathan got some books, and began to read; but somehow or other, they did not find the books very interesting, and Rollo, after reading a little while, put down his book, and went to the window, saying that he wished it would stop raining. Nathan followed him, and they both looked out of the window with a weary and disconsolate air.

Their mother looked at them, and then said to herself, "They have not energy and decision enough to set themselves about something useful, and in fact I ought not to expect that they should have. I must supply the want, by my energy and decision."

Then she said aloud to Rollo and Nathan, -- 

"I want you, boys, to go up into the garret, and under the sky-light you will see a large box. Open this box, and you will find it filled with feathers. Select from these feathers three or four which are the most downy and soft about the stem, and bring them down to me."

"What are they for?" said Rollo.

"I will tell you," replied his mother, "when you have brought them to me."

So Rollo and Nathan went up into the garret, and brought the feathers. They carried them to their mother. She said that they would answer very well, and she laid them gently down upon the table.

Then she took up her scissors, and began to cut off some of the lightest down, saying, at the same time, -- 

"Now, children, I am going to give you some writing to do, about the air."

"Writing?" said Rollo.

"Yes," said his mother. "I am going to explain to you something about the air, and then you must write down what I tell you."

"But I can't write," said Nathan.

"No," said his mother, "but you can tell Rollo what you would wish to say, and he will write it for you."

"Why, mother," said Rollo, "I don't think that that will be very good play."

"No," replied his mother, "I don't give it to you for play. It will be quite hard work. I hope you will take hold of it energetically, and do it well.

"First," said she, "I am going to perform some experiments for you, before I tell you what I want you to write."

By this time, she had cut off the downy part of several feathers, and had laid them together in a little heap. Then she took a fine thread, and tied this little tuft of down to the end of it. Then she took up the thread by the other end, and handed it to Rollo.

"There, Rollo," said she. "Now, do you remember what your father told you, the other day, about the effect of heat upon air?"

"It makes it light," said Rollo.

"And why does it make it light?" asked his mother.

"Why, I don't exactly recollect," said Rollo.

"Because it swells it; it makes it expand; so that the same quantity of air spreads over a greater space; and this makes it lighter, But cool or cold air is heavier, because it is more condensed.

"Now, wherever there is heat," continued his mother, "the air is made lighter, and the cool and heavy air around presses in under it, and buoys it up. This produces currents of air. You recollect, don't you, that your father explained all this to you the other day?"

"Yes," said Rollo, "I remember it."

"Well," said his mother, "now you and Nathan may take this little tuft, and carry it about to various places, and hold it up by its thread, and it will show you the way the air is moving; and then you may come to me, and I will explain to you why it moves that way."

"Well," said Rollo, "come, Nathan, let us go. First we will hold it at the key-hole of the door."

Rollo held the end of the thread up opposite to the door, in such a way, that the tuft was exactly before the key-hole. The tuft was at once blown out into the room.

"O, see, Nathan, how it blows out. The air is coming in through the key-hole."

"Yes," said his mother; "when there is a fire in the room, and none in the entry, then the cold air in the entry runs down through the key-hole into the room."

"It don't run down, mother," said Rollo; "it blows right in straight."

"Perhaps I ought to have said it spouts in," said his mother, "just as the water did from the hole in your dam. And, now," she continued, "come and hold the tuft near the chimney."

Rollo did so; and he found that it was carried in, proving, as their father had showed them before, that the heavy, cold air, pressing into the room, crowded the warm, light air up the chimney.

"Now, should you think," said their mother, "that the cold air could come in through the key-hole, as fast as it goes up the chimney?"

Both Rollo and Nathan thought that it could not.

"Then go all around the room," said she, "and see if you can find any other place, where it comes in. For it is plain, you see, that the light air cannot be driven up chimney any faster than cold and heavy air comes in to drive it up and take its place."

So Rollo and Nathan went around the room, holding their tuft at all the places they could find, where they supposed there could be openings for the cold air to press in. They found currents coming in around the windows, and by the hinges of the doors; and at length Rollo said, he meant to open the window a little way, and see if the cold air from out of doors would not press in there too. He did so, and the tuft was blown in very far, showing that the cold air from out of doors pressed in very strongly.

"Now, if all these openings were to be stopped," said their mother, "then no cold air could crowd into the room; and of course the hot air could not be buoyed up into the chimney, and a great deal of the hot air and smoke would come into the room. This very often happens when houses are first built, and the rooms are very tight.

"But now, Rollo," she continued, "suppose that the door was opened wide; then should not you think that more cold and heavy air would press in, than could go up the chimney?"

"Yes, mother, a great deal more," said Rollo.

"Try it," said his mother.

So Rollo opened the door, and held his tuft in the passage-way; and he found that the air was pressing in very strongly through the open space. Wherever he held it, it was blown into the room a great deal, showing that the heavy air pressed in, in a torrent.

"Now, as much warm air must go out," said she, "as there is cold air coming in; but I don't believe that you and Rollo can find out where it goes out."

Rollo looked all around the room, but he could not see any opening, except the chimney and the door, and the little crevices, which he had observed about the finishing of the room. He said he could not find any place.

His mother then told him to hold his tuft down near the bottom of the door-way. He did so, and found that the current of air was there very strong. The tuft swung into the room very far.

"Now hold it up a little higher," said his mother.

Rollo obeyed, and he found that it was still pressed in, but not so hard.

"Higher," said his mother.

Rollo raised it as high as he could reach. The thread was of such a length, that the tuft hung about opposite to his shoulder. The tuft was still pressed in, but not nearly as far as before.

"So you see," said his mother, "that the air pours in the fastest at the lowest point, where the weight and pressure of the air above it are the greatest; just as, in your dam, the water from the lowest holes spouted out the farthest."

"Yes," said Rollo, "it is very much like that."

"Now," continued his mother, "you see that a great deal of air comes in, and if you look up chimney, you will see that there is scarcely room for so much to go up there; -- and yet just as much must go out as comes in.

"Get the step-ladder," said his mother, "and stand up upon it, and so hold your tuft in the upper part of the door-way."

There was in the china closet a small piece of furniture, very convenient about a house, called a step-ladder. It consisted of two wooden steps, and was made and kept there to stand upon, in order to reach the high shelves. Rollo brought out the step-ladder, and placed it in the door-way, and then ascended it. From the top he could reach nearly to the top of the door; but then, as his tuft was at the end of the thread, it hung down, of course, some little distance below his head.

"Why, mother," said Rollo, "it goes out."

"Yes," repeated Nathan, "it goes out."

In fact, Rollo found that the tuft, instead of swinging into the room, was carried out towards the entry.

"You have found out, then," said his mother, "where the hot air of the room goes to, to make room for the cold air, that comes in from the entry."

"Yes, out into the entry," said Rollo.

"Through the upper part of the door," said his mother. "Suppose the entry were full of water, and the parlor full of air, and the door was shut, and the door and the walls were water-tight. Now, if you were to open the door, you see that the water, being heavier, would flow in, through the lower part of the door-way, into the parlor, and the air from the parlor would flow out, through the upper part of the door-way, into the entry. The water would settle down in the entry, until it was level in both rooms, and then the lower parts of both rooms would be filled with water, and the upper parts with air."

"Yes, mother," said Rollo.

"And it is just so with warm and cold air. If the parlor is filled with warm air, made so by the fire, and the entry with cold air, and you open the door, then the cold air, being heavier, will sink down, and spread over the floor of both rooms; and the warm air, being light, will spread around over the upper parts of both rooms; and this will make a current of air, in at the bottom of the door-way, and out at the top.

"Now," continued his mother, "let me recapitulate what I have taught you."

"What do you mean by recapitulating it?" said Nathan.

"Why, tell you the substance of it, so that you can write it down easier."

"O, I can write it now," said Rollo; "I remember it all."

"Can you remember it, Nathan?" said his mother.

"Perhaps I can remember some of it," said Nathan.

So Rollo and Nathan went out into another room, where Rollo kept his desk, and they remained there half an hour. When they returned, they brought their mother two papers.

Their mother opened the largest paper, and read as follows: -- 

"We took a tuft of down, tied to a thread, and held it in the cracks and places that the air came in at, to see which way it went. We held it at the window, and it blew in very strong. At the bottom of the door, it blew in very strong too; but at the top, it blew out, into the entry. So, when the entry is full of cold air, and this room full of warm, the cold air will press in and drive out some of the warm air, into the entry.

Rollo."

The other paper was also in Rollo's handwriting, and was as follows: -- 

"If the entry was full of water, and the parlor full of air, and the walls were water-tight, and you were to open the door between the two rooms, the water would flow into the parlor down below, and the air would flow into the entry up above. We tried it with a tuft.

Nathan."


Questions.

Why were Rollo and Nathan at first glad to see the rain? What did their mother say to herself on the second day, when she observed their weary and listless appearance? What did she at first direct them to do? How did she prepare the downy tuft? What experiments did they perform with it? Where did they find that the air came in which crowded the warm air up the chimney? What experiments did they perform when the door was opened? Which way did they find that the current of air was setting at the lower part of the door-way? Which way did the current set at the upper part of the door-way? What did Rollo write in his exercise? What was written in Nathan's exercise?



Chapter IX.

Burning.


After the snow had all gone off, and the ground was dry, Jonas piled up a heap of stumps, roots, and decayed logs, in a field, not far from the brook, and one sunny afternoon he and Rollo went down to set the heaps on fire.

Jonas set one on fire, and then he told Rollo that he might set another on fire. After this, Jonas employed himself in gathering up sticks, bushes, roots, and other such things that lay scattered about the field, and putting them upon the fires, while Rollo amused himself in any way he pleased.

After a time, Rollo found, on the margin of the field, near the edge of a wood, an old stump, taller than he was, much decayed. There was a hole in the top. Rollo climbed up so that he could put a stick in, and run it down, to see how far down the hole extended. He found that it extended down very near to the bottom.

Then Rollo called out to Jonas, with a loud voice, saying, -- 

"Jonas, I have found a hollow stump here. It is hollow away down to the bottom. May I build a fire in it?"

"Yes," said Jonas, "if you can."

Rollo accordingly went to the nearest fire, and got a quantity of birch bark, which he had collected there to aid him in kindling his fires. He lighted one piece, and put it upon the end of a stick, and carried it to the stump, with the rest of the birch bark in the other hand.

Rollo then spent some time in fruitless attempts to make some lighted birch bark go down into the stump, and burn there. He succeeded very well in getting pieces completely on fire; but, after they were dropped into the hole, they would not burn. Rollo could not think what the reason could be.

At last he called Jonas to come and help him set the stump on fire.

Jonas said that he did not think that it could be set on fire.

"'Jonas, I have found a hollow stump here,' said Rollo, calling with a loud voice." -- Page 122.

"Why not?" said Rollo.

"Because," said Jonas, "it is so wet."

"Yes, but, Jonas," replied Rollo, "your brush heaps burn, and why should not this stump?"

"Because," said Jonas, "the stump is more solid, and the water soaks into it more in the winter and early in the spring; and it takes it much longer to dry, than it does brush and small roots, which lie open and exposed to the air."

"Well, then," replied Rollo, "why does not my birch bark burn? that is dry; but as soon as I drop it down into the stump, it goes out."

Jonas looked into the stump, and down around the bottom of it, and said, -- 

"Because there is no air."

"No air?" repeated Rollo.

"No," replied Jonas; "it is all close and solid around; the air cannot get in."

"It can get in at the top," said Rollo.

Jonas made no reply to this remark, but walked away a few steps, to a place where he had put down his axe; he took up the axe, and brought it to the stump. He immediately began to cut into it, at the bottom, as if it were a tree which he was going to fell.

"O Jonas," said Rollo, "don't cut it down."

"I am not going to cut it down," said Jonas; "I am only going to cut a hole into it."

"What for?" asked Rollo.

"To let the air in," replied Jonas.

Jonas continued to cut into the side of the stump, near the ground, until he perceived that the edge of his axe went through into the hollow part. Then he cleared away the chips a little, and showed Rollo that there was an opening for the air.

"Now," said he, "I presume you will be able to make sticks and birch bark burn in the stump, though you can't make the stump itself burn very well."

Rollo now dropped a blazing piece of birch bark into the stump, and, to his great joy, he found that it continued blazing, after it reached the bottom. He then dropped in another piece upon it, which took fire. He then gathered some dry sticks, and put in; and, finding that the flame was increasing, he proceeded to gather all the dry and combustible matter, which he could find around, and put them in, so that in a short time he had a fine blaze, a foot above the top of the stump; and the inside of the stump itself seemed to be in flames.

"Jonas," said Rollo, "it does burn."

"Does it?" said Jonas; "I am glad to hear it."

"But you said the stump would not burn."

"You ought to wait until it is all burnt up, before you triumph over me."

"Why, Jonas," said Rollo, "I didn't mean to triumph over you; but why would not the fire burn before you cut the hole through?"

"Because," replied Jonas, "there was not air enough."

"There was air in the stump," said Rollo.

"Yes," replied Jonas, "but all the life of it was consumed by the first piece of birch bark which you put in."

"The life of it?" said Rollo.

"Yes," replied Jonas; "what do you suppose it is, that makes anything burn?"

"Why, it burns itself," said Rollo.

"No," answered Jonas; "the air makes it burn: it must have good air around it, or else it won't burn. There is something in the air which I call the life of it; this makes the fire burn. But when this is all gone, then that air will not make fire burn any longer. It will only burn in good fresh air, which has got the life in it."

"I thought fire would burn in any kind of air," said Rollo.

"No," replied Jonas; "you can see if you stop up the hole I made here."

Jonas then took a piece of turf from the field, and put it before the hole, and crowded it in hard with the heel of his boot. Rollo observed that the fire was almost immediately deadened.

"Now," continued Jonas, "light a small piece of birch bark, and put it in."

Jonas helped Rollo fasten a small piece of bark upon the end of a stick, and then Rollo set it on fire, and held it down a little way into the stump. It burned very feebly.

"See," said Jonas, "how quick it is stifled."

"Yes," replied Rollo, "it goes out almost directly."

"You see," said Jonas, "that the fire already in the stump consumes all the goodness of the air; and I stopped up the hole, so that no fresh air can come in."

"Why doesn't it go in at the top?" said Rollo.

"It does a little," said Jonas, "but not much, because the hollow of the stump is already full of bad air, and there is nothing to make a current. When there is an opening below, then there is a current up through."

"Yes," said Rollo, "it is just like a chimney."

"Yes," replied Jonas, "the stump is the chimney, and the hole is the fireplace."

"And the air in the stump," said Rollo, "gets hot, and so the cold air all around is heavier, and so it crowds down under it, and buoys the hot air up out of the stump. My father explained it all to Nathan and me."

Rollo then wanted to open the hole again, to see if the effect would be as he had described.

Then Jonas pulled away the turf from the hole at the bottom of the stump, and Rollo observed that the fire brightened up immediately.

He then held a smoking brand near the hole, and he saw that the smoke was carried in, in a very strong current, by the cool air, which was pressing into the hole.

"Yes," said Rollo, "it operates just like a fireplace."

"So you see," continued Jonas, "that whenever you build a fire, you must see to it, that there is an opening for air to come up from underneath it. And it must be good fresh air too."

"What is it in the air, which makes the fire burn?" said Rollo.

"I don't know what the name of it is," said Jonas; "it is some part of the air, which goes into the fire, and is all consumed, and then the rest of the air is good for nothing."

"Isn't it good for anything at all?" asked Rollo.

"I don't know," said Jonas, "how that is; only I know that it isn't good for anything for fires. It stifles them."

"I should like to know what the name of that part of the air is, which is good for fires," said Rollo.

"I knew once," said Jonas, "but it was a hard word, and I have forgotten it."

"I mean to ask my father," said Rollo.

Jonas then went on with his work, gathering up everything that he could find around the field, to put upon the fires. Rollo amused himself by putting large rolls of birch bark around the end of a stick, and then, after setting them on fire, holding them over the fires, which Jonas was making, to see how soon the flame was extinguished: then he would draw them away, and see them revive and blaze up again in the open air. At last, he called out to Jonas, once more.

"Jonas," said he, "I have found out what makes the blaze go out. It is the smoke. I don't believe but that it is the smoke."

"No," replied Jonas, "it is not the smoke. I can prove that it is not."

So Jonas came up to the fire where Rollo was standing, and pointed out to Rollo a place, over a hot part of it, where there was no smoke, because the fire under it burned clear, being nearly reduced to coals. He told Rollo to hold his blazing bark there. Rollo did so, and found that it was extinguished at once, and as completely, as it had been before, when he had held it in a dense smoke.

"Yes," said Rollo, "it isn't the smoke. But perhaps it is because it is so hot."

"No," said Jonas, "it isn't that. It is a difference in the air. They sometimes collect different kinds of air in glass jars, and then let a candle down in, and see whether it will go out."

"And will it go out?" said Rollo.

"That depends upon what kind of air it is," said Jonas. "They all look clear, just as if there was nothing in the jars; but when you let a candle down in, in some it burns just the same as before; in some it burns brighter; and in some it goes out."

"In what kinds does it go out?" asked Rollo.

"I only know of one kind," said Jonas, "and that is a kind that comes of itself in mines, and wells, and other places."

"What is the name of it?" asked Rollo.

"Why, the people in the mines call it choke damp; but I believe it has got another name besides."

"What do they call it choke damp for?" said Rollo.

"Because," said Jonas, "if the miners get into it and breathe it, it kills them. It is not any better to breathe than it is to make fires burn."

"I wish I could see some choke damp," said Rollo.

"O, you can't see it at all," said Jonas, "if it was right before you, any more than you can see common air. If a well or a mine is full of it, they cannot find it out by looking down."

"How do they find it out?" said Rollo.

"Why, they let a candle down," replied Jonas.

"And will the candle go out?" asked Rollo.

"Yes," said Jonas, "if there is choke damp in the well. Sometimes they make a little of it in a tumbler or a jar upon the table, and so let a little flame down into it, and it goes out immediately."

"I wish we could make some," said Rollo. "Do you know how they make it?"

"No," said Jonas; "but I believe it is pretty easy to do it, if we only knew how."

"I will ask my father," said Rollo; "perhaps he will know."

This conversation took place when Jonas and Rollo were about the fires; but now the fires had pretty nearly burnt out, and they prepared to go home.

That evening, just about sunset, Rollo went out behind the house, and found Jonas raking off the yard. The spring was fast coming on, and the grass was beginning to look a little green; and Jonas said he wanted to get off all the sticks, chips, and straws, so that the yard would present a surface of smooth and uniform green. Rollo told him that he had found out how to make choke damp.

"Did your father tell you?" said Jonas.

"No," replied Rollo.

"Who did tell you, then?" said Jonas.

"Guess," answered Rollo.

"Your mother," said Jonas.

"No," answered Rollo.

"Then I can't tell," said Jonas.

"It was Miss Mary," replied Rollo. "I met her in the road to-day, and I asked her."

"And how is it?" asked Jonas.

"Why, we make it with chalk and vinegar," said Rollo. "We pound up a little chalk, and put it in the bottom of a tumbler. Then we pour some vinegar over it. The vinegar takes the choke damp out of the chalk, and Miss Mary says it will come up in little bubbles. She says we can lay a paper over the top loosely, -- she said loosely, but I think it ought to be tight."

"Why?" asked Jonas.

"So as to keep the choke damp from coming out," replied Rollo.

"No," said Jonas. "I understand why she said you must put it on loosely; that's to let the common air out."

"What common air?" said Rollo.

"Why, the air that was in the tumbler before," replied Jonas. "You see that, as fast as the choke damp comes up, it drives the common air out of the top of the tumbler; and so you must put the paper on loosely, and let it go out."

That evening Jonas and Rollo tried the experiment. First they put about two teaspoonfuls of chalk into the tumbler. Then they poured in the vinegar. It immediately began to foam.

"Ah," said Rollo, "that's the effervescence."

"The what?" said Dorothy; for they were making this experiment upon the kitchen table, and Dorothy was standing by, looking on with great interest.

"The effervescence," said Rollo. "Miss Mary said there would be an effervescence, which would be occasioned by the little bubbles of choke damp, coming up from the chalk."

"Poh!" said Dorothy; "it's nothing but a little frothing."

"It isn't frothing," said Rollo, very seriously; "it isn't frothing, it is effervescence. Don't you think Miss Mary knows?"

"Jonas," said Rollo again after a short pause, "how many of these little bubbles will it take, do you think, to fill the tumbler full of choke damp?"

"I don't know," replied Jonas; "we will wait a little while, and then try it."

"There, now, Jonas," said Rollo, "we have not got any candle."

"O, I will roll up a piece of paper, and set the end on fire, and then dip it down into the tumbler, and that will do just as well."

"What are you going to do that for?" said Dorothy.

"Why, to see it go out," said Rollo.

"It won't go out, unless you put it away down into the vinegar," said Dorothy.

"Yes it will," said Rollo; "we are only going to dip it down a little way, just into the choke damp, and it will go out."

"It won't go out, child," said Dorothy. "There's nothing to put it out."

"Well, you'll see. Won't it go out, Jonas?"

"I don't know," said Jonas.

"Don't know?" said Rollo. "Why, you told me that choke damp would put out a blaze."

"Yes," said Jonas, "I am sure of that; but there are a great many ways of failing in trying experiments."

"Well," said Rollo, "that may be; but this will not fail, I know, for I can see the little bubbles of choke damp coming up. There are millions of them."

By this time Jonas thought that the tumbler was filled with the gas, which was rising from the chalk and vinegar. So he rolled up a piece of paper, and set the end on fire, and, when it was well burning, he plunged the end of it into the tumbler. To Rollo's great disappointment and mortification, it continued to burn about as much as ever. The flame crept rapidly up the paper, and Jonas had soon to run with it across the floor and throw it into the fire, to avoid burning his fingers. Dorothy laughed aloud; Jonas smiled; and as for Rollo, he looked disappointed and vexed, and appeared to be overwhelmed with chagrin.

Dorothy continued to laugh at them, while Jonas went to the pump and washed out the tumbler. At length she said, -- 

"But come, Rollo, don't be so disconsolate. You look as if you had swallowed all the choke damp."

"Yes, Rollo," said Jonas, "we must keep good-natured, even if our experiments do fail."

"Well," said Rollo, "I mean to ask Miss Mary again, and then we can do it, I know."

*    *    *    *    *

Rollo accordingly went, the next day, to ask Miss Mary about the cause of the failure. Miss Mary said that she could not think of any thing which was likely to be the cause, unless it was that they put too large a flame into the tumbler.

"Well," replied Rollo, "and what harm would that do? Won't the choke damp put out a large flame?"

"Yes," replied Miss Mary, "if it only fairly surrounds and covers it; but, then, if you put a large flame into a tumbler, it makes the first instant, a great current of air, and so the choke damp might be blown out, and common air get in, and so keep the paper burning."

"How does it make a current of air?" asked Rollo.

"Why, the heat of the flame, when you first put the paper in," replied Miss Mary, "makes the air that is above it lighter; and the common air all around crowds in under it, in buoying it up; and by that means, if the flame is too large, common air is carried into the tumbler. You ought to make a very small flame, if you leave the top of the tumbler open."

"How can we make a small flame?" said Rollo.

"One good way," replied Miss Mary, "is to roll up some paper into a very small roll. I will show you how."

So Miss Mary took a piece of paper, and cut it into the proper shape with her scissors, and then rolled it up into a long and very slender roll; one end of it was not much larger than a large knitting-needle. She gave this to Rollo, and told him that, if he tried the experiment again, he must light the small end, and it would make a flame not so big as a pea.

Rollo explained to Jonas what Miss Mary had said, and they resolved on attempting the experiment again that evening. And they did so. Dorothy stood by watching the process, as she had done the evening before, but Rollo did not assert so confidently and positively what the result would be. He had learned moderation by the experience of the night before.

When all was ready, Jonas lighted the end of the slender roll in the lamp, and plunged it carefully into the tumbler. It went out immediately.

"There!" said Rollo, clapping his hands, "it goes out."

"Why, it is only because the wind blew it out."

"No, Dorothy," said Rollo, "there isn't any wind in the tumbler."

"Yes," replied Dorothy, "when you push it down, it makes a little wind, just enough to blow it out."

"Get another tumbler," said Jonas, "and let us see."

So Dorothy brought another tumbler, and Jonas put the burning end of the paper down into it, with about as rapid a motion as that with which he had put it before into the tumbler he had at first. The paper continued to burn.

"There," said he to Dorothy, "when I put it down into common air, it burns on the same as ever; so it can't be that the wind puts it out." Jonas repeated the experiment a number of times; the effect was always the same. Whenever he put it into the tumbler of common air, it burned on without any change; but whenever he put it into the choke damp, it immediately went out. Even Dorothy was satisfied that there was a difference in the kind of air contained in the two tumblers.

That evening, when Rollo gave his mother a full account of their attempts, -- describing particularly their failure at first, and their subsequent successes, -- his mother seemed much interested. When he had finished, she said, -- 

"Well, Rollo, I don't see but that you have learned two lessons in philosophy."

"Two lessons?" said Rollo.

"Yes," replied his mother. "The first is, that fire will not burn in choke damp; and the second is, that it requires nice attention and care to verify philosophical truths by experiment."

"Yes," said Rollo, "we missed the first time, just because we had too big a paper."


Questions.

Why did Jonas suppose that the stump would not burn? What was Rollo's first mode of setting it on fire? How did it succeed? What did Jonas do with his axe, when he came? What was the object of this? What did he say was necessary to make fires burn? What did Rollo at first think was the reason why the bark went out when held over the fire? What did he next think was the reason? How did Jonas say that different kinds of airs were prepared? In what places did he say that choke damp was naturally produced? How did they attempt to prepare some of this gas? Did they succeed in preparing it? Did they succeed in their experiment at first? What was the cause of the failure?



Chapter X.

Gravitation.


One evening, after tea, when Rollo was a pretty big boy, he came and began to climb up into his father's lap. When he had climbed up, he took his place astride of his father's knee, as if he were riding a horse. His little brother Nathan came up and stood near, wanting to get up too, only there was not room. His cousin James was there, that evening, on a visit. He sat upon a cricket before the fire, and his mother was at the table doing some sort of work.

"O dear me!" said Rollo's father, imitating the tone in which Rollo sometimes uttered that exclamation.

"What, sir?" said Rollo.

"Why, I should like very well to hold you in my lap," said his father, "if it was not for the great mighty earth, down below us."

"How?" said Rollo. He did not know what his father meant.

"Why, when you are upon my knee, the earth, the ponderous earth, pulls you down hard and heavy upon it." So saying, he put his hands upon Rollo's shoulders, and crowded them down, by way of showing him how the earth acted upon him. "It pulls," he continued, "with a strong and steady pull, all the time; and so makes you a very heavy weight."

"Is that what makes weight?" said Rollo.

"Yes," said his father. "So, if I had a monstrous stone to move, and if I thought the earth would listen to me, and let go its hold, I might make a speech to it thus: -- 

"'O earth, thou vast and ponderous ball, please to relax thy hold, for a few minutes, upon this stone, and leave it free to move; and then Rollo can tie a string to it, and move it easily along to the place where I want it to lie; then thou mayst seize it again with thy mighty attraction, and hold it down as firmly as thou wilt.'"

"O father!" exclaimed Rollo; Nathan and James laughed, and Rollo's mother looked up from her work to listen to this strange apostrophe.

"It would seem," continued his father, in a pompous tone, as if still addressing the earth -- "it would seem, most mighty planet, a very easy thing for thee to release this single stone, for a few minutes, from the grasp with which thou holdest all things down upon thy surface. And by it I shall gain much, while thou wilt lose nothing; for, if thou wilt not willingly give up the stone, I must get three or four yoke of strong oxen, and, by main force, pull it away."

"Is that what makes everything heavy?" said Rollo.

"Yes," said his father, answering now in his natural tone; "the attraction of the earth is what makes everything heavy, and holds it down."

"And could we move a monstrous great stone," said Rollo, "as light as a feather?"

"No," said his father, "it would not move along quick and light, like a feather. You could not move it quick. Suppose, for instance, you had two boats, floating upon the water, of the same size; one made very light indeed, of something very thin, like paper, and empty; and the other made of wood, and loaded with iron as heavily as it would bear. Now, they would both be supported upon the water, so that their weight would be neutralized; and yet they would move very differently. You could push the light one about easily, anywhere, but the heavy one would move very slowly. You would not have to push very hard upon it, but you would have to push for some time, to set it in motion; and then it would be hard to stop it. This is called its inertia."

"Yes," said Rollo, "it would go harder against the bank."

"The reason is," continued his father, "that the heavy boat contains a great many more particles of matter than the light one, and they have all got to be put in motion. So it requires greater effort, or the same effort must be continued a longer time.

"For instance, if we suppose that the light boat has one million of particles of matter, the heavy one would have, perhaps, twenty millions. Of course the effect of the pushing has to be divided among twenty times as many particles, and of course will only carry them one twentieth part as far; so that the bodies that are now large and heavy, would only move slowly, though they would move easily, if the attraction of the earth were to cease.

"There is another way to illustrate it," he continued. "Suppose there was a large mass of lead, as big as a load of hay, hanging by a chain; and also a great puff of feathers, or a balloon of the same size, hanging in the same way. Now, if they were both suspended freely, they would both move easily, for their weight would be supported by the chain; but the heavy one would move very slowly. Nathan could move it, but he could only move it slowly and a little way."

"I should not think that he could move it but very little," said Rollo.

"No, he could not; because you see that, in that way of suspending anything, the moment that it begins to move, it begins to swing off and to rise; so that it cannot be moved at all without being lifted a little. And the more it is moved, the higher it is lifted, so that it would take a great force to move it far away from the centre, where it was hanging. But we can hang it in a way to avoid that difficulty."

"How, sir?" said Rollo.

Rollo seemed to be very much interested in this conversation. He had dismounted from his father's knee, and stood by his side, listening eagerly. His mother, too, was paying close attention. As for Nathan, he sat still; though it is not by any means certain that he understood it very well.

"Let us suppose," said his father, "that the mass of lead, as big as a load of hay, is fastened to one end of a stick of timber."

"That would not be strong enough to hold it," said Rollo.

"Well, then, to a beam of iron, as large as a stick of timber," rejoined his father.

"O," said James, "you could not get such a big bar of iron."

"No," replied his father, "only an imaginary one; and that will be just as good as any. Now, suppose the great mass of lead is fastened to one end of this bar, and another one, just like it, to the other end, to balance it. Now, suppose that the lower end of the great chain is secured around the middle of the iron beam, and the upper end to be fastened to some strong support up in the air. Now, we can move the mass of lead without having to lift it at all; for, if we push against it, and make it move, it will move round and round, without rising at all, as it did before, when it was hung up directly by the chain."

Rollo's father then went on to explain to them that, in such a case as this, the weight of the two masses of lead would not prevent their moving easily, for they would exactly balance each other. A little child would be able to move them; but still they would move exceedingly slow at first, and it would be hard to stop them, when they were in motion. So, he said, if the earth should cease to attract and draw down any great, heavy body, like a large stone, for example, the smallest child could lift it, though it would come up slowly, just as a very heavy body would move, if it was suspended by a string, or was afloat upon the water.

"And so," said Rollo, "if the earth should not attract us, could we push ourselves right up off from the ground?"

"Yes," said his father, "most undoubtedly."

"What, and go about anywhere in the air?"

"Certainly."

Rollo began to laugh aloud at this idea, and looked very much interested and pleased.

"O, then I wish there was no gravitation," said Rollo; "I do, really."

"But, then," continued his father, "if you should get up into the air, you could not get down again."

"Why not?" said Nathan, beginning to look a little concerned.

"Unless," said his father, "you had something above you, to push against, so as to push yourselves down. You would be just like a boy in a boat, off from the shore, and without any paddle or pole. He could not get back again."

"We might tie a rope to something," said James, "before we went up, and so pull ourselves down."

"Yes, that you might do."

"And could not we flap our hands, like a bird, and so fly a little?"

"Perhaps you could," said his father.

Here the children all began to flap their hands, like young birds trying to fly; and Rollo said again, he wished, with all his heart, there was no gravitation; "for then," said he, "we should have strength enough to fly."

"That would lead to serious consequences," said his father.

"What consequences?" said James.

"Much more serious than you would suppose."

"Tell us what they would be, uncle," said James.

"O, I know," said Rollo; "you could not stand up straight without gravitation."

"O, we could, couldn't we, father?" said Nathan.

"What makes you think, Rollo," said his father, without replying to James's question -- "what makes you think that we could not stand up straight without gravitation?"

"Why, you see," said Rollo. -- Here he paused, and looked confused, and did not know what to say. He had an indistinct recollection of having read something about it in some book; but he could not tell what.

"I don't see what should prevent any body's standing up straight, if the attraction of the earth should cease; in fact, if it made any difference, it would be rather easier to stand up straight."

Here Rollo looked rather foolish, but he did not reply. The truth is, like almost all other children, who take an interest in reading, he was sometimes a little vain of his knowledge; and in this case, instead of listening attentively, and endeavoring to learn something new from his father's explanations, he seems to have thought it a good plan for him to help him elucidate the subject to James and Nathan. He exchanged the character of learner for teacher too soon.

"Well, uncle," said James, "what would be the consequence if gravitation should cease?"

"Why, in the first place," said Rollo's father, "all the streams in the world would stop running."

"The streams!" said Rollo, astonished.

"Yes," said his father, "every river, brook, and rill. The reason why the streams flow is, that the earth attracts the water from the mountains and hills, down into the valleys and towards the sea."

"Well, sir, what else?" said Rollo.

"Why, there would never be any more rain."

"No more rain!" exclaimed all the children.

"No," he replied. "The drops of rain fall only because the earth draws them down by its attraction; and, of course, if this attraction should cease, they would remain where they are."

The children were musing a minute upon these strange effects, when Rollo asked if anything else would happen.

"Why, yes," said his father, "worse disasters than these; but I do not know whether you would understand them, if I should explain them."

"O, try," said Rollo; "I think we shall understand."

"Well, let me think," said his father. "You have noticed how a chaise wheel, on a muddy road, in a wet day, holds the mud upon it, until when it is going very swiftly down a hill, and then the mud flies off in all directions."

"Yes, sir," said all the children.

"And if the mud did not stick to the wheel pretty tight, it would be thrown off at all times, even when the wheel was going slow. You understand this."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, now, this whole earth, you all know, is whirling around through space, and moving on also around the sun. And all the loose things upon the surface would be thrown off at once, if they were not held to it by a strong attraction. If this attraction were to cease suddenly, -- whisk! -- away we should all go in an instant -- rocks, houses, men, animals, all in confusion."

"O father!" exclaimed Rollo; "where should we go to, -- off into the air?"

"Not exactly into the air, for the air would all fly off, and be dissipated too; we should fly off into the sky somewhere, some in one direction, and some in another. You'd be a thousand miles off from the earth, almost before you would know it."

"Would it kill us, father?" said Nathan.

"Yes," said his father. "I don't know that there would be any shock that would hurt us, but we should have no air to breathe, and it would be dark and dismal."

"Dark?" said Rollo. "There would be the sun."

"Yes," said his father, "there would be the sun; and the sun would look bright enough when you looked directly towards it, but there would be no general light about you, unless there was air."

The children all paused to reflect upon the strange results which their father had told them would ensue from a suspension of the earth's attractive force. Rollo began to think that he had been too hasty in his wish that there was no gravitation.

"But, father," said he, "the houses would not go off, certainly; -- only the loose things would go."

"Very well; houses are loose."

"O father! they are fastened down."

"How are they fastened down?" asked his father.

"O, they are nailed -- and,"

"Not nailed to the ground, certainly," said his father.

"No," said Rollo, laughing; "but then they are built with great stones and mortar."

"Yes, but there is no mortar under the lowest stones. The foundations are simply laid upon the ground."

"Well," rejoined Rollo, "I thought they were fastened somehow or other."

"No," said his father; "they dig the cellar, and only just lay the foundations upon the ground, without any fastening. The earth holds them in place."

"Well, father," said Rollo, "that is what I meant, when I said we could not stand up straight. I meant the houses. I read in a book that houses would be blown away, if the gravitation did not hold them down."

Here Rollo's father had a hearty laugh; and he told Rollo that he thought that was rather wide shooting. Rollo wanted to know what he was laughing at; and Nathan asked him what he meant by wide shooting.

"Why," said he, "Rollo, you undertook to explain to us, from your stores of knowledge, what the effects of a suspension of gravitation would be; and, in attempting to tell that houses would be in danger of being blown away, you came no nearer than to tell us that boys could not stand up straight; and that is what I call pretty wide shooting."

So saying, he rose from his seat, and walked away, appearing to be very much amused. James laughed too, and even Rollo could not help smiling at the ridiculous figure which his display of his learning made. As for Nathan, he continued to look grave; and said he did not see that it was any shooting at all.

After a short pause, Rollo's mother said, "So you see, children, the cause of all the pressure, both of air and of water, and all the effects produced by them, are the results of their gravitation towards the earth."

"Yes," said Rollo, "I believe I understand it now."

After this, Rollo took James and Nathan out into the yard, to see if some beans had come up, which he had been planting in a sunny corner of the garden the day before.


Questions.

What was Mr. Holiday's apostrophe to the earth? What is the cause of weight? Why did the boys wish that there was no gravitation? What was the first evil consequence which their father said would ensue, if there was no gravitation? What was the second evil consequence? What did their mother say after the conversation with their father was closed?



Chapter XI.

Air In Motion.


Rollo's dam, which he had made when he was studying the philosophy of water, and which was at first undermined by the pressure of the water, was afterwards carried away by its momentum. Rollo learned, at that time, that water moving rapidly had a great momentum; and about this time he had an opportunity of learning that air, when in motion, had a momentum too, capable of producing very powerful effects. The circumstances of the case were as follows: -- 

One morning, towards the latter part of March, Jonas, being out in the barn, observed some indications that the roof wanted repairs. It had been strained and weakened by the heavy snows in the winter. He reported the fact to Rollo's father, who said that he might go, the next day, and get the carpenter to come and repair it. The carpenter lived ten miles distant, near the shore of a long pond.

When Rollo heard of this proposed expedition, he wanted to go too; and his father gave him permission. Jonas was going in the wagon. He told Rollo, the evening before, that he meant to set out at six o'clock.

"But suppose it looks like a storm," said Rollo.

"Then there will be more need of going," said Jonas; "for if the equinoctial storm comes on before the roof is strengthened, it may get carried away."

"What is the equinoctial storm?" said Rollo.

"O, it is a great storm, which comes generally about this time of year. I shouldn't wonder if it should come on to-morrow. But it may not come for a week; and so I hope we shall have time to get the roof mended first."

"Does it look like a storm to-night?" said Rollo.

"No, not much," replied Jonas. "It is a little hazy in the south-west. However, if it looks like a storm in the morning, you need not go, unless you choose; though I shall."

"I wish you'd wait till the storm is over," said Rollo.

"No," said Jonas, "I had rather go in the storm than not."

"Why?" said Rollo.

"Because," said Jonas, "I like to be out in storms. Sometimes it is very grand."

The next morning, when Rollo awoke, he found that it was light, but not yet sunrise. He arose, and looked out of the window to see if it was pleasant. The sky was somewhat overcast, but there was a little blue to be seen, and Rollo thought that it would be pleasant. He heard a noise in the barn-yard, and, looking in that direction, he saw Jonas just leading the horse out of the stable. So he dressed himself soon, and went down.

When he got ready, he went down into the yard, and found that Jonas had got the horse harnessed, and everything prepared. There was a little bag of oats in the back part of the wagon, and also a tin pail, with a cover, which contained a luncheon. Jonas fastened the horse to a post, and said, -- 

"Now, Rollo, we'll go in and get some breakfast."

"I thought that luncheon was for breakfast," said Rollo.

"No," said Jonas, "that is for dinner."

"Shall we be gone all the day?" said Rollo.

"We may be gone till after dinner," said Jonas, "and so I thought I would be sure."

The two boys went into the house, and there they found that Dorothy had got some breakfast ready for them upon the kitchen table. After eating their breakfast, they got into the wagon, and set out. Jonas first put in a large umbrella. Just as they were driving out of the yard, the first beams of the morning sun shone in under the branches of a great tree in the yard, and brightened up the tips of the horses' ears and the boys' faces. At the same time, a rude gust of wind came around the corners of the house, and slammed to the gate of the front yard.

"It's going to be pleasant," said Rollo; "the sun is coming out."

"I'm not very sure of that," said Jonas; "the wind is rising."

"We start just at sunrise," said Rollo.

"Yes," replied Jonas, "the sun always rises at six o'clock at this time of the year."

The boys rode along for about three hours, before they came to the carpenter's. They were obliged to travel very slow, for the roads were not good. It is true that the snow was all gone, and the frost was nearly out of the ground; but there were many deep ruts, and in some places it was muddy. The sun went into a cloud soon after they set out, and it continued overcast all the morning. There was some wind too, but, as it was behind them, and as the road lay through woods and among sheltered hills, they did not observe it much. Jonas said that there was a storm coming on, but he thought it was coming slowly.

They arrived at length at the pond. There was a little village there, upon the shore of the pond. The reason why there happened to be a village there, was this: A stream of water, which came down from among the mountains, emptied into the pond here, and, very near where it emptied, it fell over a ledge of rocks, making a waterfall, where the people had built some mills. Now, where there are mills, there must generally be a blacksmith's shop, to mend the iron work when it gets broken, and to repair tools. There is often a tavern, also, for the people who come to the mills; and then there is generally a store or two; for wherever people have to come together, for any business, there is a good place to open a store, to sell them what they want to buy. Thus there was a little village about these mills, which was generally called the Mill village.

Jonas inquired where the carpenter lived, and then drove directly to his house. He found that he was not at home. He had gone across the pond, to mend a bridge, which had been in part carried away by the floods made when the snow went off. Rollo sat in the wagon in the yard by the side of the carpenter's house, while Jonas stood at the door, making inquiries and getting this information.

"If you want to see him very much," said the carpenter's wife, "I presume you can get a boat down in the village, and go across the pond."

"How far is he from the other side of the pond?"

"O, close by the upper landing," said she; "not a quarter of a mile from the shore, right up the road."

Jonas thanked the woman for her information, and got into the wagon.

"Let us get a boat and go over, Jonas," said Rollo, as they were turning the wagon round.

"I should," said Jonas, "if there was not such a threatening of a storm."

"It does not blow much," said Rollo.

"No," said Jonas, "not much now, but the wind may rise before we get back. However, we'll go and see if we can get a boat."

After some inquiry, they found a boat, at a little distance out of the village, in a sort of cove, where there was a fine, sandy beach. The boat was of very good size, and it had in it two oars and a paddle. Jonas looked out upon the water, and up to the sky, and he listened to hear the moaning of the wind upon the tops of the trees. He wanted very much to persevere in his effort to find the carpenter; but then, on the other hand, he was not sure that it was quite safe to take Rollo out upon the water at such a time. He sat upon a log upon the shore a few minutes, and seemed lost in thought.

"And very soon they were gliding smoothly along out of the cove." -- Page 167.

At last he said, -- 

"Well, Rollo, I believe we'll go. The worst that will happen will be, that you may get frightened a little. We can't get hurt."

"Why can't we get hurt?" said Rollo.

"Why, even if it comes on to blow hard, it will probably be a steady gale, and I can run before it, if I can't do anything else. And there can't be much of a sea in this pond."

Rollo did not know what Jonas meant by much of a sea in the pond; but, as Jonas immediately went to work taking the horse out of the wagon, Rollo did not ask any questions. The boys unharnessed the horse, for Jonas said he would stand easier out of harness, and they might be gone more than an hour. They fastened him then to a tree, and poured the oats down before him upon the ground. Then Jonas helped Rollo into the boat, and put in the tin pail containing their luncheon, and also the umbrella; though he said he did not think it would rain before they got back. Then he shoved off the boat, and jumped in himself; and very soon they were gliding smoothly along out of the cove.

Rollo wanted to row; and so Jonas let him take one oar, while he himself sat in the stern with the paddle. Rollo soon learned the proper motion, so that his efforts assisted considerably in propelling the boat. They found, when they were out at a little distance upon the water, that the wind blew much harder than Rollo had expected.

"Jonas," said he, "the wind blows more here than it did upon the shore."

"No," said Jonas, "only we feel it more here than when we were under the lee of the land."

"What do you mean by the lee of the land?" said Rollo.

"I mean the shelter of it," replied Jonas. "Whenever a ship at sea is sheltered by anything, they say the ship is under its lee."

The boys went on, Rollo rowing, and Jonas paddling behind, until at length Rollo got tired. Jonas then told him to spread the umbrella, and hold it up for a sail. Rollo did so. The wind was blowing pretty nearly in the direction in which they were going, and, by its impulse upon the umbrella, it caused it to pull very hard. Rollo rested the middle of the handle of the umbrella upon his shoulder, holding the crook in his hand, turning it in such a position as to present the open part of the umbrella fairly to the wind. Jonas continued to paddle, and so they went on very prosperously until they had got two thirds across the pond, when Jonas ordered Rollo to take in sail.

"Why," said Rollo, "we have not got across yet."

"No," replied Jonas, "but the wind is taking us out of our course."

Rollo drew down the umbrella, and looked around. They were still at a considerable distance from the shore. Jonas extended his paddle out into the water as far as he could reach, and then drew it in towards him with several quick and strong strokes, as if he were endeavoring to pull the stern of the boat, in which he was sitting, round.

"What are you doing so for?" said Rollo.

"I am trying to bring her up into the wind," replied Jonas.

"What is that for?" asked Rollo.

"Why, we've drifted to leeward," said Jonas, "and I must bring her up; for we want to land around behind that point on the starboard bow."

Rollo did not understand Jonas's technical language very well. He particularly did not know what Jonas meant by bringing her up, for it seemed to him that the pond was perfectly level, so that there was no up or down either way. He did not know that, in sea language, against the wind was always up, and with the wind, down.

Jonas found it hard to bring the boat up into the wind. The waves had begun to be pretty large, and they beat against the bows of the boat, and some of the water dashed over upon Rollo. The wind blew quite heavily, too; and now that they had changed their direction so as to bring the wind upon their side, it embarrassed, if it did not absolutely retard their progress. Some drops of rain also began to fall.

However, by hard and persevering exertion, Jonas at length succeeded in urging the boat forward until he began to draw nigh to the point of land; and soon afterwards they came under the shelter of it, where the water was smooth, and the air comparatively still. Here Rollo put in his oar again, and they passed along close under a high shore, for some distance, until they came to the landing. Here they fastened the boat, and then began to walk along up the road.

The road lay through the woods, and among hills, so that it was sheltered; and the only indications of the wind which the boys noticed, was a distant roaring sound among the forests. They came at length to the bridge, where they found several workmen busily engaged in laying abutments of stone, but the carpenter himself was not there. The men told Jonas that he had gone about half a mile away, on a by-road, to select and cut some timber to be used in the construction of the bridge.

"How long will he be gone?" asked Jonas.

"He will be gone two or three hours," said a man with a stone hammer in his hand.

"What shall we do now?" asked Rollo, addressing Jonas, after a short pause.

"Keep on until we find him," replied Jonas. "But you may stay here and see them build the bridge, while I go after the carpenter."

Accordingly Jonas went on, leaving Rollo seated upon a bank watching the work. In about three quarters of an hour, he returned; and then he and Rollo went back to the boat. The wind had all this time continued to increase, though they were so much sheltered, that they did not notice it much.

Jonas, however, observed that some light, scudding clouds were flying across the sky, very low, being apparently far beneath the other clouds. When they reached the boat, Rollo proposed that they should stop and eat some luncheon; but Jonas said that he should eat his with a better appetite on the other side of the pond. So he hastened Rollo into the boat, and, talking his station in the stern, he began to ply his paddle with all his force, running the boat along under the shelter of the high shore.

"There isn't much wind, Jonas," said Rollo.

"We can tell better when we come round the point," replied Jonas.

Rollo observed that Jonas looked a little anxious, and he also seemed to be exerting himself so much in the long, steady strokes of his paddle, that it appeared to be rather an interruption to him to hear and answer questions. Rollo therefore did not talk. He found, however, as he drew near the point, that the waves were running by it, with great speed and force, down the pond. As the boat shot out from the shelter of the point into this place of exposure, the storm struck them suddenly, with a blast which swept the bows of the boat at once round out of her course, and dashed the spray from the waves all over Rollo's face and shoulders. It was with great difficulty that Jonas could bring the boat to the wind again.

He succeeded, however, at length, and they went on, for some time, pitching and tossing, through the waves, -- the wind pressing so hard upon the boat that it was very difficult for Jonas to make any headway. The wind had changed its direction, so that it blew now almost exactly across their course; and it required great exertion for Jonas to prevent being blown away down the pond, out of his track altogether.

In the mean time, the wind rather increased than diminished; and the water dashed in so much over the bows that Rollo had to dip it up with the cover of the tin pail, and pour it out over the side of the boat into the pond again. They were going on in this way, both toiling very laboriously, when suddenly they began to hear a sound like distant thunder, somewhat louder than the ordinary roaring of the wind. They both looked towards the shore in the direction from which the sound came. On the declivity of a range of hills covered with forests they saw an unusual commotion among the trees. The tops were bowed down with great force; the branches were broken off, and Jonas thought that he could see fragments of them flying in the air; and presently, farther down, he observed several tall pines bending over, and then sinking down till they disappeared.

"What is it?" said Rollo.

"A squall," said Jonas, -- "and coming down directly upon us."

"What shall we do?" asked Rollo.

"Put the boat before the wind," replied Jonas, "and let her run: we must go where the squall carries us."

Jonas immediately began to pull the stern of the boat around with his paddle, so as to turn the head of it away from the quarter which the wind was blowing from; and then the wind drove the boat along very rapidly over the waves, which curled and foamed on each side, driving onward with great fury. When they looked around behind them, they saw that the pond, which was of a very dark color, though spotted with the white tips of the waves all over its surface, was almost black for a large space in the direction from which the squall was coming. It advanced with great rapidity, and at last struck the boat with a noise like thunder. The froth and foam flew over the surface of the water like tufts of cotton, and the boat seemed to fly along the water with almost as much speed as they; and the roaring of the winds and waves was so loud that Rollo had great difficulty in making Jonas hear what he had to say. After a few minutes, the violence of the wind somewhat abated; but it still blew a steady and furious gale, so that Jonas had to keep his boat directly before it. Thus they were driven on, wherever the wind chose to carry them, for more than half an hour.

Then they began to draw near the land, far, however, very far from the place where they had intended to go. Rollo observed that Jonas was looking out very eagerly towards the shore, and he asked him what he was looking for.

"Why, here we are," said Jonas, "on a lee shore, and I am looking out for a place to land."

Rollo looked, and saw that the waves were tumbling with great violence upon the rocks and gravelly beaches which lined the shore, and he was afraid that the boat would get dashed to pieces upon them. Jonas, however, observed a large tree, which originally stood upon the bank, but which had fallen over, and now lay with its top partly submerged. He thought that this might afford him some shelter, and so he made great exertions to guide the boat so as to bring it in to the shore around behind this tree. By means of great efforts he succeeded; and so he and Rollo both escaped safe to land.

The boys did not get home until late that night, for they were thrown upon the shore nearly two miles from the Mill village, and of course they had that distance to walk. Jonas was detained a little there, too, in making arrangements to send a boy for the boat after the storm had subsided. When they got home, Rollo's father said that he was sorry for their fatigues and exposures, but he was very glad that Jonas had persevered and found the carpenter; for the high wind had blown down the back chimney and broken the roof over the kitchen, and it was very necessary to have it repaired immediately.


Questions.

What is momentum? Has air momentum, when it is in motion, as well as water? At what time in the spring of the year does the sun rise at six o'clock? What did Rollo think was the prospect in respect to the weather? What did Jonas think? What is meant by being under the lee of a shore? What is a squall? What indications did Jonas observe of the approach of the squall? What course did he pursue in order to avoid the danger of it?



Chapter XII.

Air At Rest.


A few days after the adventure described in the preceding chapter, Rollo heard his father proposing to his mother that they should take a walk the next morning before breakfast. Rollo wanted to go too. His father said that they should be very glad to have his company; and he promised to wake him in season.

Rollo felt rather sleepy, when his father called him the next morning; but he jumped up and dressed himself, and was ready first of all. It was a cool, but a very pleasant morning. The sun was just coming up. The ground in the path before the door was frozen a little, and the air seemed very still.

When Rollo's mother came out to the door, she said, -- 

"Well, husband, which way shall we go?"

"Up on the rocks," said Rollo; "let's go up on the rocks, mother. It will be beautiful there this morning."

"Well," replied his mother; "we'll go up on the rocks."

The place which Rollo called the rocks, was the summit of a rocky hill, which had a grassy slope upon one side, by which they could ascend, and a precipice of ragged rocks upon the other. There was a very pleasant prospect from the top of the rocks.

As they walked along, Rollo said that it was very different weather that still morning, from what it was the day that he and Jonas were out upon the pond.

"Yes," said his father, "you had an opportunity to see the effects of air in motion then."

"And now air at rest," replied Rollo.

"Pretty nearly," said his father.

"Yes, sir, entirely," said Rollo; "there is no wind at all, this morning: hold up your hand, and you can feel."

So Rollo stopped a moment upon the grass, and held up his hand to see whether there was any wind.

"I know there is not any wind that you can perceive in that way," said his father.

"How can we perceive it, then?" said Rollo.

"I'll tell you," replied his father, "when we get to the top of the hill."

They reached the top of the hill soon after this, and sat down upon a smooth stone. There was a very wide prospect spread out before them, -- fields, forests, hamlets, streams, -- and here and there, scattered over the landscape, a little patch of snow. The sun was just up, and the whole scene was very bright and beautiful.

"Now, father," said Rollo, "tell me how you know that there is any wind at all."

"I did not say that there was any wind. I said motion of the air."

"Why, father," replied Rollo, "I thought that wind was motion of the air."

"So it is," said his father; "but all motion of the air is not wind. Wind is a current of air, that is, a progressive motion; -- and in fact, there is, this morning, a slight current from the westward."

"How can you tell, father?" asked Rollo.

"By the smokes from the chimneys; don't you see that they all lean a little from the west towards the east?"

"Not but a little, father; -- and there's one, from that red house, which goes up exactly straight."

"Yes," said his father, "there is one; but, in general, the columns of smoke lean; which is proof that there is a gentle current of air to the eastward."

"Westward, you said, father," rejoined Rollo.

"Yes, from the westward, but to the eastward.

"That is what is called a progressive motion," continued Rollo's father; "that is, the whole body of air makes progress; it advances from west to east. But there is another kind of motion, called a vibratory motion."

"What kind of a motion is that, father?" asked Rollo.

"It is a very hard kind to describe, at any rate," said his father. "It is a kind of quivering, which begins in one place and spreads in every direction. Don't you hear a kind of a thumping sound?"

"Yes," said Rollo, "a great way off; what is it?"

"Look over across the pond there," said his father; "don't you see that man cutting wood?"

"Yes," said Rollo; "that's what makes the noise. -- No, father," he continued, after a moment's pause, "that's not it. Look, father, and you'll see that the thumping sound comes when his axe is lifted up."

They all looked, and found that it was as Rollo had said. The strokes of the axe kept time, pretty well, with the sound of blows, which they heard, only the sounds did not correspond with the descent of the axe. When the axe appeared to strike the wood, they did not hear any sound, but they did hear one every time the axe was lifted up.

"So, you see," said Rollo, "it is not that man that we hear. There must be some other man cutting wood."

"We will wait a minute," said his father, "until he gets the log cut off, and then he will stop cutting; and we will see whether we cease to hear the sound."

So they sat still, and watched the man for a minute. Presently he stopped cutting, -- and, to Rollo's great surprise, the sound stopped too.

"That's strange," said Rollo.

In a moment more, the man had rolled the log over, and commenced cutting upon the other side; and in an instant after he began to cut, Rollo began to hear the sound of strokes again.

"Yes," said Rollo, "it must be his cutting that we hear; but it is very strange that he makes a noise when he lifts up his axe, and no noise when it goes down."

"I'll tell you how it is," said his father. "He makes the noise when his axe goes down; but, then, it takes some little time for the sound to get here; and by the time the sound gets here, his axe is up."

"O," said Rollo, "is that it?"

"Yes," replied his father, "that is it."

Rollo watched the motion of the axe several minutes longer in silence, and then his attention was attracted by the singing of a bird upon a tree in his father's garden, at a short distance below him.

Pretty soon, however, his mother said that it was time for her to return; and they all, accordingly, arose from their seats, and rambled along together a short distance upon the brow of the hill, but towards home.

"Then the sound moves along through the air," said Rollo, "from the man to us."

"Yes," said his father; "that is, there is a vibratory motion of the air, -- a kind of quivering, -- which begins where the man is, and spreads all around in every direction, until it reaches us. But there is no progressive motion; that is, none of the air itself, where the man is at work, leaves him, and comes to us."

"But, husband," said Rollo's mother, "I don't see how anything can come from where the man is, to us, unless it is the air itself."

"It is rather hard to understand," said his father. "But I can make an experiment with a string, when we get home, that will show you something about it."

They rambled about among the rocks for a short time longer, and then they descended by a steep and crooked path, in a different place from where they had ascended. When they had got nearly home, Rollo said that he would run forward and get his father's ball of twine and bring it out; and so have it all ready for the experiment.

Accordingly, when Rollo's father and mother arrived at the front door, they found Rollo ready there with a small ball of twine in his hand, about as large as an apple.

"Now, Rollo," said his father, "you may take hold of the end of the twine, and walk along out into the street, while I hold the ball, and let the string unwind."

Rollo did so. He drew out a long piece of twine, as long as the whole front of the house, and then he stopped to ask his father if that was enough.

"No," said his father; "walk along."

So Rollo walked on for some distance farther, until, at last, the ball was entirely unwound. Rollo had one end of it, and was standing at some distance down the road, while his father, with the other end, stood at the gate of the front yard. The middle of the string hung down pretty near to the ground.

"Draw tight, Rollo," said his father.

So Rollo pulled a little harder, and by that means drew the line straighter.

"Now," said his father, "walk along slowly."

So Rollo walked along, drawing the end of the line with him. His father followed with the other end. Thus they advanced several steps along the side of the road.

"There," said his father. "Stop. That, you see, was a progressive motion."

"Yes, sir," replied Rollo.

"The whole string advanced along the road," added his father. "It made progress, and so it was a progressive motion. Now, fasten your end of the string, Rollo, to that tree directly behind you."

Rollo looked behind him, and saw that he was standing near a small maple-tree, which had been planted, a few years before, by the side of the road.

"Tie it right around the stem of the tree," said his father, "about as high as your shoulder."

Rollo fastened the string as his father had directed. Then his father fastened his end, in the same way, to another tree, which was growing near where he was standing.

"Now," said he, "there can be no more progressive motion, but there can be a vibratory one. Take hold of the string near where it is fastened to the tree."

Rollo took hold of it, as his father had directed, and then his father told him to shut his eyes. When his eyes were shut, so that he could not see, his father said that he was going to strike the string, at his end of it, with his pencil-case, and he asked Rollo to observe whether he could feel any motion.

Rollo held very still, while his father struck the string; and immediately afterwards he called out, "Yes, sir." Then his father struck the string again, several times, and every time Rollo could feel a distinct vibratory or quivering motion, which was transmitted very rapidly through the string, from one end to the other; although, as the string was fastened by both ends to the trees, it was evident that there could be no progressive motion.

Rollo's mother had been standing all this time at the step of the door, watching the progress of the experiment; and, when she saw the expression of satisfaction upon Rollo's countenance, while he was standing, with his eyes shut, holding the end of the string, she wanted to come and take hold of it herself, so as to see what sort of a sensation the vibratory motion of the string produced.

So she came out through the gate, and asked Mr. Holiday to wait a moment while she went to where Rollo was standing, and took hold of the string. But he said that it would not be necessary for her to go there, as she could take hold of his end of the line just as well, and let Rollo strike the other end.

They accordingly performed the experiment in that way, and Rollo's mother could feel the vibrations very distinctly.

"One thing you must observe," said Mr. Holiday; "and that is, that the vibrations pass along from one end of the line to the other very quick indeed. We feel them at one end almost at the same instant that the other end is struck."

"Exactly at the same instant, sir," said Rollo.

"No," replied his father, "not exactly at the same instant, though it is very nearly the same."

"I did not see any difference," said Rollo.

"No," replied his father, "you cannot perceive any difference in so short a string, but if we had a string, or a wire, a mile long, I presume that we should find that it would require a sensible period of time to transmit the vibrations from one end to the other."

"What do you mean by a sensible period of time, father?" asked Rollo.

"Why, a length of time that you could perceive," said his father; "just as it was with the man cutting wood. We could see that some time elapsed between the striking of the blow, and our hearing the sound."

"Yes," said Rollo, "just as long as it took him to lift up his axe."

"That is not certain," replied his father, "because the sound that we heard might have belonged to a blow made before. That is, it might be that, when he had struck one blow, he had time to raise his axe and strike another, and then raise his axe again, before the sound of the first blow came to us."

"Yes, sir," said Rollo, "I understand."

Mr. Holiday then told Rollo that he might unfasten the string from the trees, and wind it up again into a ball, and bring it in. Then he and Rollo's mother went into the house, to see if breakfast was not almost ready.

That morning, after they were all seated at the breakfast table, Rollo said to his father that he did not exactly understand what sort of a motion the vibratory motion of the air was, after all.

"No," said his father, "I suppose you do not. And, in fact, I do not understand it very perfectly myself. I only know that the philosophers say, that, when a man strikes a blow with an axe upon a log of wood, it produces a little quivering motion of the air, which spreads all around, darting off in every direction very swiftly. If a boy strikes a tin pail with a drum-stick, it makes another kind of quivering or vibration, which is different from that which is made by the axe; but I don't know precisely how it differs. So, when the air is full of sounds, on a still morning, it is full of these little vibrations, like a string which trembles from end to end, though its ends are fastened so that it cannot move away."

"Then the air is never at rest," said Rollo's mother.

"No; certainly not, when any sound is to be heard; and it is never perfectly silent."

"There is one thing very extraordinary," said Mrs. Holiday.

"What is it?" asked Rollo's father.

"Why, that, when a great many sounds are made at the same time," she replied, -- "as, for example, when we are upon the top of a hill, on a still morning, and hear a great many separate sounds, as a man cutting wood, birds singing, a bell ringing, and perhaps a man shouting to his oxen, -- all those tremblings or vibrations, being in the air together, do not interfere with one another."

"Yes," said Mr. Holiday, "it is very extraordinary indeed. They do not seem to interfere at all. When there are too many sounds, or if there is a wind with them, they do interfere; but, in a calm morning, like this, when the air is at rest, you can hear a great many distant sounds very distinctly."

"Yes," said Rollo, "and I mean to go up to the top of the rocks again after breakfast, and listen."

<eob>

The Boy Scouts In Front Of Warsaw

Or

In The Wake Of War

By

George Durston



Chapter I

The Disappearance

It was the fifth of August. Warsaw the brilliant, Warsaw the Beautiful, the best beloved of her adoring people, had fallen. Torn by bombs, wrecked by great shells, devastated by hordes of alien invaders, she lay in ruins.

Her people, despairing, seemed for the greater part to have vanished in the two days since the fatal third of August when the city was taken.

Many of the wealthiest of her citizens had taken refuge in the lower part of the city, leaving their magnificent palaces and residences situated in the newer part to the flood of invading soldiers, who went with unerring directness to the parts containing the greatest comfort and luxury.

Warsaw is built in the midst of a beautiful plain mostly on the left bank of the river Vistula. All the main part of the city lies close to the river, and the streets are so twisted and crooked that it is almost impossible to picture them. They wriggle here and there like snakes of streets. The houses, of course, are very old, and with their heavy barred doors and solid shutters, look very strange and inhospitable.

People, in a way, become like their surroundings. Here in these twisted, narrow streets are to be found the narrow, twisted souls of the worst element in Poland; but the worst of them love their country as perhaps no other people do. To the last man and to the frailest woman, they are loyal to Poland. For them, it is Poland first, last and always.

In these low and twisted streets, the devastation was greatest and the people had scurried like rats to cover. A week before they had swarmed the streets and crowded the buildings. Now by some miracle they had gone, utterly disappeared. The houses were deserted, the streets empty. The destruction had been greatest in these crowded places, but many of the beautiful public buildings and state departments in the new part were also in ruins, as well as a number of matchless palaces.

The people from the upper part of the city who had taken refuge in the holes along the river front, were for the most part a strange appearing lot. Some of them carried great bundles which they guarded with jealous care. Others, empty handed, sat and shivered through the summer night-chills that blew from the river. Scores of little children clung to their mother's hands, or wandered trembling and screaming from group to group, seeking their own people.

There was a general gathering of types. Nobles mixed with the poorest, meanest and most criminal classes, and mingled with their common sorrow. For the most part a dumbness, a silence prevailed. The shock of the national disaster had bereft the people of their powers of expression.

Since 1770, Poland had been torn and racked by foes on every hand. Prussia, Austria and Russia envied her wealth, courage, and her fertile plains. Little by little her enemies had pressed across her shrinking borders, wet with the blood of her patriot sons. Little by little she had lost her cherished land until the day of doom August third, 1915.

Sitting, hiding in their desolated city, the people of Poland knew that theirs was a country no longer on the map. Russia, Austria and Prussia at least had met. There was no longer any Poland. For generations there had been no Polish language; it was forbidden by her oppressors. Now the country itself was swallowed up. No longer on the changing map of the world had she any place.

But in the hearts of her people Poland lives. With the most perfect loyalty and love in the world, they say, "We are Poland. We live and die for her."

A gray haze hung over Warsaw. The streets, after the roar of great guns, the bursting of shells, and the cries of thousands of people rushing blindly to safety, seemed silent and deserted. The hated enemy held the town, and the people of Warsaw, most hapless city of all history, cowered beneath the iron hand of the enemy.

As is usual in the fearful lull after such a victory, the town was filled with dangers of the most horrible sort. Murder, crime of every kind, lawlessness in every guise, stalked through the streets or lurked down the narrow, dark and twisted alleys. The unfortunate citizens who had not retreated in time hid, when they could, in all sorts of strange places. They gathered in trembling, whispering groups, into garrets and cellars; even the vaults in the catacombs, the old burial place of the dead, were opened by desperate fugitives, and became hiding places for the living.

The soldiers were in possession of all the uninjured residences in the more modern portion of the city, where they reveled in the comforts of modern baths, lights and heat. But the lower part of the city, lying along the left bank of the river Vistula, was filled with a strange mixture of terrified people. In all the throngs, huddled in streets and alleys, storehouses and ware-rooms, there was perhaps no stranger group than the one gathered in a dark corner of a great building where machinery of some sort had been manufactured.

This had, strangely enough, escaped destruction and stood unharmed in a street where everything bore the scars of shells or bombs.

The engines were stopped; the great wheels motionless; the broad belts sagged hopelessly. Even the machinery seemed to feel the terrible blow and mourned the fallen city.

The persons huddled in the shadow of a vast wheel, however, gave little heed to their strange surroundings. They seemed crushed by a frightful grief more personal even than the taking of Warsaw would cause in the most loyal heart.

In the center of the group a boy of fourteen or fifteen years stood talking excitedly. He was tall, dark as an Italian, and dressed with the greatest richness. Two rings set with great jewels flashed on his hand and while he spoke, he tapped his polished boot with a small cane in the end of which was set a huge, sparkling red stone. He spoke with great rapidity, in the pure Russian of the Court, and addressed himself to an elderly man who sat drooping in an attitude of hopeless sorrow.

Near them sat a plainly dressed woman who buried her stained face in her apron, and wept the hard sobs of those who can scarcely weep more. A young girl clung to her, silent but with beautiful dark eyes wild with terror and loss. On the floor lay a wounded soldier, bearing in perfect silence the frightful pain of a shattered shoulder. His only bandage was a piece of cloth wound tightly around his coat, but not a groan escaped his pale lips. At the window, gazing down into the wrecked street, stood a tall boy of perhaps fifteen years. His face was bloodless; his strong mouth was set in a straight line; the hand resting on the window sill was clenched until the knuckles shone white through the tanned skin. Desperation, horror, and grief struggled equally in his face. His left arm encircled a boy nearly his own size. He, like the woman, sobbed brokenly, and the taller boy patted him as he listened to the rapid words of the boy who was talking.

Suddenly the elderly man spoke.

"You must pardon me, Ivanovich," he said in a trembling voice. "I do not seen to comprehend. Will you kindly repeat your account?"

A flash of anger passed over the face of the young nobleman; then he spoke courteously.

"Certainly, Professor! It was thus. You remember, don't you, that I came to your house as usual, five days ago, for my lessons in English? And you know the sudden bombardment, so close to the city, was so terrible that you would not let me go home? Good! Then you understand all, up to this morning. You know we had watched all night with the doors barricaded, and we decided it was too unsafe to remain longer in the direct path of those brutal soldiers. So we prepared to come here, to one of my father's buildings where there is a chute and an underground storeroom where we could be safe.

"You send me for this cloak and when I returned, what did I find in the room where I had left everyone of the household gathered ready for the flight? The room was empty. I had been upstairs perhaps ten minutes because I could not find my cloak, and there was the room empty. Sir, I was furious at you for leaving me. I am in your charge; I am a Prince; yet you left me -- "

The tall boy turned from the window and spoke.

"Never mind that, Ivan," he said. "Just cut that all out and hustle to the part you haven't told." Although he spoke English, while Ivan told his story in Russian, the boys understood each other perfectly for with a frown and quick glance, the boy Ivan nodded and continued.

"I stood for a while and listened but heard nothing. Then I went through the other rooms on the floor, and all were empty. I decided to get to the warehouse alone if I could, and crept to the door. I drew back hastily. A horrible old woman squatted on the step. She was watching over two great sacks full, no doubt, of valuables stolen from your house and others. As I looked, two men came up. Criminals, they looked, and I scarcely breathed. Presently they went away, the men throwing the sacks over their shoulders, and the woman dragging a jeweled Icon in her hand.

"I heard footsteps behind me, and there you were coming down the stairs. You had that package in your hands, and you said, 'Just think, I nearly forgot my book, Ivan; my great book on the history of Warsaw, now so nearly finished.'

"You asked where the others were, and you said they had thought it wise to go in two parties. You said they had told you to be very careful of something; you couldn't very well remember just what, but it made you remember your book in your and you hurried to save it. So we hurried out, and managed to escape the soldiers, and get here and then everyone cried out, 'Where are the children?'"

"When I went to get my book," said the Professor, with a groan, "they were sitting quiet as mice by the stove, holding each other's hands. How could they have gone off?"

The woman looked up. "They could not go," she said. "I myself slid the great latch on the door; they could not lift it. I have seen Elinor try to do so. The little stranger was much too small. The Germans have them, I am sure of it." She bowed her head with fresh sobs.

"There were no Germans about," said Ivan. "No soldiers of any sort; no one at all save the three of whom I spoke and they certainly did not take them away."

"Certainly not!" said Professor Morris, frowning. "They must have gone out and wandered off while I was after my book, although I distinctly told Elinor not to stir from her seat. I have always endeavored to teach my children absolute obedience. I am surprised at Elinor. She understood. She is six years of age, and she said, "Yes, father." This is a terrible thing; but they will be found. I will report at once to the military authorities. I am convinced that they are safe. Someone will take them in just as we took in the strange child whom we found at the door. That child, as you know, is a noble, yet she was lost. These are war times. People are glad to return lost children. They do not want them. Now if I had forgotten my book, it might have been burned; three years of effort in this city wasted and lost forever! I will hide the manuscript in the underground room you told of, Ivan, then we will go to the proper authorities, and get the children."

"Bah!" said the soldier with the broken shoulder suddenly. "Go where thou wilt these days there is no authority save the authority of brute might. Will that help thee?"

"We must find them," said the Professor brokenly. The seriousness of the affair was beginning to dawn on him. "It will certainly be simple. We will advertise."

The girl at his side smiled. "Advertise?" she said. "Why, father, there are no papers left to advertise in."

"Ivan," said the tall boy at the window, "did you hear what the three people at the door were talking about? What did they say? The people you said looked like thieves."

"Yes, they talked," said Ivan, "but it did not seem to mean much. I didn't get much from it anyway."

"Try to think what they said," said the boy. He passed a hand carefully across the bright fairness of his hair where a dark red streak stained it. "Can't you remember anything they said?"

Ivan stood thinking, the jeweled cane still tapping his boot. "Yes," he said, "when the men came up, they said, 'What have you?' The woman laughed -- evilly, and said, 'All the wine we can drink, and all the bread we can eat, and all the fire we burn for years and years.'"

"The man who had spoken said 'Jewels,' and rubbed his hands. 'That is indeed good! Jewels fit for a king!"

The woman said, "Jewels now, thou fool! Where can one sell jewels these days when one cannot cross the border, and when the world cracks? No one wants jewels!"

"'Then what?' said the man.

"'Oh, stupid!' said the woman. 'Pick up my sacks carefully and be off."

"Then the other man who had already picked up the larger sack, laughed. 'Better than rubies,' he said. 'You are always wise, my woman!'"

"And then the other man picked up the other sack and he laughed too, and the woman held hand to them and whined, 'Please give me some money for these poor little refugees are starving!'

"At that they all roared, and hurried on."

Ivan paused. "That was all they said," he added. "It doesn't help, does it?"

The girl Evelyn leaned forward. "Say it again, Ivan," she said excitedly. "Say just what the woman said."

Ivan, repeated the words.

Evelyn whispered them after him. Then a wild cry broke from her lips. She turned to her father who sat holding the package containing the fatal manuscript. She seized his arm and shook him. So great was her emotion that she could not say the words she wanted.

"Father, father, don't you see it now!" she cried. "Oh, oh, father! Oh, what shall we do? Oh, my darling little sister!" she gasped, and the tall boy ran forward and seized her hands.

"Control yourself, Evelyn," he cried. "I never saw you act like this. Tell me what it is."

She looked at him quite speechless. The agony of all that she had witnessed, the terror of the past week, the fright of losing her precious little sister scarcely more than a baby, the blindness of her father, all had combined to send her into state scarcely better than insanity. With a desperate effort to control, herself, she looked into her brother's eyes.

"You see, don't you, Warren?" she begged. "You can't seem to be able say it. Say you see it too, Warren!"

Then as if she had found some way of giving him her message of doom, she drooped against brother's strong shoulder and fainted quietly away. Warren laid her down, and the governess rushed to her.

"Is she dead?" asked Warren.

"Certainly not," said the woman; "she has fainted."

"What did she try to tell you?" cried Ivan. "Was it something I said?"

"Yes, you told her," said Warren, "and she read it right. I know she is right."

"Well, well, what is it?" demanded the Professor. "This is fearfully upsetting, fearfully upsetting!"

Warren bent tenderly above his sister. She was regaining consciousness.

"It is about as bad as it can be," he said hesitatingly. "The remark about refugees told the whole thing. Our little sister was in one of those sacks, gagged or unconscious. They have been stolen to be used and brought up as beggars."

A deep silence followed. The governess covered her eyes. The wounded soldier slowly shook his head. Professor Morris, Ivan and jack stood with bulging eyes staring at Warren, trying to make themselves understand his speech. Ivan, who knew more of the ways of the half barbaric people of Poland and Russia, nodded his head understandingly. Jack stood with open mouth. The Professor rumpled his hair, though deeply, and laughed.

"Now what would they do that for!" he asked sarcastically. "That sort of thing is not done nowadays."

"Not in the best families," said Warren coldly. "But it is done, I'll bet."

"Oh, yes, it's done," said Ivan, "all the time. I know my father talked a lot about it just before the commencement of the war. He was going to try to stamp out a lot of that sort of thing, especially what affected the women and children. Yes, it is done, Professor."

"Not now," said the Professor stubbornly. "There was recorded a case of that sort in 1793, and even later in the early sixties. Later, there are no records at all bearing on the subject. And if no records, surely there are no instances requiring the attention of thinking people.

"It would be most natural to record any instance of the sort, however small and trifling. In my researches I would have run across the facts. There is no mention of it whatever."

"I know it happens anyhow," said Ivan, sticking to his point.

"Ivan, you forget that I am in a position to know," said the Professor. "My researches have led me, thanks to the presentations of your father and many others, into secret records never before opened to outsiders of any race. I regret the stand you take with me. I am unused to contradiction."

"Pardon me," said Ivan wearily. He looked at Warren. In the minds of both boys there was a feeling that the mystery was solved. There was no longer any need to discuss it. A little search around the house would show if the children were there; after that it meant that Evelyn was right.

"Well, Ivan's right," said Warren doggedly. "It doesn't matter what you have found in your researches, father; you have had those dry old records to prove everything to you. I have heard the people tell stories that would make your hair curl. They not only steal children, but sometimes they cripple them, just as they did hundreds of years ago in England. Why do you suppose boys like Ivan here are watched every second? Sometimes they take them for revenge, but when they are gone, they are gone. You can't go out with a wad of bills and stick it under the park fence, and go back and find your child on the front stoop like you can at home."



Chapter II

The Search Begun

"Impossible!" said the Professor. "Impossible, Warren! It surprises me that you should harbor such wild and impracticable ideas."

"It makes sound sense, dad," said Warren sadly. "Europe has been full of beggars from the beginning of time. And soon, after the war is over, there will be thousands of sightseers flooding the continent. What could be more practical from the standpoint of such people as the ones described by Ivan than to secure two beautiful little children like our Elinor and the strange child that wandered to our doors? They would indeed mean 'drink and money and fire.'" He stopped and for a moment looked reproachfully at his father. "Oh, father, father," he cried, "see what your dreadful forgetfulness has done! How will you ever forgive yourself when you think of the misery and suffering you have brought on your darling! I can scarcely forgive you."

Professor Morris sat with bowed head.

"My son," he said brokenly, "I can not forgive myself. I do not know what to do. I confess I did indeed leave the children. I thought of my book. I thought they were safe -- and my book -- Warren, surely you do not blame me for getting my book?" He spoke tenderly, even lovingly, and clasped the bulky parcel to his breast.

"No, I do not blame you for anything, father, knowing you as well as I do. It is a terrible thing, but we will find her, our precious darling, if we spend our lives hunting." He turned to his sister and brother. "Won't we?" he said.

They did not reply, but gazed at him with looks that were more than promises.

"Well," he continued, "I guess my boyhood is over now. My work is cut out for me. Come on, Ivan, come Jack, let's get going!"

"What do you think you are going to do, Ivanovich?" asked the wounded soldier. Like all his class, generations of submission made him ignore as much as possible all save the one noble. All his attention was given to Ivan, the young Prince.

"Be careful, Ivanovich," he urged. "It is not possible for you to go forth in the clothes you wear. There is danger lurking abroad for the high born."

Ivan shrugged his fearless shoulders. "They would not dare to harm me," he answered.

"He's right. Those clothes won't do," said Warren decidedly. "We don't know where we are going, nor whom we may meet. Where can we find something rough for you to wear?"

"Down below are the workmen's extra blouses," said the soldier. "When I worked here, the room was kept locked, but you might perhaps force the door. There are blouses and rough shoes there. But I tremble; I tremble!" He suddenly lapsed into Polish. "Let these Americans go, Prince," he begged. "Harm never come to them. They go always as though they wore a charm. Poland shall yet rise, my Prince. From these ashes she shall arise more beautiful than ever. She will need you then."

Ivan listened with flashing eyes. "I shall be here," he said simply. "I shall be here, I shall answer when she calls, but in the meantime shall it be said that in Poland, even in her darkest hour, children were stolen for such evil purposes? Never, never!" He turned to Warren. "For a year now," he said, "we have been organizing these Boy Scouts that you have so many of in America. Let us pass the word to them. If little Elinor and the stranger are to be found, surely they will find them. My rank has always hampered me, but even then I know that boys will go where no others can penetrate. What do you think?"

"It's the dandiest idea I ever heard!" exclaimed Warren, his face lighting. "We will have to depend on passing the word to them as we find them here and there, but it's the only thing to do, so let's go to it."

"First the workman's clothes," said Ivan.

"Assuredly!" exclaimed the Professor. "Let us disguise ourselves and go forth. I know that we will find the dear children playing near the corner."

"Father, you must stay here," said Warren, determination in his voice.

"Of course not; of course not!" said the Professor. "Do you expect me to sit idly here while my youngest child needs my protection?"

A smile as sad as tears crossed Evelyn's pale face. "You must stay here, father," she said. "You would certainly get lost, and then we would have to hunt for you. It has happened so before, you know."

"That was very different," said the Professor. "A man uses all his powers of concentration at times, and if it has happened that I have occasionally been so intent on my studies of Warsaw's past history that I have for the time forgotten my surroundings, it is scarcely to be wondered at. The present occasion is different. You will need a man, with a man's wisdom, and a man's ability to act quickly. I must go; I am ready."

Warren, knowing his father's stubbornness, hesitated. Catching his sister's eye, she shook her head slightly. Professor Morris was scrambling to his feet, still clasping his book.

Warren led his father around the narrow aisle that ran between the great machines, until they were alone. Then he spoke.

"Father," he said, "you cannot go. Today has made a man of me. I am sorry, father, but we children are the ones who are always the victims of your forgetfulness, and we have suffered many times before today. This is the worst of all. Perhaps we shall never see our little Elinor again; and I am the one who promised mother when she died that I would always look out for her. It is my fault that she is lost. I should have known better than to have left her with you, but I meant to see the others safely here, and get back before you started.

"I know you, father; you mean to do the right thing by us always, but I certainly don't know what would happen if we did not look out for you as well as ourselves." His voice trembled. "I know this does not sound like proper talk from a boy to his father; but I've got to say it for once. I promise that I'll never speak so to you again, but I'm going to get it out of my system this time. Since I can remember we have been looking out for you. We have had to take care of you and help you remember your meal times, and your rubbers, and your hat, and overcoat and gloves and necktie. We have had to see that you went to bed, and ate and got up and everything else. And all because of books. It makes you sore at me because I hate them. I ought to hate them! Your writing and reading and studying have been the curse of our lives. I tell you, father, it has been just as bad as any other bad habit or appetite. Why, when you are reading up for some article or digging into some musty old work, you are dead to everything else. And we have had to suffer for it. Do you think any other man you know would have left those children a minute in a time like this?"

He paused and once more pressed a hand carefully on the red stain across his fair hair.

"Oh, you must forgive me for talking so, dad, but I'm pretty sore. Little Elinor -- " He turned sharply, and hurried away to Ivan. The three boys hurried down the steep stairs and disappeared. Professor Morris for a moment, a long, dazed moment, stood looking blankly at the dark doorway through which his son had disappeared. Then he sank weakly down on a bench.

As a boy and as a man, he had been noted for his ability to memorize remarks.

In college the worst of the lectures, no matter how dry, had been all imprinted on his mind. Now as he sat thinking, he could fairly see his son's accusing words like large print before his eyes.

For once in his life Benjamin Morris had heard the plain truth from the lips of his favorite son. Yet he did not realize the seriousness of his son's charge. He had heard the words, but their real meaning did not seem to pierce his brain, so filled with knowledge that there was no room there for any interest in the living, or any thought that the present, the passing moment in which we make our little life history, is more precious to each of us then the great moments of the past, no matter how filled they may be with heroic figures.

Benjamin Morris had been long years ago an infant Prodigy. Perhaps you fellows who read this have never known one; and if so, you are lucky. An infant Prodigy shows an unnatural amount of intelligence at a very early age. So far it is all right; and if he belongs to a sensible family, he is urged into athletics, and sleeps out of door and manages to grow up so he will pass in a crowd. But sometimes there are proud parents who read too many books on how to train a child, and pay too little attention to the child himself; and there are aunts, perhaps, as well; and they all take the poor little genius and proceed to train him all out of shape. He rattles off all sorts of pieces, Horatio at the Bridge, and Casabianca, and Anthony's Oration Over Caesar, are easy as pancakes and syrup to him. Then he skips whole grades in school and plows through college like a mole under a rose bush, enjoying himself immensely, no doubt, down there in the dark, but missing all the benefit of the light and air and sunshine. So the infant Prodigy gets to be a grown Prodigy, and presently an old Prodigy, never once suspecting that knowledge, hurtfully taken and wrongfully used, can be almost as great a sin as ignorance.

Certainly Professor Morris, whose sins of learning were heavy ones and bore cruelly on those who loved him in spite of his strange ways, would never have believed any of this. At home, as a boy, when Benny studied, the house was kept so still that incautious mice sometimes came out of their holes and nibbled in broad daylight. At college his queerness, forgetfulness and oddity was excused because of his wonderful recitations and amazing marks. You just couldn't rag a fellow who made one hundred right along. When he married, he found a lovely, gentle girl, who believed him the greatest of all men and held his position as Professor of Ancient History in Princeton as the highest of all earthly positions. But when Elinor was a year old, the little wife died, quite worn out from looking after Professor Benjamin Mollingfort Morris, who had proved to be her most helpless and troublesome child.

Mrs. Morris died warning her older children to look out for the father, and so passed her burden on to them. But some way or other, there was different stuff in the children. They did look after their father, and took good care of the old Prodigy, but the task did not wear them out. Young Jack was indeed so bright that it rather worried Evelyn and Warren, who were always on the alert to overcome any symptoms of genius in themselves or the other children; but owing to their caution, he seemed to be developing well. And Professor Morris, blind to it all, forever digging in the dust of ages, knew nothing of the fact that he was the father of four wonderful children who were successfully carrying on the difficult business of growing up, managing a house, taking care of a parent, and looking after money matters as well.

Warren was the soul of honor. He hated school, but went without a skip, because it was right. And that's a hard thing to do. He looked clean, and was clean, and thought clean. And that's hard, too.

Professor Morris, sitting in his study feverishly seeking facts concerning the table manners of Noah's second cousin twice removed, was deaf and dumb and blind. Yet when he occasionally "came up for air" as Warren put it, the children thought him the finest and funniest and kindest of fathers. It was at one of these times that he came home with the news that he had been given a vacation for three years with full pay. This was to make it possible for him to go to Warsaw, and write an account of some parts of the city's history of which rather little was known.

Warren and Evelyn, who had read "Thaddeus of Warsaw" were wild with delight. It was a glorious journey and, on shipboard at least, it was easy to keep track of the Professor, who had found a very learned Englishman who disagreed with him on every known point. The two old men hurried to find each other each morning, and were dragged apart at night; and the children had time to enjoy the voyage and make many friends. In Warsaw, which they reached safely, they took a house near the magnificent Casimr Palace which now houses the University. Professor Morris did find time to secure fine teachers for the children, and reliable servants for the house. Warren, who always boiled with activity, soon made scores of pals, and immediately introduced the Boy Scouts to Poland.

The young Polish and Russian boys took up the work with the greatest enthusiasm, and time slipped happily away, until war swept the continent. Professor Morris refused to believe in its nearness until it was too late to escape, and they were forced to remain until the day when Warsaw fell. Now Warsaw, beautiful and proud, Warsaw the brilliant lay in ruins. Professor Morris, sitting humped over on the rude bench, thought of the wonderful chance that had brought him where history, tragic and important, was being made. He did not worry greatly over the disappearance of Elinor. He remembered several times in Princeton when she had disappeared. Once they found her under a bed. He wondered whether anyone had looked under the beds in the forsaken house. The terrible idea that his baby girl might be actually lost in the terrible disaster of Warsaw's defeat never once occurred to him. He was annoyed a little at the disturbance she had caused, and resolved to speak very severely to her.

He determined also to reprove Warren for his words; but reflecting on the terrors and excitement and peril of the past hours, he decided to treat it as a little boyish impatience, and overlook the whole thing.

As for his going back to find Elinor, he supposed it would really be a waste of time. Warren would be perfectly able to find her; so he pushed the bench against the wall, snapped a pad from his pocket, was soon lost in pages and pages of notes on the events of the week.

But down in the clothes room while Ivan hastily took off his rich garments and fitted himself with rough work clothes from the shelves, Warren Morris walked the floor and groaned.

"Don't' take it like that, Warren," said Ivan, pausing to place a sympathetic hand on his friend's shoulder.

"It is awful!" groaned Warren. "She is so little, and so easily frightened. I believe it will kill her."

"No, it won't," said Ivan. "There is no coward's blood in Elinor. Wherever she is, she will know we will find her sooner or later. She will be looking out for us every minute. And no one will hurt her. You know people don't take the trouble to drag children off just to kill them. If the three I saw took those girls, they will be careful enough of them, you may be sure. I would rather have them there than with soldiers. The only thing I am hoping is that we can trace them before they leave the city. But I don't believe anyone, even with the best credentials, can get away for the next few days."

"If we had anything for a clue," said Warren. "Can't you even remember what they looked like?"

"Not particularly," said Ivan regretfully. "I would know them if I should see them again. One of the men had a very peculiar walk, but I couldn't describe it to you. It wasn't a limp; just a queer way of using his feet. I don't know whether I would know the woman or not. She looked like hundreds of the sort I have seen down in the open markets, some of them looking a little more so and some less."

"How more so?" asked Warren.

"Why, perhaps fatter, or thinner, or dirtier, but all lawless and no account. I tell you, Warren," he said earnestly, "when I get to be a man, if our house is still in power then, I shall spend my time cleaning up the streets and people of Warsaw. Those old holes and rookeries down by the river, and the streets leading to the wharves have got to be cleaned out or wiped out."

"Better not let my father hear you," said Warren. "He would tell you that all that section is historic, and therefore valuable."

"Perhaps it has been," said Ivan. "But we can always refer to your father's great book on Warsaw, and what the world needs now is light and space and air."

"Well," sighed Warren, "perhaps the book will help some college grind, but if he had let the old thing slide, he would never have lost my sister."

"I do think that we ought to look at it a little from your father's standpoint," said Ivan gently. "You know the children were in the house and the door shut. They were playing contentedly, and he thought it would only take a minute to go upstairs and get the parcel. No doubt he was a good deal longer than he thought he would be, but he thought everything was as safe as it could be. I think we would have done the same thing. Be fair, Warren. Don't you think so?"

"I suppose so," said Warren. "Only now it seems as though it was not safe to leave them a second."

"That's how it has come out," said Ivan, buttoning his blouse, "but that's just the sort of thing no one could foresee. One thing seems certain, if we find them near, or in the house, well and good. If they are not around there somewhere, I believe Evelyn has solved the thing. It doesn't seem possible, though, that anyone could have opened the door, and walked in, and dragged the children right in the house, without the least sound of disturbance reaching your father upstairs. Myself, I don't believe the door was close latched, and it may be the children went out themselves. If they did we will find them soon."

"Elinor has been told a million times never to leave the house," said Warren hopefully.

"And you know she minds," said Ivan. "I think we will find them all right, and Evelyn just imagines things. The woman probably meant just what she said. She doubtless had candles from some church, and clothes and food in the bags. She had enough to last some time, judging from the size and weight."

"I hope so, anyway," said Warren. "Are you nearly ready? If we could only run for it!"

"We can't," said Ivan. "The moment they see you run, you are in danger of being shot down. It won't take long, even if we do have to go slowly."

"Well, let's make a start, if you are ready," said Warren restlessly.

They opened the door and found Evelyn waiting for them. She looked pale and weak, but greeted them quietly.

"Don't be any longer than you can, will you, boys?" she begged. "If she is hurt one of you stay with her, and the other come for me. Don't try to bring her here."

"They won't be hurt," said Warren courageously. "But we won't bring them here at all. We will stay with them, one of us, and come back to tell you. You know they will be together."

"How wicked I am!" said Evelyn. "I forgot little Rika. She has been with us so short a time. I am so thankful she is with Elinor. They will not be so badly frightened."

"Of course not," said Warren. "You go to father, Evvy. We will come soon."



Chapter III

In Warsaw's By-ways

On the day of Warsaw's downfall, a little girl, perhaps three years of age, wandered to the door of the comfortable old house where the Morrises lived. She was dressed with the greatest richness. She was unable to tell her name, or indeed give the slightest clue to her home or family. Ivan and the servants declared her a child of the nobility, but were unable to gain any information from her broken baby talk. She played contentedly with Elinor all day, and at night when she was prepared for bed, they found secreted under her dress jewels fit for a king. Chains of diamonds and rubies encircled her baby neck, and rings of the greatest value were sewed to her garments, while great brooches were pinned in rows on her little skirts. Professor Morris, after pronouncing the collection worth a couple of hundred thousand dollars, stuffed the lot in a couple of his coat pockets with the remark that he had better put them away!

Evelyn, however, took the jewels, and sewing them securely in a belt, fastened it around her own waist for safekeeping. No one doubted that the pretty child would soon be claimed. They soon discovered that her name was Rika, but more than that she could not tell them. She did not seem to feel very lonely or frightened, although she fretted at bed time, calling over and over some name they could not catch.

Elinor was as delighted with her as though she had been given a beautiful new doll; and now Evelyn felt sure that they would remain together unless parted by force-or death. The last thought struck to her heart like a chill, but she would not admit even the possibility of such a thing. The certainty that the children had been drugged and carried off in the two sacks battled constantly with the hope that the boys would find them playing around the corner, or hidden in some unfrequented spot. So it was with a cheerful trust that she said good-bye to the two young workingmen who presently issued from the door of the great store building, and went rapidly up the deserted and torn up street.

They did not dare run. Rather, they slunk along from building to building as though fearful of being seen. When they passed a wrecked chimney, fallen across the street, Warren rubbed some of the soot and grime on his face and clothes, and told Ivan to do the same. He thought very wisely that they looked too clean and neat for the parts they were endeavoring to enact. In addition to the soot, they were soon soiled and torn from scrambling over wreckage and even Evelyn would not have recognized them.

Soon reaching the residence portion of the city, they began an immediate search for Boy Scouts. Out of the hundred or so in their section, they were fortunate enough to find ten. Several of these were searching frantically for relatives and friends. Not one but had lost someone dear to him. They scattered with a will when Warren and Ivan told them about the two children, but the boys who had been nearest the Professor's house, all said that they had not seen the little girls at all. There were no troops moving about that part while the boys were talking and planning, and they were not molested in any way when they scattered and began to search every foot of the neighborhood. Noon found Warren, Ivan, Jack and a couple of others near a wrecked and deserted bakeshop. There was no one to ask and none to object when they scrambled over the heaps of stone and plaster and wood, and tried the doors of the great ovens. Sure enough, there they found, well cooked and safe, a supply of bread and meat and sweets. Warren and Jack were broken-hearted at the absence of the slightest clue to Elinor, but they made a manly effort and managed to eat a good and nourishing meal, because they knew that they must keep up every bit of strength they had.

At three o'clock by agreement they all met at the Professor's house. Not one had secured a single clue. They had searched every empty and ruined building and had asked every person that they had seen. No one had been able to tell them anything that sounded at all helpful. Warren had thought that the fact that the strange child wore a scarlet dress would be the means of tracing them immediately; but according to the people they questioned, half the children in Warsaw had worn scarlet dresses or coats. Warren was sick with despair. After a short talk, the boys scattered again, working out from the Professor's house like the spokes of a wheel for about half a mile. As Warren decided that he had about reached the limit agreed upon, he stood thinking, when the shrill Scout whistle sounded at his right. It was the signal to gather, and Warren's heart leaped with delight as he thought, "Elinor is found."

He crossed the space like a whirlwind, leaping over fallen walls and dashing around buildings in his mad race.

He found the Scout who had whistled standing at the sagging door of what had once been a comfortable home.

"Where is she?" cried Warren as he reached the doorway.

The boy shook his head. He was deathly pale, and trembled.

"It is not your sister; you may be glad of that; but we must do something. Go in!"

Four other Scouts came panting up, all flushed with the hope that Elinor had been found. They followed the boy who had pushed Warren through the hall and through another door. Warren stopped appalled.

Half the wall was gone. A bomb had evidently struck the house. On the bed a young woman lay. She was quite dead. Her ashy face told it without the evidence of the blood in which she was bathed. By her side lay a tiny girl. She, too, was still and cold in the last sleep of death, but by a strange mischance of war, a baby lay unharmed in the young mother's arms.

Unattended, uncomforted and cold, it had lain there for hours; yet it lived, and as the boys entered sent up a feeble wail. Shaken to the heart, Warren walked to the bed and picked up the infant. Its cries had dwindled to a feeble whining, and it shivered. Warren hastily unfastened his blouse, and pressed the little being to the warmth of his body. He could feel it press against him, or so it seemed to him, as he stood there in that chamber of death. His course, however, seemed clear. The living child in his arms must be cared for, and at once. He could only think of Evelyn. The hospitals were either shattered or filled with too many wounded soldiers. There was no room in any place of that sort now for a little baby. Life was cheap in Warsaw that day. He would take it to Evelyn and she would take care of it somehow. His own little Elinor he dared not think of.

It was with an almost breaking heart that he and the other boys rapidly retraced their steps and finally gained the warehouse. As he went up the long stairs, Professor Morris left his corner, and stood ready to greet them. He was smiling.

"Well, well, where is Elinor?" he asked testily.

"We did not find her," answered Warren curtly. He was so tired that he staggered as he walked. He gained the top of the steps and, crossing unsteadily to Evelyn, laid the baby in her arms. Its little pinched face, and bloodstained dress prepared her for Warren's story.

"It is nearly starved," she said. "What shall we give it?"

"I know," said Ivan. "Babies all drink milk, don't they? There is a court down below, and when we went out I saw a couple of goats in it."

It was true, and the poor creatures were glad enough to be milked. The baby, finally fed and warmed, slept exhausted in Evelyn's arms.

In all the cruel war whose dark shadow obscured Europe a great deal of suffering fell to the share of the poor little babies and the small children. To older children war could be explained. It was a vast and terrible something that swept away homes and food and comfort. It was a monster that devoured fathers and brothers, and left families without support, and homeless. But there was a reason that could be told, and which they could understand more or less.

But the tiny ones, alas! What could be told them when their little world tumbled, when they were carried out from warmth and safety, when food was denied; when the bosoms that had warmed them grew cold and unresponsive, what could they do but suffer and die the slow, torturing death of hunger and cold?

Their little cries arose to heaven, there were no ears to hear them when the thunder of guns drowned all else. Poor, poor babies! Born, many of them, to enlighten the world with new discoveries, to cure the afflicted, to bring joy, they have perished as surely or a cause which they could not understand as have the soldiers in the trenches.

When great nations are falling, and men are being mowed down like grass, in numbers beyond the counting, the lives of little babies can only be held precious by mothers who guard them with their every breath.

The poor little bit of humanity found by the boys would soon have closed its little eyes in the death which had so suddenly overtaken the mother and sister. But it proved a sturdy little scrap, and after drinking all the milk they dared give it, cried for more.

It was a pretty child, well dressed and well cared for, and Evelyn studied it with tender interest as it lay contentedly in her arms. As she hushed and soothed it into sleep, she talked with her brothers. Professor Morris had gone to the other end of the long room, and they could hear him groan as he walked the floor.

"Don't you think that it would be safe now for us to go back home?" said Evelyn. "We can always prove that we are Americans, and I think there will be no more lawlessness. What do you think?"

Warren remembered the soldier with the wounded shoulder.

"We can't leave Peter here," he said.

"Why no, but he managed to get up here with help, and I think we can get him home with us. I don't know what else to do, unless Anna is willing to stay with him until morning."

"That's the thing to do," said Warren, "but Anna is such a scare cat."

"She ought to be willing to stay with her own brother!" declared Evelyn. "That shoulder will kill him unless cold water is kept on it all the time, until we can get hold of a doctor or get him to a hospital."

"The hospitals are so full that you can't get inside the doors," said Warren.

"I found that out today."

"Well, we will ask Anna, anyway," she said. She called to the governess, who approached at once. Telling her the plan, Evelyn waited for the woman to speak.

"Surely that is a wise plan indeed," she said, to their great relief. "Peter could not be moved tonight. He is full of fever. And someone will find our little Elinor, and take her home. Then what could they do if the house was deserted?"

"I never thought of that," said Evelyn in a grief-stricken tone. "Let us hurry and get back before it is dark."

"Yes," said Warren, "we could not make it at all in the dark. The lights are all gone, and the streets are nearly impassable in lots of places. Get dad, and come on. Don't forget the book," he added, smiling bitterly.

They hastily brought blouses and overalls from the clothes room below and made as comfortable a bed for Peter as they could. There was plenty of goat's milk to drink, and bread from the bake shop, with which Warren had thoughtfully had the boys fill their pockets.

Then, as the dusk gathered, they hurried out, Professor Morris clasping the bulky manuscript, Evelyn carrying the sleeping baby, while Warren and Ivan supported her on either side, and Jack went ahead to pick out the safest path.

They reached the house after a hard walk, and were soon feeling some sense of bodily comfort after all the hardships of the day. They decided to act as nearly as possible as though they were but little disturbed by the past events, and to assume the position of foreigners who felt themselves under the protection of their own government.

Naturally, all their thoughts were of Elinor, but night had fallen black and stormy, and in all the confusion and lawlessness there was nothing to be done but wait as best they could for morning.

In spite of his anxiety, Warren slept heavily and did not awaken until his sister shook him, and he opened his eyes to find that it was seven, 7 o'clock.

"No news, Warren dear," said Evelyn. "Only that that poor little baby is certainly better. Oh, Warren, it is so cunning! I do hope it will be all right. I want to keep it if we do not find its father. All the rest of its family must be dead." She sat down on the edge of Warren's bed. "Do you know," she said, "I feel as though everyone besides ourselves is hurt or lost or dead or kidnapped? I have been thinking what I would do if anyone kidnapped me. I would try so hard to leave some sort of a message. I think if I had my diamond ring on, I would try to scratch something on a window pane."

Warren smiled. "Try some other plan, Evvy," he said. "They wouldn't be apt to wait while you found a window and scratched a letter on it."

"You never can tell," said the girl. "Anyhow, that is what I would try to do. Get up now, Warren, I have a nice hot breakfast for you. Ivan is dressed and has been out getting things to eat."

Warren hurried down and enjoyed the nice breakfast his sister had prepared. Jack, who had had his meal earlier, was awkwardly holding the baby, and seemed quite overcome by the task.

Breakfast over, Warren went with Ivan to the door, and stood for a moment looking down the street. A couple of men, very evil looking and dark browed, approached slowly, and passed on in the direction of the open market. Ivan glanced carelessly at the pair, then stifled an exclamation of surprise. As they reached a safe distance, he clutched Warren by the arm.

"Look, look!" he cried. "Those are the two men who were with the woman with the sacks."

"What!" cried Warren tensely. "Come!" He started out, and together they followed the two men.

"What are you going to do?" asked Ivan.

"Shadow them until I find where they stay. That woman is no doubt there, wherever that is."

"I follow," said Ivan briefly.

Warren paused. "You can't come," he said regretfully. "Someone has got to look after dad, and as this is a dangerous job, it is my right, as the older, to do it. I wish you could come, but you see how it is, don't you?"

"I suppose so," said Ivan mournfully, "but get back so soon as you can. And if you find Elinor, and need help about getting her away, come back or send, and I will bring all the Scouts down."

The boys shook hands and parted, Ivan hurrying back to the house with the news, while the soiled work boy slouched along after the two skulking villains ahead.

At the open market a few hucksters, braver than most, were selling meat and vegetables to as many as dared come and buy. The men ahead bought freely as though money was plenty. Laden down with supplies, they finally turned and, walking rapidly, plunged down toward the river where the narrow, twisted streets invited criminals of every kind.

Warren, following them as far off as possible, had to act and think quickly at times in order to keep track of them. Finally they turned into a street or alley leading directly to the river, and as Warren hurried after them they disappeared as suddenly as though they had sunk into the earth. Warren darted forward.

It was a row of dismal, crowded houses, and Warren was too far away to know just where the men had turned in. They had disappeared within one of the doors, and Warren walked openly and boldly along, studying each house. It was a rash and reckless thing to do.

Warren forgot the teachings of his order, for there is nothing more persistently urged on a Boy Scout than caution. If Warren had not been so intensely excited, he would have remembered this. But of course his excitement was an excuse for forgetting. It is when we are in dangerous and exciting situations that we must train ourselves to have every faculty at our command.

It is the commonest thing in the world to hear people tell what they might have done, and unfold plans conceived after the necessity for them was past. Such plans make good reading, but poor history.

Warren, of course, tramping hastily down a deserted street, lay open to disaster, and the defeat of his purpose. If he had reconnoitered as carefully as he had followed his game, he would have been able to locate them without the least suspicion on their part that they had been shadowed. It then would have been simple to have watched for some unguarded moment, when the boys could easily have gained entrance to their quarters and secured the children.

There is no great deed accomplished in this world where caution does not play a great part. In war, in business, in sports, the man who looms the biggest after the game is done and people have the time to study things, is the man who had never once failed to exercise a proper amount of caution. In a fairy story this warning is given: "Be bold; be bold -- but not too bold."

You see caution does not question or hesitate or delay too long. Caution keeps right on, but slowly and with a careful regard to safe footing. Caution keeps you from rocking the boat, and pointing the loaded gun, and skating near the thin ice. It keeps you from the heels of the kicking horse. It makes the good general save his men.

Warren forgot. After blocks and blocks of trailing, he bolted down the street, examining each house with anxious excitement.

Finally he discovered footmarks leading toward a dark, heavy door, and he stood looking the place over. It was a tall, narrow place which had, centuries past, been used as a dwelling. What it was at present Warren could not guess, unless it had fallen to the level of the damp, rat infested hovel where crime and disease are bred daily in old towns like Warsaw. Strange carvings of dragons and monsters upheld the eaves and formed the heavy water spouts. The tiny, windows were bare and curtainless. They swung open in the wind that blew from the Vistula.

Warren stood looking. He was all alone in the street.



Chapter IV

Hot On The Trail


The men had disappeared, and there seemed no further need for caution. As Warren approached nearer, he noted the dark, tumbledown building, which looked as though it had been a ruin for centuries, dismal and uninhabited. Only one thing was noteworthy. The door, a stout one heavily barred with ornamental straps of ancient and rusty iron, was fitted with strong, modern hinges, and had been closely fitted in anew frame. Warren's keen eye quickly grasped these details as he sauntered past, and stopped before 'the building, but what he did not see, and could not guess, was the tiny auger hole bored close to one of the iron frets. Behind that hole stood a man in whose cunning brain suspicion lurked; and Warren did not know that after that close scrutiny the trained eye of one of the basest murderers and criminals in Poland would now recognize him, no matter where they met.

Warren knew that he must gain access to the den, but how?

Thinking rapidly, he resolved to wait until the men again left the place, when he would rap at the door, and try to get in on whatever excuse he might need to invent when the moment arrived. He crossed the street, and entered an abandoned building. For two hours he waited in biding, never suspecting the anxious scrutiny he himself was undergoing.

His wrist watch told him that noon was past. There was no sign of life in the street. Remembering the loads of provisions that the men had carried, he decided that they did not intend to come out of their hiding place until nightfall. That would give him time to return, report to the anxious watchers at home, and consult with Ivan and the other Boy Scouts.

With Warren, to decide was to act. He hurried through the shattered streets, wondering what the careful Evelyn had kept for him to eat.

As he turned the corner he saw before the house a group of people who seemed to be regarding it curiously. Warren hastened his steps. Pushing through the group, he entered. The door, torn from its hinges, swung against the wall. In the hall a heavy chest of drawers was overturned and the drawers piled together on the floor. The contents were scattered everywhere. Calling the names of the family, Warren dashed through the rooms, vainly hoping to find some trace of his people, or some explanation of the new disaster. Returning to the door, he appealed to the bystanders. What had happened? They told him that they had come down the street just in time to see the soldiers leading off a group of people. More than that they did not know. They supposed that they were now dead. It was what happened in war.

Warren returned to the house, his head whirling. This seemed the last and most crushing blow. To have such a thing happen just as he was about to rescue his little sister and reunite the family! He could not imagine why this thing should have been done. Why should any soldiers molest American citizens?

Utterly overcome, he sank down in a chair by the window and leaned his head on the sill. All gone! He did not know what to do. His quick and clever brain for the moment refused to act. He raised his head and looked dully out into the street where the group of curious people was slowly moving away. For a long time he stared, then his eyes suddenly set themselves on something nearer. Dumfounded, unbelieving, he glared. It seemed that he could hear Evelyn's voice, Evelyn's own words.

"If anyone kidnapped me," she had said, "I think if I had my diamond on I would try to scratch a message on the window pane."

Indeed, her mother's ring had served her well. Before Warren's eyes, on the glass, Evelyn had left her message:

"Arrested as spies. Ac't dad's book. Taken to camp. Find Ivan. Tell Consul. Help."

Clutching the arms of his chair, Warren sat staring at the message on the window pane. He read it over and over. A curious feeling that his eyes were tricking him possessed him. He reached out and rubbed the message slowly, fully expecting it to disappear. The letters felt rough under his fingers. It was really written there with Evelyn's diamond. Still unbelief possessed him. How had it happened that she had foreseen this dreadful mischance clearly enough, in some mysterious way, to plan the delivery of the saving message?

As Warren looked, the events of the last few crowded days seemed to rise up and bear him down under their horror and immensity. He sat clutching the arms of his chair, and with unseeing eyes stared and stared at the letters. All at once he felt very young, very helpless, very lonely.

America, his own dear country, with its safety and its careless, unthinking haphazard hospitality for every living person who seeks her shores; America seemed suddenly to be set farther than the farthest star.

Like most American boys, Warren was clever, shrewd and ingenious. Life with Professor Morris had trained him in ingenuity and efficiency. Since his earliest remembrance it had fallen to his lot to act as the head of his family, making decisions that usually are the sole right of fathers and guardians. But now, under conditions of horror and tragedy, he realized that he was after all only a boy; and the thought came to him that he and his, dear and infinitely precious as they were to each other, counted not at all in the great tragedy of war.

Who was there to help? The American Consul was powerless for the time, if he could be found. Warren knew that the portion of the city where he had lived was a shapeless ruin.

The boy continued to sit motionless in his chair, desperately, desperately puzzling the dark mystery.

Gradually in Warren's dazed mind the whole affair took definite shape. They were gone; arrested on suspicion. For the moment at least he felt sure they were safe, even in the hands of an enemy who had shown themselves utterly cruel and heartless. He felt sure that if they were suspected of being spies every effort would be made to make them confess before they were executed, if it did indeed come near that question.

But "Find Ivan." What did that mean? Evidently Ivan was not with them. As though in answer to his thought, Warren heard or thought he heard a faint shout. He listened. It was repeated, with a sound of pounding and banging. Once more Warren searched the house, beginning with the old dusty, rambling attic set close under the great beams of the old house. Down he hurried, from room to room, looking in presses, under beds, and listening in each room.

As he reached the kitchen, the sound seemed clearer. It was Ivan's voice. He opened the cellar stairs and went down. Once, years, even generations past, the house had been the residence of a noble. The cellar was not the one or two rooms of the modern house. It was vast and vaulted and contained a dozen dark, unlighted apartments, all with heavy, iron-barred, oaken doors.

Professor Morris said that two of the rooms had been used as dungeons and it was in one of these that Warren found Ivan. He stumbled over him as he opened the door. The boy was bound, but lying on his back, so had been able to hammer on the door with his feet. The sound of pounding had carried even better than his shouts.

Warren hastily untied the cords that secured him and helped him up the stairs. He was stiff and sore from the cramped position, but once in the upper rooms, he took a deep breath, and proceeded to tell Warren the events of the morning.

Once more Professor Morris was the cause of the disaster. The Professor was, fortunately, of uncommon type. He was a modest man -- so modest that it even ceased to be a virtue, and became an annoying and irritating trait. He never stood up for himself, nor for his family in any way.

The saying, "Generous to a fault" likewise applied to him. He was a spendthrift in kindness, giving not only money needed for himself and the children, but bestowing his time when he needed it himself. His learning he gave recklessly, too, writing long, learned articles for little or no pay, and without a thought that the material given away was just so much capital.

But of one thing he was jealous, careful and touchy. His book, his almost completed work on Warsaw. It was to be a book of books, so clear, so accurate, so full of new f acts that it would be a treasure among the literary treasures of his time. Professor Morris believed in the book with the conviction that comes to writers when they have done something really good. He knew it was fine. It was more than a history of the beautiful and fated city. It was written in such golden, flowing English that the hardest and driest facts in its pages were polished and placed like jewels of great price in their descriptive setting. And they were jewels. He had mined them out of strange places in that ancient town. He had taken his time and in digging for his beloved facts, he had found many an unexpected wonder.

Knowing his father as he did, Warren could see the story told by Ivan as plainly as though he had been present. One thing made him smile as he recalled it. His father would not use a typewriter, and anything written in his strange, cramped hand would look suspicions at once. And he knew, too, that his father would resent even the touch of strangers on the beloved pages. He smiled a little bitterly.

"Go on, Ivan," he said. "Let's hear it all."

"A detachment of soldiers came down the street," said Ivan, rubbing his lame muscles, "and as they came they looked through every house. I suppose they were on the lookout for troops of our soldiers. When they reached this place, your father met them at door and talked a moment with the officer in charge. Of course Evelyn and I did not know what they said, but the officer grew angry and your father just stood there and smiled and shook his head. Then Evelyn went to your father and as soon as the officer saw her he bowed very low, and in English said, 'Prettee, prettee.' Evelyn came back to us and took the baby from Jack.

"Then the door slammed, and we heard the big bolt fall, and your father dragged that big chest across it and came in as pleased as could be. He said, 'There, I have settled that! Such impertinence! They wanted to search my house!'

"But at that, blows fell on the door and presently it fell and the soldiers rushed in. Your father had his book and was trying to hide it in the lining of a chair. Of course they at once thought it must be plans or something of the sort, and Professor would not tell them a thing and we couldn't because we could not make them understand that it was just a book about the history of Warsaw. When they took it from your father, of course he resisted, and that settled the matter. We had to go to the headquarters. Of course, your father would have followed his book wherever that went. As we started, the officer took Evelyn by the arm, and I think I hit him pretty hard for it. Anyway he gave a command, and a dozen big fellows took me and tied me up and carried me down here. It is a good thing you came, Warren." He shuddered as he thought of the possible ending that his adventure might have had.

Warren was deep in thought. One event pressed so closely on another that things lost their significance and importance.

"We have got to get a hustle on now," he said.

"Your American hustle-on; that means act quickly, does it not?" said Ivan. "We must indeed hustle on. Let us find where they are, and then apply to your Consul."

"That's all right," said Warren, "but I don't think they are in any immediate danger and I think the first thing to do is to got hold of Elinor."

"Get hold of her," said Ivan. "Do you know where she is?"

"Yes, I think I have found her," said Warren and commencing at the moment when the boys parted on the street, he gave Ivan an account of his morning's discoveries.

"Good! Good!" said Ivan. "We will go together this time, and together we will rescue our pretty little Elinor. Have you made any plans?"

"No, I haven't," confessed Warren. "I don't know what ails me; I seem to be perfectly brainless today. It looks like I am losing everybody that belongs to me."

Ivan shrugged his shoulders. "Look at me," he said. "My mother long dead, my father somewhere on the field of battle, or lying dead in the trenches. I do not know; but I must not think. What I want to do is to save Professor Morris, my second father, and Evelyn and Jack and Elinor, who are as sisters and brother to me. Let us start and plan as we go."

"Have you any money?" asked Warren. "I have not a single copper."

"Nor I," said Ivan.

"We ought to have some," said Warren. "We might have to bribe those people."

Ivan laughed, and felt down his blouse. "This might help," he said. "I hate to give the small one up. It has been in the family, always worn by the eldest son, for more generations than I know; but if we have to give it, it will come back. It always has." He offered Warren two rings, magnificent jewels.

Warren shook his head. "I hope we won't have to use them," he said.

"What of that?" said Ivan. "Jewels, even family jewels, do not count for much beside the dear ones. Ah, Warren," said Ivan, "it is hard for boys to talk, even here in Poland, where it is easier to say what is in one's heart than it seems to be with you Americans. But let me tell you now all that I think. We do not know what we may get into today, what peril -- maybe death. I feel danger approaching; I cannot say how. All the people of my house have been able to foresee disaster. What it is I know not. So I will say that so long as I do live, I will never cease to love you and yours. I want you to take this ring that we have held so long and if we are parted, wear it for the sake of Prince Ivan of Poland."

Warren swallowed hastily. "Same here!" he said. "You know darned well I'm strong for you, Old Ivy Scout." He felt hastily in all his pockets. "Haven't a thing to swap," he continued, "not a -- " He drew out his hand with something in it. "Guess this will have to do," he said. "It's a buffalo nickel, but I brought it from home. You can have it."

"Thank you so much. I will always keep it," said Ivan. It was so. Years after, if Warren could have looked into the future, he would have seen a magnificent figure at court, one decoration on his jeweled breast being a coin around which sparkled a double row of priceless diamonds. The coin was only, a nickel but that mattered not to Prince Ivan.

As the boys approached the street where Warren had located the house of the thieves, they decided to hide for a little in the ruins across the street, and watch for awhile in the hope that the door might open, or the two men come out.

They made the approach one at a time, and settled down for a long wait. An hour or more went by, and all at once Warren stuck out a long leg and noiselessly kicked Ivan. The oaken door across the street was ajar. Just a crack, and for a long time it remained so, while the boys scarcely breathed.

It opened slowly, and the two men came cautiously out. They did not glance across the street, but looking carefully up and down the crooked alley, closed the door carelessly, and went off at a brisk gait without a glance behind.

The boys looked at each other.

"Now!" said Ivan.

"Wait!" answered Warren. "Give them time. No doubt they will be gone most of the night."

There was a long silence, then glancing at his watch, Warren said, "Come! Do you see that door? They did not latch it. I don't believe there is a soul over there but the woman. There is just one thing to do. Go over and look in; and if she is alone we will rush her, tie her up and get off with the children. We can do it."

"That's the only thing to do," said Ivan. "Let's go."

The street was deserted as they crossed it and stepped close to the oaken door. It was ajar, and they could see the interior of the dark, prison-like room. The woman was there bending over a pot that swung on a crane in the fireplace. A heap of filthy rags was in a corner near by, and lying there was little Elinor and the strange child Rika. A sob rose in Warren's throat as he saw his sister, so pale and thin and terrified she looked. He heard Ivan's breath come sharply.

"Let's rush!" he said.

"You can't!" answered Ivan. "Don't you see the chain on the inside of the door?"

"It's light, we can break that," answered Warren. "Get yourself together. When I say three, throw your whole weight. Grab the woman as quickly as you can."

"All right," said Ivan.

Warren stepped back a space and held himself for a spring.

"One, two," he counted slowly. "Three" was never uttered. He heard a strange cry from Ivan; and as he did so, a frightful blow from some heavy, blunt instrument struck him squarely. He crumpled down unconscious.

Ivan, behind him, evaded the blow aimed at his head by the second ruffian, and quick as a panther stood back to the wall, gazing at his assailant.

"Hands down," said the man, grinning evilly. "Hands down before I brain you!"

"What do you want with us?" demanded Ivan.

The man laughed.

"What would we want of eavesdroppers and spies? This is our house, poor as it is. We will guard it when young thieves like you come peering in the cracks. What did you think to steal of honest men as poor as yourselves? Your friend here deserves his broken head. Must I give you one, or will you come with me peaceably?"

"I'll come if you will tell me what you are going to do with us," said Ivan.

Again the man laughed, and with his foot shoved the body of Warren lying motionless on the ground.

"Come on," said the other man. "Why waste words? Get hold of him and bring him along!"

"Let me have my way," said the man standing over Ivan. "This amuses me. Come, come, young one, what will you-obedience or a broken head?"

Ivan was silent, then he spoke. "I won't fight," he said. "You are too big, but I won't go in that door with you."

"So!" said the man. "Then we do it in this fashion." He made a rush at Ivan and seizing him in his arms, held him until the other man lifted Warren and so, half carrying and half dragging Ivan, he followed through the dungeon-like doorway into the gloom and chill of the great room beyond.



Chapter V

In The Enemy's Hands


Ivan's first impression was of a dead, heavy chill which the fire burning in the great fireplace at the other end of the vast room was powerless to lighten. The place was half underground, and what light entered was filtered through dusty and cobwebbed panes of leaded glass set high under the vaulted roof. The windows partially lighted the heavy oak beams which supported the ceiling, but the lower parts of the room lay in deep shadow. Emblems and rude pictures were scratched and chalked on the walls, but Ivan could not make them out in the dim light.

Running the width of the room before the fireplace was a massive table, and on either side of it were benches built where they stood. From the size and strength of them, they might have been intended for the use of a race of giants or exceedingly fat men! Their carved bases spread heavily apart, and huge dragon claw feet braced them on the floor which, beneath and around the table, was carefully paved with stone.

At one side of the fireplace a great pile of wood was placed, broken and splintered pieces picked up from the buildings which had been shelled by the great guns of the enemy. Bits of oaken beams, pieces of rare, highly polished furniture, and scraps of priceless carvings made the pile which soon would go in flames to cook the wretched supper even then in course of preparation.

A woman stood by the table, scraping scales from a fish. A heavy knife was in her hand, and as she raised her dark and scowling face Ivan recognized her and shuddered.

As she stood watching the entrance of the group at the door, scowling and peering through the gloom, she looked to Ivan's eyes like one of the furies of the French Revolution. All the history he had read of that dreadful period was made clear and real to him. Ivan, closely watched, and closely guarded from harm, had up to the time of the bombardment of Warsaw, never come in contact with anyone out of his own noble class with the exception of the Morris family. His father, knowing the educational standing of Professor Morris in America, and judging the whole family by his mild, inoffensive manner, had decided to allow Ivan, his son, to learn English from the Professor. It had not occurred to him, a man of many affairs, to suspect the presence of an ingenious lively, mischievous whirlwind in the person of the Professor's elder son.

When Ivan told his father with enthusiasm of the Professor's family, the Prince imagined them of course to be exactly like the Professor, and rejoiced that Ivan could be among such studious and book loving, quiet people. So he told Ivan that he might spend what time he liked with the Morris family, and then forgot the whole thing in the fearful question of War which soon arose. When he left for the Russian front he left orders that in case of any peril or disaster Ivan was to go to the Morris house and there remain for greater safety.

Before the happenings of the last chapter, however, Ivan had been almost constantly with Warren for a year, and had so imbibed his democratic ideas and had studied so hard to make good as a Scout that Prince Ivan the Magnificent, had he returned, would have had difficulty in recognizing his only and dearly loved son.

But as a matter of fact, Ivan the Magnificent did not return. Instead, blood stained, mud stained and distorted, he slept in a far away trench past which had swept the invaders' line, grim and terrible.

He had fought well and desperately for the honor of Poland until at last, under a leaden rain, Ivan the Prince had gone to meet the fate of Ivan the Man. And not one word of this did Ivan the boy suspect.

It had never seemed that harm could touch his wonderful father. He must be safe; and Ivan moved through his many adventurous days with only the thought that he would have so much more to tell his father on one of the rare and precious evenings when Prince Ivan's duties at court and with his regiment would allow him to spend a few happy hours with his son.

So it was with a keen and appraising eye that Ivan viewed that dark and dungeon-like interior, thinking to tell his father all about it.

The woman beside the table scowled darkly as she saw the group.

"What now?" she demanded. "Are those the spies? They are nothing but boys! Why do you bother with them, Michael Paovla, why did you bring them here? Crack them on the head! The river runs swift enough down the street there."

She brandished her knife as she spoke.

"I will not give them one single meal, do, you hear that?"

"Peace, Martha! Do not jest," said the large man with a wry smile.

He looked at Ivan as he spoke.

"Who are you?" he asked. Clothed as the boy was in mean and soiled garments, there was still something distinguished about him.

He stood proudly erect. Perhaps his name would help out.

"Ivan Ivanovich, of the House of Sabriski," he said, looking the man in the face.

The three shouted with laughter. "Isn't he clever?" cried the woman. "Ask him something else!"

"No," said the man. "I want to think that over. Come, it is cold here!"

He picked Warren up from the floor where he had thrown him, and, carrying him down the long room, made his way around the great table and dropped him roughly on the pile of rags where, Elinor and Rika were crouched.

Poor little Elinor, huddled on her pile of rags, did not recognize the limp burden carried in by the larger of the two men, whom she had learned to dread with unspeakable terror. When he threw it down in the middle of the room, the pale face was turned toward the child, and she recognized, Warren. She commenced to scream. Shriek after shriek left her pale lips, and the man started over to her side, when a short, sharp word silenced her. She looked to see who had spoken, calling her so familiarly by name.

"Stop, Elly, stop," said the voice in English, and her cries were stilled as by magic, although she still gazed with longing and terror at the pale face down which a tiny line of blood trickled.

The second man clasped a second boy, dirty and torn, and meanly dressed in a workman's blouse. She stared at him, never recognizing Ivan, whom she had always seen so gorgeously clothed in furs and fine broadcloth and exquisite linen. It was not until he spoke again that she recognized him.

"Be quiet, Elinor," he said. "We will save you. Warren is not hurt, he is just dizzy. He will be all right soon."

Ivan spoke hopefully, but as he looked down at the boy lying before him, he wondered in his heart if there was really a spark of life left in that still, pale, bleeding body. As for Elinor, after the first outburst, she sat dumbly trembling.

The past day and night had been so crowded with horrors that the tender children were fast passing into a state where they neither realized nor felt the hardships and abuse they were subjected to.

The time when they sat playing in Professor Morris's quiet house seemed too far away to remember.

They had been playing happily, the two children, when the family decided to go away for a few hours, but so happily were they with their dolls and each other, that they paid no attention to the stir and unrest about them. Even Elinor, who was almost six years old, had not concerned herself with the sound of the big guns.

She did not notice when her father left the room. If he told her, as he thought he had, to "sit quietly" and await his return, she failed to hear him. So she took Rika by the hand and "went, visiting." They sat down on the top step, and looked into the empty street, and watched occasional groups of fleeing Poles hurry past to the safety of the plains. A rough looking woman came past, noticed them, and returned, looking as she did so at the house, and peering into the hall through the open door.

Then she approached the children and in a voice she tried in vain to make soft, she asked what they were doing, and who they were.

Little Rika, who could say but few words, sat and stared at her with a frown.

Elinor answered politely. The woman studied them carefully. Elinor was a child whose beauty was always remarked wherever she went, and the little Rika was equally lovely. They had been used to kindness and attention from everyone, so when the woman took out a queer little box, and offered them each a funny little black candy, they accepted them quite as a matter of course. Then she drew back, and the children turned to their dolls again. But only for a moment. Then the head of golden curls and the long, black ringlets drooped and the drugged children were asleep. The woman shook two big sacks out from beneath her dress, and as coolly and as cruelly as though she was filling them with straw, she shoved a child in either bag, crossed to the curb with her heavy burden, and sat down to wait.

When her two accomplices joined her, they went rapidly to the hovel where Warren had tracked them later, and releasing the half smothered and unconscious children, they laid them down on a pile of rags, and sat looking at them, while they ate their evening portion of black bread and cold fish.

There was a great discussion. The larger man, Michael, was in favor of offering the children for a ransom. The others would not consider it at all.

"Remember," said Martha, the woman, "there is much danger in collecting such fees. Rather will I prepare these little ladies for the trade of beggars. So beautiful are they that I can go through every capital in Europe, if so Europe still stands."

"Have it your own way," said the smaller man, Patro by name.

"I always do," she said simply. Then she studied the sleeping forms again.

"I think it will be well, some time soon, to twist the legs of the small one," she said. "She would make a sweet cripple."

"No!" said Michael. "You may not do so. I will not have it."

The woman laughed. "Said I not that I have my own way?" she asked.

"All right, Martha, you do," said Patro, "but believe me, it is better to take the greatest care of those little ones. Think what dancers they may make some day. There is a fortune in those little feet, I'll be bound. Be careful of them, watch them, and perhaps some day they may be prancing on the opera stage at St. Petersburg, or even here in Warsaw."

The woman sat thinking for a little. "Perhaps you are right," she said. "People are dance-mad these times. They are pretty enough to climb to any heights."

Patro laughed.

"Why laugh?" said Martha angrily.

"Nothing, nothing, dear Martha, only that it is funny to think you are taking these children down from the heights where they belong so that they may climb back for your pleasure."

The woman's brow grew black. She reached out a heavy foot, and pushed Elinor away from her.

"Not for thy pleasure," she said sneeringly.

"No, Patro, no! They are to pay me over and over for my life. Drop for drop, pain for pain, I will take from them all I have myself suffered. They shall sleep cold, because so I slept all my childhood. They shall hunger because I did so. They shall beg in the streets while I listen. Ah!" she shook her fists above her head, "I have hated all the world, and now these shall pay me!"

Patro shrugged his shoulders. "As you will," he said. "They are coming to life again, however. I would advise you to feed them enough to keep beauty in their faces and grace in their limbs, if you indeed wish to use them for food and light and fire."

"That is sound sense, Patro," she answered, and when the children came dizzily to consciousness again, she treated them with almost a rough kindness. But when they cried, she beat them, taking pains to let the blows fall where they would not leave visible scars or bruises.

So passed the dragging hours, until Warren, unconscious and bleeding, was flung down at Elinor's side.

"There!" said Michael. "You will spy, will you? Well, we have you now. And when next you walk the streets, if so you do, you will have cause to remember Michael Paovla and his friends."

Patro frowned. "You are too handy with names," he said. "Trust only a dead dog."

"Leave that to me," said Michael with a dark frown. "You," he said to Ivan, "you see this gun? We'll not bind you, but if you stir toward the door, or make a move to free yourself, you are lost. I will shoot you down."

"We only want the children," said Ivan boldly. "Give them to us, and we will go away, and you will not be harmed."

The three set up a shout of laughter. "Thanks, thanks!" said Michael when he could speak, but Martha said angrily, "What! Give up my fire and light and food? Not much!"

"Suppose I pay you," said Ivan, "I will reward you well."

Again a shout went up.

"A million thanks," said the woman. "What will you give -- a dozen dried fishes?"

"You don't know me," scowled Ivan proudly. "I am the son of your Prince, Ivan the Brilliant. Beware how you treat me and these friends of mine."

"The boy will kill me!" cried the woman, leaning back and wiping the tears of mirth from her leathery cheeks. "Go on, go on, my prince. And will you not ask us to the palace some day soon? We would like to see you at your own home."

"Give us the children and set us free, and you may come," said Ivan after a pause.

"No; you are too amusing," said the woman. "Rather we will take you with us, or else leave you safely locked here where no one shall disturb you."

Ivan looked at the worn and haggard children and the form of Warren now stirring slightly, then he handed the great ruby to Michael.

"Take, this and let us go," he pleaded.

The man looked wonderingly at the flashing stone. "So you too help yourself in these war times?" he said sneeringly. "What else do you carry, little rat?"

He ran a practiced, light fingered hand over Ivan, searching for more jewels, but of course found none.

Night seemed to come all at once in the dark and partly underground room. Warren, untended, came slowly back to consciousness, and lay where he had fallen in a sort of doze. Little Elinor crept to him and, laying her head on his shoulder, went to sleep. Presently Martha began to yawn, and the men nodded where they sprawled on the benches. The woman drew out an armful of rags, and prepared for the night by wrapping another shawl around her shoulders.

The men rose after a whispered consultation, and taking Ivan to the furthest and darkest corner, tied him securely to a ring in the wall. His bonds were loose enough to permit him to lie down on the hard earth and stone floor, but he sat with his back against the wall, wide awake, every nerve tense and quivering.

Twice Michael came and looked at him in the light of a torch from the fire, and retreated muttering. Ivan decided to pretend sleep. The third time Michael gave a grunt of satisfaction.

He went back to the fire and beckoned the others from their pallets.

"He is dead asleep," he said in a low whisper. "We must make our plans."

"Good!" said the woman. "What do you want to do about it?"

She too whispered in a low tone and it struck Ivan that for some strange reason he was listening to a conversation spoken in tones that ordinarily could not be heard three feet away from the speakers. He listened intently. Every syllable was clear and distinct. Owing to some peculiar formation of the vaulted ceiling, the sounds were brought to him, forty feet from the speakers, as accurately as though spoken into a telephone. Ivan's courage rose once more.

He heard the man Michael light his pipe.

"I don't know," he said.

"Of course not!" sneered the woman. "You never do! I suppose you don't want to kill them?"

"What's the use?" asked the man. "Why blacken our souls further than we must?"

"I'll tell you why," said Martha suddenly. Her whisper cut like a knife. "I'll tell you. Because I fear them. Boys as they are, I fear them! There is a spirit in the eyes of the one who calls himself Ivan that will never die until death blinds them. The little rat! The smart little rat! Calling himself a prince! My, I wish I had had the training of him. Well, whoever he is, he is a Pole, and he will hurt us yet. I feel it. I can feel it, anyway, that harm will come to us through those boys. I warn you, Michael. Patro, I warn you. Once, twice, thrice! You know I never fail."

There was a silence, and Ivan heard Patro catch his breath sharply.

"Well, what would you?" he said finally.

There was a note of triumph in the woman's voice when she spoke.

"Tomorrow night," she said, "we will leave them here, tied to the table. I will leave food on the table for them, just enough for one meal. I have still my little friends in the pill box on the chimney ledge. They are as strong as ever. We will not stay to see whether they eat or not. But I think they will, because I will see to it that they do not taste much food tomorrow. We will lock the door. I will go down to Prague. They say it is but little harmed, and I have a sister there. I will give the smaller child to her. I have a fancy for the light one myself, and they are too unlike to pass off for sisters."

There was a long pause. Then, "Have it as you like," said Michael. "Of course, the boys will bother a good deal, if they go free."

"Certainly they would," said Martha. "We would never know where they would crop up, especially that Ivan one."

"Suppose they do not eat?" asked Patro.

"Eat, eat!" cried Martha. "Well, know you nothing of boys! And they will suspect nothing. You are brutes, brutes, remember, and I so kind and so sorry," she laughed. "They will believe all I say," she added.

Michael nodded. "Then it is settled," he said.

In the United States, every possible precaution is taken to protect children from harm. Laws are made especially for their safety; societies exist in every town and city to look after them. They go unharmed through the streets. Noble men and women give their lives to visiting the poorest districts and making easier the lot of the unfortunate ones they find there. Special cases are frequently written up in the papers, and help found for them in that way. In factories, shops, stores, asylums, in the streets, in the slums, every possible, effort is made to make the lot of children an easier and happier one.

In a great number of the European countries, the case is different. There are no laws, for instance, governing the age at which a child shall be put to work. In fact, in order to keep body and soul together, children labor from the time they are babies. They do the work of farm animals when their little hands can scarcely grasp the implements of toil. There are many, oh, so many of them; and they are held cheaply. Poorly clothed, poorly fed, they take kindly to theft, as a means of getting the necessities of their bare, miserable little lives.

Once upon a time, there was a dark and dreadful age when making cripples and dwarfs was a regular trade. Children were taken (nearly always stolen ones) and their limbs twisted, or their faces distorted, in order to gain sympathy from the passersby, of whom they were taught to beg. That frightful time is long past; but the trades of begging and thieving are still taught.

And to criminals like those in whose hands the children had fallen, life, and child life especially, was too cheap and of too little account to matter much. They did not in the least mind the contemplation of a crime as horrible as the one they had just decided on. They were afraid of the bright, alert Scouts who had fallen into their clutches, and to them there was but one way to treat the matter -- the shackles and the poisoned food.



Chapter VI

To The Rescue


After this there was silence. The men slept with snores and grunts an they moved uneasily on their hard beds, and Ivan slept only at intervals. He was anxious to know whether the conversation had been heard by Warren, but did not dare to communicate with him in any way, although he could hear an occasional sigh as though his friend was suffering pain. Warren was indeed feeling badly from the blow that had nearly broken his skull. Fortunately the weapon, a piece of iron shod wood, had glanced and so saved his life. But his head ached worse than he had thought a head could ache; and when he finally came out of the daze of the blow, he slept only in a sort of stupor. He had not heard the conversation that had been listened to so eagerly by Ivan, and so was at least saved that anxiety.

Day came, and to Ivan, who was prepared, there were signs of departure. Warren, who still lay silent on his pallet of rags, did not seem to see anything. He did not eat, but accepted a cup of' water from the woman's hand.

Elinor clung to him, and the woman did not object.

Ivan was afraid to speak to any of them. The day dragged away, and finally (it seemed years) the room grew so dark that Ivan knew that night must be approaching. Soon he would know their fate. It was uncertain, because he knew that at any time in the day they might have decided not to leave their death to the poisoned food, but to shoot them to death before leaving the place.

However, Martha commenced the preparation of the meal that was meant for supper, and Ivan noticed that she had made more than usual.

A crust of dry bread and a cup of water was given to Warren, and the same fare thrown on the floor beside Ivan, who did not eat it and watched anxiously to see if Warren would taste his. But the boy shook his head.

"Never mind," said the woman, slyly looking over to the door where the men were bundling some ragged garments in a big square of cloth.

"Never mind. I am sorry for you, my poor boy. Soon those brutes will take us away, but I will leave one good meal for you. I promise you that if they beat me for it you shall be decently fed for once. And I am a good cook; you shall see!"

Ivan shivered. Then as the woman turned to the fire and rattled the pans, he said sharply in English:

"Warren, do not eat!"

The three turned threateningly as he spoke, but as he made no effort to continue the speech in what was to them an unknown tongue, they once more went about their tasks. As they became interested in the tasks they were doing, Ivan spoke again.

"Warren?" he said.

Warren heard. "Yes!"

"Don't try to keep the girls if they start to take them," he said as rapidly as he could talk.

"There they go again!" said the woman "What are they up to, do you think?"

Michael went over to Warren.

"Do you want your head broken again?" he scowled. "You will get it. And you, too!" He turned to Ivan, and shouted threateningly across the room. "It will be your turn if I hear you speak again."

Ivan, who had said all he wanted to, nodded and was silent.

Soon Michael and Patro picked Ivan up and carried him to the massive bench that stood at one side of the table, and seating him there, tied his legs in a clever fashion so that he was unable to reach the bonds, he was so wedged between the bench and table. The place must once have been a public wine room, and what furniture there was of the heaviest sort.

Warren they lifted and tied in the same manner on the opposite side of the great table.

"There!" said the woman Martha. "Now you can see each other, and talk as long as you like." She looked at the men and laughed.

"Where are you going?" said Ivan in Polish.

"Well," said the woman, "I don't mind telling you in the least."

"Don't do it!" warned Patro.

"Why not? They are safe," said the woman.

"Won't your bonds hold as long as necessary? You see," she said, turning to Warren, "it will be a day or two perhaps before your friends find you. And even then I don't believe you will tell my plans. It will be too late. We are going to tame these nice little girls, and make beggars of them. Something useful, you see, instead of letting them grow up in idleness as they would if they stayed with you. We will go to Prague from here and I will give the little one to my sister. Then we will get out of this accursed country soon as we can, and get away where money comes easy to the poor war refugees. What do you think of that?" She leered close to the boy's face.

Everything was ready. The food, poisoned as Ivan knew it to be, stood temptingly between them, on the table. It was not an unpleasing meal. To Warren, who had not tasted solid food for two days, everything looked inviting. Ivan felt himself shaking with excitement. All was ready. The men unbarred the door, and the woman with a last sneering jest at the boys, picked up little Rika, while Michael lifted Elinor. The child screamed.

"Warren, don't let them take me away! Don't let them take me!" she cried over and over.

"Be a good girl! We will come for you very soon," said Ivan swiftly, as she paused for breath.

The child screamed again, and Michael wound a thick muffler across her face.

The heavy door closed with a clash. The boys heard a faint cry, and then the great key turned in the lock. They looked at each other.

"What does it all mean?" said Warren. He struggled furiously to release his feet, but gave up to sit staring at Ivan. "What does it all mean?"

"Well, for one thing," said Ivan, "that food is poisoned." He proceeded to recount to Warren, the strange circumstance of the whispered conversation which he had so clearly overheard.

"It has saved our lives," said Warren solemnly. "I am starved and would have eaten this stuff sure as nails. Gee, what an escape! Let us work out of these ropes and get out of here. Perhaps, we can get those cutthroats before they got away from the city."

For some moments the boys both wiggled and twisted to free themselves. It was in vain. So closely were they wedged between the benches and table, and so cleverly were their feet tied with rope and pieces of board to wedge them, that it was absolutely an impossibility to release themselves. All through the night they sat there, at intervals renewing their efforts to get free, and with despair growing in their hearts. They began to realize the seriousness of the situation. When Warren's watch told them that morning had come, they found themselves looking wistfully at the food. Its scent was in their famished nostrils. Warren drew a piece of fish toward him.

"I wonder if it is all poisoned," he said.

With a cry Ivan reached out and swept the food from the table. "There!" he exclaimed, "I found myself wondering the same thing. If we die, we die -- but not that way, my Warren. We will be free yet. Ivanovich does not die today."

But Warren, weakened from, his hurts, laid his head down on his arms with a groan.

Ivan looked at him pityingly. The loss of his little sister had almost crushed Warren. He who was always the leading spirit, quick and resourceful, was for the moment crushed.

Ivan did not speak. He respected the grief of his friend. He knew that soon he would be himself again, planning for success.

Late that same afternoon three Boy Scouts sauntered down the dark and twisted alley leading to the river. The section of the city was strange to them, and it was now so wrecked by the recent bombardment that the enemy themselves shunned it. The poor creatures that had once found lodging in those dark holes of want and famine had all fled at the first gunshot; and the boys idled here and there, looking at the marks of the shots, and picking up many a queer memento of the battle.

Warsaw had fallen; but the spirit of boys is the same all the world over. In their imaginations, even while the smoke of battle still hung over the city, they had planned other and victorious battles. They had already saved Warsaw for a wonderful golden future.

As they climbed around, one of them pointed to the broken plaster on the ground.

"See!" he said. "A Scout! Two of them have been here. There are the marks of the nails in their Scout shoes."

The other boys looked. Sure enough they saw distinctly the marks of the well known Scout shoes, sold even in distant Warsaw.

"Let's follow them up," said another boy, leading the way.

It was something to do and they bent to the chase like young hounds on a fresh fox trail. Rather to their disappointment, the tracks did not double or disappear here and there. They led directly down the street. As they followed, a faint cry sounded. The boys stopped, startled.

"What's that?" whispered one.

The cry was repeated. "Someone in trouble," cried the first boy, hurrying forward.

The boy behind took a quick step, and caught him by the arm.

"Stop!" he whispered. "Don't go on! That's not a human voice."

Frozen in attitudes of astonishment, the boys stood listening with all their might.

"Pshaw!" said the tall boy, Thaddeus, in his rapid Polish. "What think you would cry like that -- spirits?" He laughed.

"It might be," said the second lad doggedly. "There are spirits, of course; and when souls are set free in the violence of war they say they ever return to haunt the scene of their passing."

"Well, nobody has passed here," said Thaddeus, "alive or dead. Let's go on!"

"Wait just a minute," said the second boy. "I tell you there is evil somewhere about here!"

"The street is dark and crooked enough to hold almost anything," said Thaddeus. "I am not surprised now that my father always ordered me to keep away from these streets leading to the river. They say many and many a poor wretch has been bundled down there and pushed off into the Vistula. She tells no tales, that river."

The cry was repeated. It was faint, and there was a note of pain or terror in it that chilled the listeners. Very faint and far away it was too.

"I'm going back," said the second boy.

"Go!" said Thaddeus scornfully, "Go and give up your Scout badge, and tell the chapter that while the sons of Warsaw were not afraid to meet a bloody death, you are not one of them because you think the spirits are abroad in the town."

The boy blushed.

"Come!" said Thaddeus. "I know you don't mean it. There is someone in trouble. Let us find them quickly."

Following the tracks and listening every few steps for the voices, the boys reached the place where Warren and Ivan were imprisoned. They were nearly exhausted from the cramped positions and the long fast. They had called until their throats were parched, and their voices croaked and wheezed. But as they heard the boys familiar and welcome voices sound faintly through the heavy door, new energy thrilled then and they lifted their voices together in a shout that echoed in the vaulted room. It was answered.

So thick and close fitting was the door that they could not make the listeners outside understand anything but the word "Help!" which, spoken in any language, is certain to bring response. The boys outside shouted assurances which were, also not understood, but the sound of friendly voices put now life into Warren and Ivan every moment. The great locked door was baffling; but there was plenty of heavy timbers around, and finding a sort of battering ram was a moment's work. The three went to work with a will. Blow after blow fell on the heavy door. It did not yield an inch. The lock also held firm, but the new casing was built in old and rotted wood. It gave, and with a dusty splintering the door toppled in, and the boys, springing over without a moment's hesitation, entered.

They hurried to the exhausted prisoners and cut the ropes and freed them. Both boys were so numb that it was some time before the Scouts could rub feeling into the cramped legs and feet.

Warren pointed to the floor where the pieces of food were scattered. Three dead rats lay near.

"You were right, Ivan," he said with a great shudder.

"What is it?" said the Scout who was rubbing him.

"Poison," said Warren. "Meant for us." A little at a time he told the newcomers the adventures of the past long hours.

After the blow on the head Warren had lain unconscious for so long, and when he finally roused the darkness and dungeon-like appearance of the room so perplexed him, that he thought himself delirious. He was very dizzy, and tried to sleep, feeling that if he could lose himself, he would wake and find the whole thing a bad dream. Even when his sister came and caressed him, he did not change his mind.

But finally full consciousness came, with all the suffering of his hurts, as well as the dreadful anxiety about Elinor and Rika and the seeming hopelessness of escape.

The boys all shook their heads when Ivan broke in to tell how he had given up the great ruby, only to be thought a thief. They listened breathlessly when he told of the strange whisper that came so clearly to his ears, and when they reached the account of the poison they scarcely breathed.

"You couldn't see the rats, could you?" Warren asked Ivan.

"No!" said Ivan.

"Well," said Warren, "it queered me so I thought I wouldn't say anything about it. After you threw the food off the table, I looked down and presently something slipped out of the shadow. It was the biggest rat you ever saw. Much bigger than any of those. He walked around bold as anything, and I began to think what a big fellow like that could do if a fellow got down and out. Well, it made me cold. Then he went off, and I think he told a lot of the others that there was a lot of good eats on the floor, and half a dozen of them came along, and went after that meat and stuff. And when they ate it, one by one they just went staggering around for a little as though they didn't know what ailed them, and then they fell down, and I never hope to see such agony. It was back of you, Ivan, and I thought there was no use telling you. But it is all over now, for the rats and for us too; and we can be glad you fellows found us. As soon as we can walk," he ended, "we must take this thing to headquarters. We know where to look for the girls, and they must help."

The largest Scout laughed.

"You don't know what you are talking about," he said. "You can't get help from anyone. Our people, the people of Warsaw, are so scattered, that it is the same as though they did not exist. As for the others, the enemy, they laugh. I know of one lady who lost a child -- But there is no use to talk. Whatever is done -- we will have to do ourselves."

"We will go down ourselves, now we know where to look, and we will take the children. We are strong, if it comes to a fight; we can still get them away. We ourselves will rescue the children." He laughed and helped Warren to his feet. "We are Scouts," he said.

"It is a good thing we are," said another boy, busy rubbing Ivan who lay with set teeth, stifling the pain of returning circulation in his tortured ankles.

"You did a wonderful thing, Warren," he continued, addressing the boy he named, "when you started the Boy Scout movement over here. Well I remember the day I told my people about it. They were amused. They called it one of the crazy plans of the Americans. They were afraid to have me join. They were afraid that I would get into trouble with the government. Everything is so strictly watched. But they were so glad to have me have a good chance to learn the American language, that they would not quite forbid me. I thought I never would learn. Sometimes I thought I knew it well; and there would appear in your speech some strange words that you could not seem to translate to us, and you called it all with one word, 'Slang!' You said you could not get along without it. And it was and is the most difficult part of all the noble language. Yet now that I can read your native language, I never seem able to find this slang you talk in the books or magazines. I have kept a careful list of all I have heard you say, and I am teaching it to my mother and to my sister who was to have been presented at Court, had not this war come up. It would be fine for them to be able to talk this slang to your ambassador." He stopped speaking Polish, and broke into lame and halting English. "Do you get me, Lissee!" he asked.

Warren groaned.

"For the love of Mike!" he said. "No, I don't mean that! For Pete's sake -- " He groaned again. "I don't know what I mean," he said, "but I do get you. Mikelovo and you don't want to teach your precious family any more gems." He hastily sought an excuse. "You see only men and boys talk it as a general thing. Better teach the women stuff out of the books."

"All right," said the earnest student of the American language, "but in all other things the Boy Scouts are all right for my family."

"When the books and other things came from your country, I showed them to my father with trembling; but he approved. And now we will do all the great things, we ourselves, that our poor country cannot do. We will help your good father, and rescue the little children."

"One thing I have noticed," said the first boy. "There are no boys around the streets giving any help to the hurt or lost or troubled except the Boy Scouts. When Warsaw rises again, there will be a great order here, and all the boys in the city shall have a chance to prepare for it."

"Gee whiz, yes," said the student of slang, solemnly, "we will get 'em all in line."



Chapter VII

The Carved Panel

We will leave the Boy Scouts puzzling over the tremendous problem of getting in touch with headquarters and releasing Professor Morris and the others, while we visit a magnificent home far up in the residential part of the city, where the beautiful parks, wide streets and fine buildings all told of great wealth.

Many of the places lay in ruins, but here and there arose a dazzling white marble building that had happily escaped the destruction of the iron rain that had poured over the ill-fated city. Many of these were occupied by the officers and men of the invading army. Destruction of the worst sort went with them, and the unhappy owners had, whenever possible, secreted the most valuable of their belongings. Pictures, jewels, silver, furs and even rugs were hidden in secret vaults or buried in gardens and cellars. For the people of Warsaw, as well as their fair city, were ruined, although sooner or later the scraps saved could be converted into money. Rich and poor fared alike; for the present, at least, everyone needed food and safe shelter.

In the dining-room of one of the finest places saved from the destroying shells sat a group of officers. They were big, blonde men, and they talked roughly and rapidly in their native German. It was plain to see that they were quarreling. One of them, rising from the great carved chair in which he had been lounging, kicked it from his path and walked nervously up and down the room. He was scowling ferociously while with his saber point he jabbed little holes in the Russian leather covering the back of the chair opposite him.

He shook his head as the man who was walking up and down neared his chair.

"I tell you, Otto, you can't do it," he said. "You can't burry things so. Those people are Americans. You can't execute that old man on a bare suspicion. What if his notes are a code? We have them, at all events; and we have him; and we must wait until the General returns."

"That's not my idea at all!" scowled the other man. "This is war. I am in command, my friend, and if I think I have a spy, and see that it is my duty to stand this man up against a wall, then what? Bang! Bang! It is all over. What can be said?"

"What is your idea exactly?" asked the man at the table. "What is the use of hurrying things so? It sounds like murder to me. I think the old man is perfectly harmless. He is probably just what he claims, a professor in one of the American Universities. I've heard of this Princeton. It is a place of some size and standing."

"That is just it, Gustav!" cried the other.

"That is one reason for suspecting him. He is too glib with his Princeton. Himmel! Did you ever hear a man talk so fast and so much and use such words? I can speak as good English as any man my age, but there were words, dozens of them, that I had never dreamed of."

"Is that the real reason why you are going to shoot him as a spy?" asked Gustav, coming back to the main point once more.

"I don't suppose I shall shoot him at all," answered Otto grimly. "I want to, that's all, but I can't do it unless I have sufficient cause, no matter how much I would like to remove him. He is in the way."

Gustav stared, and laid down his saber. "I see!" he said, nodding his head slowly. "The girl?"

"Yes! The girl!" said Otto. He frowned and continued to walk up and down, while the other laughed.

"What would you?" he demanded. "You would get yourself into all sorts of trouble. There is no kidnapping of young women in this campaign, remember!"

"I would like to marry her," said Otto coolly. "She is so pretty and sweet."

"So are the German girls," declared Gustav, loyally.

"What a romantic episode!" sighed Otto, rolling his eyes in a sentimental manner. "I discover this beautiful American here in Warsaw, in the heart of the war; I love her; I marry her. It is wonderful!"

"It certainly is," said Gustav. "Wonderful indeed! And in order to bring her to a proper idea of your goodness and charm, you shoot her father and brother-do you shoot her brother, by the way?"

Otto scowled. "You are coarse, my friend," he said. "I do not shoot anyone. Germany merely destroys a spy. As for the brother, he is small, I think he disappears."

"Does the German army cause that too?" asked Gustav.

"Don't jest," said Otto. "I am in earnest."

"In truth, so am I!" answered Gustav. "You are crazy, just plain crazy. The man is no more a spy than I am, I'll be bound!"

Otto shrugged his broad shoulders. "You don't know whereof you speak," he said. "You have not heard him talk, have you?"

"No, I'll grant that," Gustav acknowledged. "Have him brought in and let me hear him."

"Very well," said Otto, "but speak English to him. His German is so bad that he ought to be shot for that if for nothing else."

He turned and summoned an orderly. The two men sat in silence. At a nearby table two lieutenants were busy writing. They did not speak but looked eagerly as the door opened, and the prisoners entered. The lieutenants shifted in their chairs and smiled at each other in anticipation. Gustav caught their fleeting grins and dismissed them from the room with a curt command, then turned his attention to the group standing just within the door.

Professor Morris stood with a protecting arm around each of his children. He looked broken and old, and wore the air of a man who has been rudely wakened from a secure and comfortable sleep to view some unimagined horror. The War, the bombardment and the fall of Warsaw, had at last become something more than a spectacle to be transferred to the pages of his book. It was a frightful fact, a living reality in which men died by thousands, and little children perished, where women's hearts broke with their anguish and despair.

He found that War recognizes but few laws, and even fewer obligations. It seemed that his standing as a man of learning, his claim as a citizen of the United States, availed him nothing. Standing there, a prisoner, with a helpless child on either side, the ivy-covered walls of his beloved Princeton seemed far away indeed. As he closed his tired eyes for an instant he could see a clear and lovely picture of the velvet green campus and the great iron gates opening on the smooth and level streets shaded by lofty trees. He heard the chimes, the laughter of happy young fellows passing to and fro. There were rows and rows of peaceful homes, stately mansions and simple cottages. On level, perfectly kept tennis courts, here and there, men and girls all in white played tennis. He saw his friends -- 

But opening his weary eyes, he saw a gorgeous, tumbled room whose princely draperies were torn and full of saber cuts, a sideboard where priceless glass had been a target for the rough play by rougher men. Before him were the two hard, blonde German faces, and there he stood, a prisoner, with his two children clinging to him. Warren and Elinor were gone, he knew not where.

Captain Handel stood motionless, but Captain Schmitt rose civilly and bowed when he saw Evelyn. He could not help it. The girl was so noble, so lovely, and hid her fright so gallantly, that he was compelled to pay her the slight courtesy that he did.

"Captain Handel tells me that this notebook is yours, Professor Morris," Gustav commenced in almost perfect English.

"It is," said the Professor. He eyed it hungrily, and reached a hand out without thinking what he did.

Gustav drew the book back.

"It has a suspicious look," he said. "So many plans and measurements and specifications. Will you not explain?"

The Professor reddened. He shut his mouth stubbornly.

"Those are private notes," he said. "I was sent over here to make what discoveries I could along certain lines."

"What, did I tell you, Gustav?" broke in Otto, turning to his brother officer and speaking in a low tone. "There is the whole thing! He was a spy sent to make discoveries along 'certain lines.' He confesses that. He has succeeded in doing so. The book tells us that."

"Wait, wait!" begged Gustav. "Professor Morris, do you understand that you are here facing a most serious charge?"

"It is a silly, trumped up charge," declared the Professor, irritably. "Silly trumped up charge! I absolutely will not answer your questions. Wait until you hear from the American Consul."

"We won't hear from him," said Gustav gently. "You are in our hands, bearing suspicious documents, and you refuse to answer our questions. Do you realize the seriousness of this affair?"

"Certainly not!" declared the Professor, "and let me tell you, my young friend, I shall write this thing up in the papers when I return to America. I shall make public your personal attitude in the matter. At the present all I demand is release and that manuscript on the table beside you. Also my notebook." He bowed slightly and stood waiting as though he fully expected the officers to do his bidding, as indeed he did.

"Will you explain your notes?" asked Gustav quietly.

Otto was nervously biting his small moustache, his eyes fixed on Evelyn's lovely face.

"No! No!" cried the Professor loudly, "a thousand times no! I refuse to share with you the results of my researches. What, and have you get the credit of all my labor? Never!" He clenched his hands.

"Father -- " began Evelyn pleadingly.

"Be silent, Evelyn!" commanded her father sternly. "I know what I am about! I refuse to say anything, whatever happens."

"You had better think this over, Professor," said Gustav. "We will leave you here alone for half an hour. Talk it over with your children and decide if you wish to give up your life for the sake of these notes. Explain them to us, and we will promise you safe conduct out of the country. The girl and boy will have to remain as guarantee of your good faith. They will not be harmed. In case you will not do as we suggest -- " He tapped his saber, and started to the door.

Otto spoke abruptly.

"The windows are barred," he said. "Two men guard the door. You cannot escape. Decide!"

He looked longingly at Evelyn and followed Gustav from the room. The heavy door shut silently behind them but not before they had a glimpse of the two soldiers standing at attention in the hallway.

While they stood looking at it, it opened and Otto entered, closing it after him.

"I may as well tell you," he said. "You will shoot as a spy if you do not explain your charts and figures and leave the country."

Then as though he could not conceal his triumph, he added, "In any case, you know your daughter remains here."

"Remains here?" cried the Professor. "How is that? What do you mean?"

Otto shrugged his shoulders.

"I like her," he said coolly. "I might marry her. You are very lovely," he added, turning his bold, cold eyes on Evelyn.

She hid her face against her father's shoulder.

Otto laughed.

Jack sprang at him with a shrill cry. The big man caught the boy, and flung him contemptuously to the floor.

"Be careful, little sparrow!" he said. "A second time and I will crush you! I'm going now," he said, turning to the Professor. "In half an hour we will come and you will tell us which you prefer -- death or safe conduct." He bowed. "Good-bye for a little, Mees Evelyn, he said and closed the door behind him."

Evelyn threw herself on her father's shoulder and burst into sobs. "Oh, father, father, what shall we do?" she cried.

The Professor was silent, then he said, "Well, my dear, I actually believe that young man meant what he said."

"Of course he did!" sobbed Evelyn.

"In that ease," said the Professor firmly, "I would as lief be dead as to have the work of a lifetime destroyed by those rascals."

He hastened to the table and took up the portfolio enclosing his book. "It's all here," he said after a glance.

"But father, whatever they do to you, they are going to keep me here. What will I do? What will I do?"

She ran to the windows and looked out. It was just as they had been told. The casements were heavily barred and there was but one door, the one through which the officers had passed. The walls were paneled half way up with old oak. The room was solid as a dungeon. There was not a chance for escape. In a few minutes the soldiers would return and tear her father from her.

Her father was speaking. She listened.

"All here," he said, "every page! That is fortunate indeed."

He looked searchingly at Evelyn. "I have a plan, my," he said. "This is a very dreadful affair, but on second thought a scheme occurs to me. I will explain somewhat of my notes, but not enough so they could amplify them. Then, with my safe conduct, I will go over to Germany, explain the whole affair, and demand your release. You will doubtless be absolutely safe here, absolutely safe. This young Handel seems rather a rattle-brained youth, but Captain Schmitt looked conservative and sane. I will place you in his Charge. John is with you, and you will be perfectly safe, I am positive."

Evelyn grew deathly pale. She kissed her father's cheek, then listlessly approached the table. A revolver was lying there.

"Yes, I know that I will be safe," she said firmly. She took the weapon in her hand and looked up.

As she raised her eyes, she looked straight into the face of a girl about her own age, who stood motionless against the wall, one hand outstretched its though to call her. Evelyn stared in unbelief. An instant before they had been alone in the room! Were her senses leaving her? She looked at her father and brother. They, too, were staring, speechless and wild-eyed. So she did not imagine the graceful figure and lovely face with its dark troubled eyes.

The stranger pressed a finger on her lips in a gesture of silence, then she beckoned, and as they approached, tiptoeing over the thick rug, she turned and pressed a finger on a carved rosette in the oak panel. Without a sound it slid open, and they found themselves in a narrow, stone passage. Once more the strange girl motioned for silence. Then she slid an iron grating across the secret door through which they had come, and turning ran lightly down the passage. Without a moment's hesitation, Evelyn started after, her hand still clasping the revolver which she had taken from the table. The Professor, clutching his recovered manuscript, followed, while Jack brought up the rear.

As they turned a corner, a faint shout reached them. The officers had returned to the empty room!

The way was long, with many sharp turns. It seemed to be a space between rooms. Once or twice shouts and laughter were faintly heard, as they seemed to pass near a room full of soldiers. It was dark. The girl ahead felt in her pocket, and brought out a tiny flashlight. They came finally to a steep flight of stairs.

Now for the first time the girl spoke. In a cautious whisper she said, "Be careful!" and holding the flash behind her for their guidance, went swiftly and lightly down, with the manner of one who is familiar with every inch of the way. The stairs were wide and shallow. There were a great many of them and they seemed to go down a long way. Evelyn wondered if the place was built on a hillside, making it a long way to the underground regions she suspected beyond or below. She afterwards found out that this was correct. A door barred with iron was at the foot of the stairs. Indeed, they ended right against it. The girl pushed the door open, and when they had entered, closed it behind them and dropped a massive bar across it. They were in a large, stone chamber, empty save for a few scraps of furniture.

Their guide swiftly crossed the room and opened another forbidding looking door. The second room was like the first, but was filled with casks and huge barrels. Beyond this again they entered a narrow passage, so very narrow that their garments brushed the walls at either side. The stones underfoot were rough and uneven.

Professor Morris walked carefully, picking his steps by the aid of the flashlight. Evelyn and Jack, more careless, stumbled frequently, but still the girl, light as a feather, flitted on, swift and sure footed.

Once more the flash revealed a wall ahead. As she approached it the girl turned and smiled. Evelyn stared. There was no sign of any opening in the rough wall and the great stones seemed fast in their cement, but the girl, stooping, pressed a corner of one of the paving stones. To their amazement it slid from its place, revealing another very narrow flight of steps. The girl descended, and when they were all down, pressed another spring, and the stone slid in place. Another flight of steps exactly like the ones they had just descended rose against the flooring; and when the girl had led the way, they one by one stepped into a large and brightly lighted room.

Professor Morris blinked; Jack turned red; Evelyn gasped with surprise.



Chapter VIII

The Secret Chamber

It was a vast apartment of stone, but the rugged walls were nearly covered with the most rare and beautiful hangings -- curtains, tapestries and strange oriental rugs. Numerous paintings apparently of great value also hung about, or stood on the floor leaning against the wall. The stone floor was deep with rugs and fine furs. A number of couches, wide and comfortable, were set here and there, and one corner of the room was hidden by a great black and gold screen. From this corner came the comforting odor of coffee.

Professor Morris sniffed it with joy.

In the center of the ceiling hung a simple drop light of great power illuminating the place with almost the glare of sunlight. Beneath the light stood a large table littered with magazines, papers and articles of value. Beside it, in a deep easy chair, sat a woman. She was about forty years of age and beautiful. Her garments were very rich, and she sat listlessly leaning her head on her hand for she had been weeping. At her side, evidently bent on comforting her mistress, knelt a woman in the costume of a servant. A footman in livery stood at attention behind her chair. Even in that strange, sunless, underground place, everything in sight, confused though it was, gave evidence of immense wealth and luxury.

After the dark, blank, twisted passages, and the horrors so lately escaped in the room above them, the scene seemed unreal enough to be a dream. As they appeared through the small square in the floor and stood in a hesitating group the lady in the easy chair leaned forward and looked at them earnestly.

Their guide, the young girl, pressed the spring that replaced the flagstone, and as soon as she was sure that it was adjusted, ran eagerly across the wide space and knelt at the lady's knee. She spoke rapidly and excitedly in Polish. Evelyn could catch a word occasionally. Then the lady rose and advanced with a graceful gesture of welcome.

"You are indeed welcome," she said easily in English. "I cannot be thankful enough that my daughter overheard those brutal soldiers and was able to rescue you. Come and tell me about it."

Professor Morris bowed low over the hand extended him. Then leading the way, the lady returned to the table where the footman drew chairs for the group.

Professor Morris told his story of the arrest and imprisonment and the result of the conference in the dining-room. The lady shuddered.

"You are safe now, at least," she assured him when the story was finished. "And we are happy to have you with us. It is a comfort to have someone with whom to share one's sorrows. One has no happiness to share now." She smiled sadly.

"I am the Princess Olga Nicholani; with my husband and children I have lived here all my life. The Prince is with his troops, living or dead I know not. Our son is with him. When the war separated us I, Modjeska here and my baby girl, with a few of our old servants, remained in Warsaw.

"We were perfectly safe until the bombardment of the city commenced. Then we decided to escape, if possible. We clothed ourselves plainly, and under cover of darkness crept from the house the first night. All lights were out, and we reached the corner safely. We had planned to go down to the river front, where we had a motor boat, in which we planned to escape. But just as we turned into the river street, we were met by a maddened crowd of citizens all rushing to safety. They met us like a great wave. Modjeska and the servants were crushed against a building, but I was thrown down and for a moment stunned. When the crowd had passed, my people assisted me to consciousness, but oh, my heart -- my heart! How can I tell?"

She bid her face in her hands and shuddered. Modjeska clasped her in other in her arms, murmuring loving words of comfort.

In a moment the Princess looked up.

"You can imagine our agony, Professor Morris, when we found that our baby was gone. She had been torn from me in the crowd. We could not find her. We searched all night. Then they brought me home here by a secret passage, and, the men hastened to bring down everything movable of value or comfort. We have plenty of light because we have our own electric light system, and this building was not struck by shell or bomb.

"The secret passage through which Modjeska brought you was revealed to me by my husband, the Prince. His father had taught him the way, and not long before the war we carefully taught our two elder children the secret springs and all the turnings. I do not know why Modjeska happened to venture along those dark passages to the dining-room."

"I don't know either, mother," said Modjeska, shyly. "I had a strange feeling that I had to go. Something seemed to drag me there."

"Did you hear the conversation?" asked Professor Morris.

"Part of it," answered Modjeska. "Enough to tell me that something terrible was going on. I was wild with fright. I did not know how I could help you until I heard that dreadful man say that he and the other officer would go out for half an hour. And mother, he told them they could not escape, because the windows were barred, and the door guarded. Then at first, when I pressed the spring, the panel would not open. Something had rusted. I worked and worked before it slid, back."

"A moment later would have been too late," said the Professor, shaking his head.

"This room is absolutely safe," said the Princess. "There are seven or eight of these chambers, about fifty feet from the house, under the garden. So compose yourselves and rest. I cannot leave -- half the city is searching for my baby -- I can do nothing but sit here in agony and pray for her return. I know she is dead; I almost pray that she is, but how can I ever rest until I know?" She bent her head and sobbed.

Professor Morris cleared his throat.

"I do not doubt that the infant is safe, Madame. No one would deliberately molest a helpless baby."

"She wasn't really a baby," said Modjeska. "Mother calls her that because she was so tiny. She could walk, and talk a little too."

"Don't say was!" cried the Princess. "Don't talk as if she was dead!"

"No, mother darling, no!" soothed the girl.

"How old is she?" asked Evelyn.

The Princess again controlled herself. "Rika-"

She had no chance to continue -- 

"Rika?" cried Professor Morris, and Evelyn, and Jack, and again, "Rika?"

Evelyn reached inside her blouse, and pulled out a heavy gold chain hung with a splendid diamond ornament.

"Is this yours?" she cried.

The Princess took one look, then seized Evelyn by the shoulders.

"Yes! Yes!" she cried, chokingly. "Tell me where is she? Have you seen my baby? Tell me! Tell me!"

Evelyn said the thing quickest.

"She is with my sister, and I think they are safe," she cried.

The Princess gave a deep sigh and fainted quietly away.

It was a long time before she recovered, and then she wanted to be told over and over all about little Rika. How she had looked, how she had borne the separation, everything. The Morrises having been assured by Ivan that Warren was on the track of the men who had kidnapped the children, and knowing the cleverness and determination that Warren always put into everything he ever did, were positive that Warren had the children safely in his possession. And Evelyn knew well that once with him, they would not get out of his sight again. All of this she used to comfort the Princess who could scarcely contain herself for joy.

"Now it will all come out right!" she said. "When the men come back next time, we can set them to hunting up your son and Prince Ivan, and we will soon be reunited."

She clapped her hands softly, and the footman approached.

"Luncheon, Michael!" she said, and the Professor watched with pleasure the speed with which the Princess was obeyed. Soon they were eating a delicious and much needed meal. The Princess herself was so strengthened by the tonic of hope and joy that she was able to enjoy the delicate food. She could not hear enough about Rika and at every sound declared that the men must be returning, although Modjeska reminded her over and over that they were unlikely to return before dark.

The afternoon wore on, Professor Morris and Evelyn glad to rest after the recent shocks, and Jack playing games with Modjeska, while the Princess walked restlessly about the vast chamber, constantly looking at her watch. Finally she said joyfully:

"It must be growing dark now. The men will soon return, and we will send them to your house where the boys and your little daughter will be waiting with my baby Rika. Oh, how can I ever be thankful enough to you for your goodness to her?"

Professor Morris smiled. "Considering the fact that Miss Modjeska has saved all our lives," he said, "I think that you need feel under no obligations to us. We were delighted to entertain the little Rika. I am positive that my son will have them in safety somewhere, so you really need not worry. I do not."

Evelyn suppressed a smile. She was quite sure her father did not worry. He was always ready to let someone else do the worrying for him.

Suddenly a silver knob fastened to the wall dropped from its place and swung back and forth on a thin chain.

"They have come!" cried the Princess. She rushed across the room, and as the footman drew aside one of the heavy hangings, she pressed with all her might on a rough spot in the granite wall. As in the case of the flooring, the wall itself parted and slowly swung open. In the dark opening stood not one of the well-known house servants, but a slight figure covered with dirt and grime. He was tattered and barefooted. Under the dirt his pallid face looked deathly, but fire blazed in the dark eyes, the fire of love.

"Mother!" he cried. "Don't you know me?"

The Princess gave a cry, and clasped her son in a passionate embrace.

"Ignace!" she cried; and "Ignace!" over and over, while she patted him and felt of him as though to assure herself that it was not a dream.

"Where is your father, Ignace?" she whispered finally, as a dreadful thought pierced her.

"I come from him," said the young man wearily. "He is wounded, mother, and needs you, but be brave, because he will live. Let me sit while I tell you."

He sank wearily into a chair, still clinging to the hand of the Princess. He paid no attention to the strangers, but closed his eyes.

"I thought I would never see you again, dear ones," he said huskily. "I simply can't tell you now what we have been through. All I can say is that in the final encounter, as the enemy passed Lodz, my dear father was desperately wounded. I missed him, and searched for him. When I found him he was unconscious. Mother, I thought he was dead. But he lived, and under cover of darkness we carried him to the house of our Aunt Francoise. She has turned it into a hospital, mother, and all the forty rooms are filled with soldiers. Well, father had good care then, for all the rush Aunt Francoise had him taken to the hidden chapel in the east wall, and it is quiet and safe. But you must come and care for him, mother, for there are not enough nurses by half, and the men suffer so."

"Where was he injured, Ignaee?" asked the Princess, shuddering. The boy hesitated.

"Mother dear, it is pretty bad, but I have see it so much worse. He has lost his left arm."

The Princess covered her eyes. "Oh, my dear, my dear!" she murmured. "How can I bear this for you?"

"It might be far worse," said Ignace cheerily. "We must start back to him tonight. Did you save any of the motor cars?" He turned to Michael.

"Two, your Excellency," said the man. "They are hidden in a haystack down past the woods at the end of the estate. The large touring car, and your racer."

"Good!" said Ignace; then suddenly, "Where is my little Rika?"

At once the Princess and Modjeska commenced the story of her loss, and all the other events leading up to the appearance of the Morrises and the strange coincidence of their having found the little girl.

Ignace listened breathlessly.

Once more the silver knob fell. Someone else was coming.

The footman opened the stone portal, and three men entered. They bowed profoundly to the Princess and greeted Ignace with deepest respect.

They had of course no news of Rika but the Princess was able to impart the good news to them and to tell them that, after they had eaten, they could go to the Morris house and fetch the two girls, Ivan and Warren back.

"I am not sure that we can do so tonight, Excellency," one said. "There is great confusion in the house. A triple guard surrounds it. So far the guards are no nearer than our doorway, but if they spread their lines we will not be able to get back. I heard a soldier say that two important prisoners had slipped out from under the very eyes of the officers and could not be found. They are in hiding somewhere, and every effort is being made to find them. They know they have not left the building."

He glanced suspiciously at the strangers.

"Yes, they are here," said the Princess. In a few words she explained. The man bowed low.

"By your leave, Excellency, I will take the others and go -- at once," he said. "One may eat some other time perhaps. We are in danger even here, and I will not feel safe until we are on our way."

"Go then by all means," said Ignace. "He is quite right, mother, and the sooner we are out of this, the better."

"Go, and in the meantime we will prepare for the journey."

The men saluted and left silently, and the Princess with the woman-servant and the two girls, collected dark cloaks and warm rugs. A bountiful lunch was prepared and packed.

Professor Morris, holding his manuscript, sat searching through one pocket after another with a mournful persistence. Finally Evelyn noted him and asked what was the matter.

"I have lost my reading glasses," he said.

"Can't we find them for you?" asked Modjeska politely. She started to look on the rugs.

"They are not here," said the Professor. "I heard the ease fall out of my pocket when we were coming through the passage."

"Then we will get them," said Modjeska. "It will only take a minute. Would you like to come with me, Evelyn?"

"Yes, I would!" said Evelyn, who was nervous and wanted to do something.

"Hurry!" said the Princess. "I know it is absolutely safe, but I can't bear one of you out of my sight for a moment."

The passage was very cold and damp, and the girls each put on a heavy, dark cloak. They threaded their way through the rooms that lay between the living-room and the passage, and went up the narrow hallway with the flashlight illuminating the stone floor. The case was found at last and they were turning to go back, when the sound of an explosion reached their ears and a dim light appeared at the end of the corridor. For a moment the girls stood motionless; then they turned, and ran swiftly down the twisted way to the sliding stone, and found themselves once more in the room they had left, but it was in darkness.

The electric lights were out and the little flashlights made but a dim illumination in the room.

The men had returned, and all stood staring as the two girls raced into the room and told their story.

"I think they are dynamiting the dining-room to find the prisoners. We must leave now," cried Ignace. "No one knows how they may guard the grounds. They are bound to find their victims."

"'Where is Rika?" cried Modjeska.

"They could find no trace of any of them," said the Princess. "We can only hope that the boys have taken the little girls either to the American Consul's or away from Warsaw. We will have to trust to them and believe that they are all together, until we can get in touch with them. In the meantime there is but one course open. We must go to the Prince at Lodz."

"And at once, mother! I have a feeling that we are not safe even here. Have you your jewels?"

"I have them all," said the Princess. "All that I had placed on Rika, and which Miss Evelyn has returned, and the court jewels as well.

"Then let us go," said Ignace. "I'll lead the way, Jan. When we reach the waterfall, go ahead and see if all is safe."

In perfect silence they left the room, slipping along a narrow, low passageway that at first seemed walled with stone, then gave forth a moldy, earthy odor.

Presently they heard the sound of gently falling water, and found themselves under a narrow waterfall. Again a clever spring was touched by some hand in the darkness, and one by one they emerged so close to the edge of the falling water that the spray wet them.

They were in the open air once more.

Ignace clasped Evelyn by the hand, and she could feel the nervous strain in his grasp. Noiseless as shadows, they slid from tree to tree through the great park, and down the grove of interlacing trees. It was a long walk. As Evelyn was wondering if she could possibly go much further, a dark, round shape appeared in the opening ahead.

It was the haystack.



Chapter IX

New Clues

Walking along in the pleasant, fresh air, Warren and Ivan soon gained control of their cramped muscles. It was good to be free. They were faint from lack of food, however, and at the suggestion of one of the Boy Scouts, retraced their steps to the deserted bakery and once more raided the ovens. Then, rested and refreshed, they picked their way into the residential section where they knew the officers of the invading forces had settled themselves.

Repeated questions finally led them to the building where Professor Morris and his son and daughter had been taken as spies. As they approached it, they noticed a triple guard at the gate and a large number of soldiers close around the palace. The boys hesitated.

"Let's see what this all means," said Ivan. "There is some special reason for all these soldiers on guard. Perhaps we can get one of them to talk."

"They are not allowed to, you know," said Warren.

"We will try this," said Ivan. He took a large cake from his pocket and approached the nearest soldier. He was a young fellow with a wistful, hungry face, and as Ivan approached, his keen eyes fastened themselves on the bread.

"Eat?" said Ivan.

"Yes," said the soldier, seizing the cake and biting off a great corner of it. "Bless you, brother, I was starving!"

"There is more where that came from," said Ivan. "If you are hungry, why don't you go eat your supper."

"Eat?" said the soldier bitterly. "Who knows how many hours we have been on guard here? I guarded a door in there all day, and now they have sent me here. The Captain is so enraged that he thinks nothing of us, nothing!"

Ivan leaned carelessly against the wall and shrugged his shoulders.

"What happened?" he asked, idly.

The soldier laughed. "It is funny," he said. "You are nothing but a boy, so it will not hurt to talk to you, and I have been silent so long that my tongue's stiff. Besides, this is good cake. Well, know then, little brother, that some people were brought here last night with suspicious papers on them. An old man, a boy and a beautiful girl. The old man would not explain the mysterious words in his little book, and they threatened him with death. He did not believe it. Did I tell you he was an American? He was. These Americans never fear. They say simply, "Kill me? That is impossible. Postpone it, if you please, while I write to the Consul!" Always it is so. Well, that old man, he could not be made to realize that Captain Handel is absolute ruler now, right here. They were brought to the state dining-room this morning, and the Captain told them straight what he intended to do. It was death for the old man and the boy, and he would spare the girl." The soldier laughed. "I and one other were guarding the door, so we heard. Presently the two Captains came out. As they left the room Captain Handel called back, 'Half an hour. Just half an hour, understand!'

"Then he closed the door sharply. The two Captains went to a little table not far from the door, and sat down. They were not for one second out of sight of the door.

"We two stood directly facing it about three feet away in the hall.

"The half hour passed. Captain Handel looked every minute at his watch, and Captain Schmitt kept saying, 'Wait, wait; be fair.'

"At last the time was up. They went to the door. Captain Schmitt straightened his saber belt, and threw the door wide.

"He looked, then he dashed in, almost upsetting Captain Handel. The room was empty. We could see. He called us, and together we searched in and on and under everything in the great room. We rapped on the wall. We examined the iron bars, but the windows had not even been opened.

"Captain Handel went into a fearful rage. The prisoners had disappeared as though they had never been. Even the book was gone from the table, and the package of papers the old man had guarded.

"We went over every foot of the place again and again. There was not an inch that sounded hollow, as though there was a secret passage. We even tore out a panel of the woodwork, and found a stone wall behind it."

The soldier finished his cake, and drew a grimy hand across his lip.

"That was good, brother," he said.

"What happened then?" asked Ivan, while Warren pressed closer.

"Why, we hunted all day," said the soldier, "but of course we couldn't find them. Why should we?"

"Why not?" asked Ivan.

"Why not?" repeated the soldier. "Why, those were not human beings at all. The old man was too silly for a real man, the girl was too beautiful. Human beings do not disappear from a guarded room with four stone walls about it."

The man lowered his voice, and spoke in a whisper. "They were devils, of course," he said.

The boys were silent.

"Of course," said the soldier, "Captain Handel would not believe anything so simple. He would not believe they were gone, so tonight he fixed them. It is all over now, and I wish I could go get some supper."

"What did he do?" asked Ivan, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

"He dynamited the room," said the soldier calmly. "That part of the palace is in ruins. The stones fell like rain. No human being could have lived in it. But they did not find the bodies. However, they may be buried under the wreckage. I don't believe it, though." He sighed. "That was good cake," he said.

"Here's another," said Warren. He clutched Ivan and sunk into the shadow. He was shaking.

"It is all over, Ivan," he whispered. "They have killed them."

Ivan pondered. "I don't know," he said finally. "One thing is sure, if all those soldiers could not find them, it is certain we can't. They are either safe, Warren, or else they are where we can never help them any more. It seems to me that the only thing to do now is to go straight to Lodz and find Elinor."

"Yes, that is the only thing to do," said Warren. "If I let myself think about Evelyn, I will go mad. We will go to Lodz."

"How?" asked Ivan.

"We will have to walk," replied Warren.

"Well, I hope we can get a lift someway or other," said Ivan. "At any rate, we must get out of this. I know every step of this part of the city. This place belongs to Prince Nicholani. I used to play all the time in this park."

He led the way rapidly through the beautiful grounds and entered a grove of noble trees. They went on and on through the shadows, until they reached the open fields. Beside the highway a great pile of hay lay scattered.

"We might sleep here for the rest of the night," Ivan suggested.

"Not if you can go on," said Warren. "I think we had better get as far from the city as possible."

"Very well," said Ivan, "but let us rest for half an hour."

They flung themselves on the hay, and in a moment Ivan was asleep. Warren could not rest, however, and sat staring moodily into the night. In half an hour he roused his friend, and they started onward. They proceeded in silence, each busily thinking. Warren trying to bear up and take his blows manfully, and Ivan at a loss to know what to say to the brave boy who had lost all he held dear in so terrible a manner.

The road was level, and they went rapidly. As they rounded a sharp turn, they saw an automobile ahead of them. It was a low racing car and stood at the side of the road. There was some trouble on, for a couple of men were bending over a wheel.

"They have had a puncture," exclaimed Warren, "and they are headed toward Lodz. Let's see if they will give us a lift."

He boldly approached the men, who started, then looked relieved to see that it was a couple of boys.

"What's the trouble?" said Warren in Polish. The man straightened, and threw his hands up in a gesture of despair. "All the trouble in the world!" he exclaimed. "The tire is punctured, and I cannot mend it. I am not a chauffeur, but I can drive this car a little, and my master told me to bring it to him. I don't know what to do. Of course, as soon as it comes light the soldiers will seize it."

"I can fix the tire," said Warren. "I know all about it, but we are going to Lodz and we ought not to wait. It is a long way."

"Good!" said the man. "We are going to Lodz, too. There are only two seats, but we will carry you somehow. Only be quick and mend the tire. Our lives may depend on it."

Warren turned the light on the wheel and went to work. He had always prided himself on his swiftness in working out tire troubles, and when he saw the bad tear in the tube, he took it off and replaced it with one of the new tires strapped to the rear of the machine. He worked in desperate haste, and Ivan, at his side, worked with equal desperation.

The men watched or restlessly walked up and down the road talking in undertones to each other. It was evident that their knowledge of cars was but slight, and they were forced to trust to the young stranger if they were to proceed at all on their perilous journey.

When the tire was in place and pumped up, Warren hastily collected the tools and started to replace them in the tool box but Ivan stopped him with a word. He spoke sharply to the men.

"Take these things," he said. "We are ready!"

The man who had spoken first took the wheel, and his companion the other seat. Ivan sat on his knee, with Warren on the running board.

It was soon evident that there was something wrong. The car went plowing along on low speed, the engine bucking and starting.

"Good heavens, Ivan!" exclaimed Warren, after a few miles of this jerky progress. "What ails the thing? Do you suppose the dub knows how to drive?"

Ivan turned to the man at the wheel.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Do you know how to drive? What ails the car?"

"I don't know," said the man. "In truth I have never driven but twice, but I thought I could and when the Princess told me to bring this car after her I was sure I could. She is ahead with her son and Princess Modjeska and some guests. I fear I will not be able to reach Lodz." He pressed a lever at random, and the ear shot forward with a speed that nearly threw Warren from the step. Another frantic attempt and she slowed down with a suddenness that almost put the others through the wind shield.

"Here, stop!" commanded Warren. "Get out of that seat and let me drive! Ivan, tell him I simply eat cars!"

The machine stopped, and the man thankfully resigned his seat to Warren, who drew up the heavy motor gloves, and settled himself in his seat. The car, a beautiful French model, was familiar to Warren, and he pressed the starter with perfect confidence. And he was justified. Like a swallow, the beautiful machine skimmed the smooth and level road, leaving Warsaw with all its tragedy and far behind.

Warren had scarcely slept for two nights. He had had but little food, and his bandaged head felt light and strange. As they went on and on, Warren commenced to wonder if he could possibly make the distant city. At intervals strange colored lights flashed before his eyes, and faint, booming noises sounded in his ears.

They had not encountered a soul. It was as though the whole country, after its terrible conflict, lay dead. Finally a faint streak of gray appeared in the east. Dawn was coming.

"How far to Lodz?" he called. "Just over the hill?"

"Just over yonder hill," said the man at his side.

Warren slowed down, and dropped one tired hand from the wheel.

"Where are you going when you get to the city?" he inquired.

"If we get through," the man replied, "I am to go to the palace where lives a sister of our Princess. She has turned it into a hospital. By a strange chance, our Prince was taken there when he was wounded. The Princess must, be there now.'

"Very well," said Warren. "Direct me when we reach the city."

It grew brighter, and was quite light when they entered the quiet streets. Fortunately they were not stopped, and with the guidance of the man beside him Warren drew safely up before the wide stone steps of the palace.

The car stopped. Warren shut off the engine, and the others jumped out, glad to stretch themselves. Warren alone made no effort to move. The others after stamping their cramped legs, turned to look at him.

His hand was still on the wheel, but he was unconscious.

They carried him into the great hall, and a nurse in uniform directed them to an empty cot and hurried after a doctor. He pronounced it simply a case of exhaustion, and gave orders which the nurse rapidly filled, motioning the others to leave as she did so.

The servants turned to Ivan and thanked him for his assistance. For a moment Ivan thought that it would be a good plan to go to the Princess, and tell her that he was in Lodz. Then he decided that the presence of a boy in the city, although he was the son of her very good friend, would only cause her to feel responsible for his welfare or safety; so he merely nodded, turned his back to tell the nurse that he would return shortly, and then he walked listlessly down into the heart of the town.

Hucksters were driving into the open market. Doors were opening here and there. A company of soldiers passed at double quick. Ivan wondered where they were going. He wondered, too, what possible chance he had to get something to eat.

There were no Scouts in Lodz besides his tired self and the exhausted boy back in the hospital cot. Ivan thought of Warren with a gratitude that he could not have put in words. Warren had taught him so many things. With Boy Scout principles and Boy Scout training, he had changed from a haughty, helpless young aristocrat to a helpful, well-balanced boy, perfectly capable of taking care of himself and of assisting others as well. Ivan felt the change; he was so reliant, so strong. A few months ago, he would have stood helpless in his present situation, conscious only that he was Prince Ivan Ivanovich and must be looked after. Now, as he faced the morning light, hungry, ragged, and with only the American nickel in his pocket, he smiled at fate and went on without fear to enter whatever adventure might come.

The only thing that worried him was the want of enough money to buy himself a bit of bread and a dried fish. He reflected that he could easily have asked the Princess for enough to supply his wants, but he would not turn back.

Ahead of him, an old man with a heavily laden cart was having trouble with a skittish horse. In vain he pulled on the lines. In vain he threatened and coaxed. The young creature would not stand, and while the old man worried with it, vegetables and long sticks of black bread were slyly stolen out of the end of his cart. Ivan approached.

"Let me hold the horse, father," he said, taking it by the bridle as he spoke.

The old man threw his hands up in a gesture of thankfulness.

"Blessings on you, my son!" he cried. "These thieves will ruin me while I speak with that foolish animal. Hold fast, my son, and I will give you your breakfast."

Ivan nodded, and the old man turned eagerly to his customers.

Presently he reached over, and handed Ivan a generous piece of bread and some fresh fruit. Ivan watched the throngs as he ate, holding the horse with his left hand, although it was now perfectly quiet.

As he idly watched the persons passing, he noted that with the passing time, the market had become crowded. People moved in throngs.

And then, as the crowd before him happened to part, Ivan noticed in the distance a woman hurrying away. She had a big basket on her arm, filled with provisions. A little girl clung to her other hand. She was ragged, dirty and pale; but Ivan recognized Elinor.

Dropping the horse's rein, he dashed toward them, but the crowd had closed, and he was too late. The earth seemed to have swallowed them. Like a hound on a trail, he searched the market over and over, but not a trace could he find of the woman or child. In his surprise at seeing, Elinor, he had failed to take particular notice of the woman. But as he thought of it, he felt that, it was not the one he had seen in Warsaw and he remembered that that woman had spoken of her sister in Lodz.

Feeling that there was nothing to be gained by remaining longer in the market, Ivan hurried back to the hospital, where he found Warren much better, and fretting because he was not allowed to get up.

"Well, I've seen Elinor!" said Ivan, as soon as he entered the ward.

Warren sat up, his eyes bulging under, his bandage.

"Have you, honest?" he cried. "Where is she?"

"Well, I lost her in the crowd," said Ivan, and told the whole story.

Warren lay listening carefully.

"Well, as long as we know she is here in the same town, we know we will find her. And there won't be any slip the next time." His face clouded. "But, Ivan," he said huskily, "I can't bear to think of my dear Evelyn, and poor father, and little Jack." He closed his lips and shut his eyes in a desperate effort to control his grief.

Warren's cot was drawn across a closed door. And on the other side of that door sat Evelyn, crying her heart out for her lost brother and sister!



Chapter X

Beggars

When poor little Elinor found herself dragged forcibly from her brother and away from the comparative safety of the underground room where Warren and Ivan had so mysteriously appeared, as she thought, to get her and take her home, her childish heart was filled with a terror so overwhelming that she did not know what she did. Notwithstanding the efforts of the woman who held her, she screamed as hard as she could and stiffened in the woman's brutal grasp until she was obliged to put her down. Elinor tried to run, but she was too tightly held. Then with a muttered rush of comments, the woman rained blows on the poor little shoulders and body until the child sank to the ground, nearly stunned from the force of the blows. Her cries died, and she lay gasping.

"Now will you be silent?" demanded the fury, shaking her. "You just try that again! Just try it, and see what I will do to you." She overwhelmed the fallen child with terrible threats until Elinor was silenced and shook as though in a chill.

"Now you had better do as I tell you," the woman said. "You will never see your brother again, never; never! And you will have to live with me, and do as I say." She jerked the child to her feet and dragged her down the street after the two men who had gone on, one of them carrying Rika.

She was still muttering when she reached them.

"This one has got to be trained," she said savagely; "and I might as well begin it right off."

Michael shrugged his shoulders. "Why don't you show a little, mercy at the first?" he inquired carelessly. "It doesn't matter to me, but I tell you, Martha, you will spoil her for everything if you handle her too roughly. She will die. I've seen her sort before."

"Then let her die!" said the woman. "Good riddance it will be if she does not take kindly to my tasks."

"Suit yourself," said Michael; "but take my advice and give her a little time."

"Time!" said Martha. "Time! What are you thinking of? There is no time! She has lost two years, as it is. You don't seem to remember, Michael, that I am as good a pickpocket as there is in Europe. That child is almost too old to begin to learn the art. The other one, Rika, is just about right; and she has such fine, delicate, little fingers. Well, this one has good hands too. But you know well that they are clumsy after they reach five. Do you remember the yellow-haired child I trained about ten years ago? Ali, she was a wonder! But you never could keep her down. How I used to beat her! She would be black welts from her shoulders to her knees. No, you could not keep her down. She was so ambitious. If she had only kept out of politics, she might have been stealing yet. But now she is in Siberia, in the mines. Bah! A home life for me, I say! What care I who is in power, so long as pretty ladies carry shopping bags and wear sparkling bracelets and flashing brooches! I say a woman wants to keep to her own place. Isn't it so, my Michael?"

"Yes, indeed," said Michael heartily. "I read the other day -- "

"Read!" said Martha scornfully. "That's another mistake. Why should a man like you read? Sooner or later it will get you in trouble. You never know what the reading may contain. Better not know. What you don't know won't hurt you."

"You are wrong," said Michael stubbornly. "Sometimes what you don't know does hurt you. If I could live again, I would be a better man. When I was a boy there was no learning to be had, except for the upper class and the priests. Now when I am old and it is too late, you can learn everything. I have loitered around the schools and listened to the boys talking their lessons over. It is amazing what they know. Why, they know everything! And there are schools where they are set to work at all sorts of trades. I took a job cleaning floors once so that I might go in and see what it was they did. Martha, those boys (they were quite little ones, too) made such beautiful things -- furniture and all that. There was one little chair that you could set on your hand. It was as perfect as though it was big enough for you. I thought that I would steal it. Then I thought how sad the little fellow who made it would feel. The janitor told me there were prizes for the best workmen, and I knew that chair was best. So I didn't take it. I never wanted anything more, in my life!"

"Silly," said Martha. "Always bothering your old head about someone's feelings! I do wish you would stop it! As for these children, I tell you, Michael, it is a matter of business. We are no longer young. We must prepare for the time when we can no longer stand on corners and in church doors and beg. My fingers even now are growing clumsy. Who will take care of us then if we do not train these children?"

"I suppose so," said Michael wistfully, "But it does seem a pity. You should have seen that chair."

"I've heard about it enough at any rate," said Martha. "You should have taken it. You could have sold it for a few kopeks.

"I couldn't," said Michael.

"All right," said Martha. "This is another matter; these children. You heard what I said. Now here is what I plan. We will go to Lodz and there we will stay for the next year or two. This war cannot last forever, and when it is well past, why, then we will strike out in the world. I know little girls. These will both be beauties when they are a few years older." She laughed as she dragged Elinor along. "I tell you I did well when I picked up these pearls."

"No doubt; no doubt!" Michael answered. He could not but look with pity on the two children however. He was a man whose whole life had been evil, but somewhere in him was a spark of kindness and tenderness. He fought, he drank, he stole, he lied; but the sight of the two poor little girls dragging miserably along with the remorseless woman somehow touched his heart. He knew that he would often beat them, and he would also give them their first lessons in picking pockets; but he knew, too, that there would be times when he would shield them from the cold, relentless fury of the woman.

So it was with a feeling of pity for the weary little feet that he asked, "Where do we go tonight? I am tired."

"Tired?" scorned Martha. "You are ever tired! However, we will eat some supper, and then on to Lodz."

"Walk?" asked the other man, who had not spoken before.

"No," said Martha. "I have a pocketful of money. No, you don't," she added as the man came close to her. "Here's a handy knife if you try that. Something tells me to get out of here as soon as we can and it will take too long to walk with these burdens. Besides, they would never stand it. You may be sure I would not spend this money on the railroad if I could help myself."

She turned into a doorway. The house was deserted.

"Here," she said, "I will stay here with these two, while you get something for me to drink. Also go to the railroad and see if the trains are running. And hurry!"

She found a chair for herself, pushed the two children in the corner farthest from the door, and settled herself to wait, while the two men walked leisurely out of the house and away.

An hour later Michael hurried back. Martha greeted him sourly.

"Don't pretend to hurry, lazy one," she scolded. "I know where thou hast been. Did you bring what I asked?"

"I bring news," said Michael, glancing at the two children.

"Bah! That is dry drinking," said Martha, making a face. "Well, have it over!"

"There is a search on for the little one," said Michael. "I know who she is. If they find her with us -- " He drew his hand across his neck with the whistling sound of a knife.

"Who is she then?" asked Martha in astonishment.

Michael stooped and whispered in her ear.

"Ai! Ai!" exclaimed Martha. "No wonder her hands are delicate and small! Well, we have got to go on with it now. And quickly, too. How will we get out of here? Shall we trust the cars? Do they run? Answer, Michael, what did you find out?"

"A lot of things," said Michael. "First place, the station is watched, so I bought two tickets for Lodz. We men will go down there tomorrow."

"And leave me here!" asked Martha furiously.

"No, no, no!" said Michael. "Will you wait until I finish? When I came from the railroad, I passed a great empty motor truck. Some soldiers are getting it ready to go to Lodz tonight. They are going for more munitions. It belongs to the enemy, but thanks to my German mother, I am German at will; so I spoke to them. I told them about my wife and two little children who were going to walk to Lodz. It was great luck. They said you could go with them.

"Think of that!" said Martha. "Not to walk a step, and to ride down that beautiful road in a truck. What a wonder! I never expected to get into one of those great horseless things. Well, what did you say then, stupid?"

"You are to go down now, and they will start soon. But they do not want the officers to know they are taking you. It is only because of my German and my nice way," he laughed. "Well, get up, and we will go over."

"I am almost afraid," said Martha.

"There is no way as good as this," the man assured her. "You will be safe. You will rest quite well under the canvases in the truck. And the road is indeed smooth."

He lifted Rika and led the way. It was growing late, and they hurried to the place near headquarters where the great track stood. Michael did not wait for anyone to come. He jumped in, and made a sort of nest in the canvas covers that were lying in the bottom. In this he seated Martha and the children, warning the woman to hold fast to the girls. Then he covered them cleverly with the lightest of the covers, saw that no one would guess that the truck was occupied, and proceeded to sit on the nearby curb and smoke. He was afraid that someone would throw something heavy in the truck, and bring a scream, from one of the children.

Presently the two soldiers who were to drive came out. They had had a good meal and were smoking contentedly. Michael went up to them. He opened his hand and showed three coins.

"Here is all my wealth. I will share it with for your kindness to my wife and dear little ones," he said in a trembling voice.

The men shook their heads, but he insisted, and they took the offered coins, protesting that they would take their passengers safely to Lodz.

"Ah! What goodness!" said Michael with deep feeling. "If I could ever repay you!"

"That's all right," said one of the soldiers. "Just be silent about the load we are carrying. Tell no one. Our Captain is in the deuce of a temper. He would punish anything today." He drew on his gloves and mounted to his seat. The other soldier swung up beside him.

"It's a pity we can't take you too," said he; "but it wouldn't be safe. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," said Michael in a trembling voice. "Good-bye, wife! Good-bye, my sweet children!"

Martha pinched Elinor roughly. "Say good-bye!" she hissed, and a frightened little voice called, something that was almost lost in the sound of the engine as the car started. Martha stifled a shriek. This was a terrifying experience. As the car rolled onward, the two children, both accustomed to riding in motor cars, and too tired to mind the unyielding springs and hard tires of the truck, were lulled to sleep; but Martha sat wide-eyed, not daring to make the least outcry, and afraid to follow her heart's wish and jump to the ground. The night was filled with terrors, and when at dawn the car stopped, and a soldier brought her a can of coffee she was too stiff and frightened to speak.

When at last they reached Lodz, the two men were obliged to lift her to the ground. They set them down on the outskirts of the city and Martha hurried, as well as she could with her tired muscles, and the children dragging at her side, to the hovel where her sister lived.

There was a long talk then, and many explanations, and Martha rested and slept as though she never would rise again. When she did finally get up, she had lost all count of the time, but Michael was there, and the children were trying to get a handkerchief from the pocket of a coat suspended from the ceiling by a cord.

"Get it so carefully that you will not stir the coat, and you will have a piece of candy." The children tried again and again.

Martha groaned and disturbed them.

"Well, at last I am rested," she said. "Michael, thou fool, when next you get me such a place -- " She groaned again.

"Better that than not at all, eh, Martha?" laughed the man.

"We might have walked it," she declared.

"Yes. In how many days," he demanded, "with those children at heel?"

"Of course," she said, "but it was frightful." She shook her head. "We rocked and tossed like a ship at sea. And those children slept. Slept all the way. I could have beaten them!"

She turned to her sister. "You say you have no money? We will have to go and get some then." She turned to the children and studied them critically. "Those clothes won't do," she said. "Where is there a place where I can get them something else to wear?"

"Two houses down," said her sister. "I will go with you."

The women were not gone long, and came back with a bundle of children's clothing. Michael was still patiently teaching them the handkerchief trick, Rika's little face was puckered, and she was ready to cry although Michael had given her several pieces of candy. It did not take long to take off the clothes the children had been wearing, and dress them instead more in accordance with the parts they were to play.

Then Martha took a stick and stood before Elinor.

"Look at me!" she commanded, and when the child's frightened eyes sought her face she said, "You are to beg for your supper, do you hear? As soon as you see a kind looking lady or gentleman, you are to put out your hand, and say, 'Please, we are starving,' like that. Say it!"

Elinor was silent.

"Say it!" she repeated. But Elinor was still.

"Do you want to be beaten?" Martha asked in a terrible voice. "Do you?"

Elinor found her voice. "No," she said in Polish. "No, please do not beat me, but I cannot beg. My brother will come soon and get me. I do not want any supper. I will wait for him."

Martha sat down, the stick still in her hand, and thrust her ugly face close to the child's.

"Hear me!" she growled. "Your brother will never come for you. He is dead. Dead, I tell you! You will never see him again. You are going to live here with me, and you are going to do just what I tell you or I shall beat you so you will never forget it. Now do you understand?"

Elinor looked her steadily in the eyes.

"Yes," she said.

"Then say what I told you," said Martha, getting to her feet.

Elinor looked at her, then reading the threat in her eyes, she said, "Please, we are starving." It seemed more than her independent spirit could bear even with the fear of the stick on her heart. She added, "Some day I shall ran away."

"That settles it!" cried Martha. "We will settle this now!"

She threw the helpless child on the ground and began beating her with the stick. For a long while Elinor endured it, then unable to keep silent under the pain, she burst into screams and sobs. The woman continued her blows until Elinor's voice held a thin note of agony, and she lifted her and flung the quivering little body on a pile of rags, and sat herself down by the table.

"That ought to break her spirit," she said.

She waited until the sobs and cries subsided, and then called the child. The terrified little girl slipped from the bed and ran to her tormentor. Martha looked at her critically.

"That did you good," she said. "Now we will get out of here, and go to work."

"Have you any money at all?" asked her sister, turning to Michael.

"A little," he grudgingly admitted.

"Well, let us have enough to go to the market while it is open. I go late each morning, and buy the spoiled vegetables that are left over."

"A good plan," said Martha.

When they had finished with the market, the women walked slowly down through the city, begging wherever they could. They were able to recognize foreigners wherever they met them, although they were not many. Always, however, they gave, and gave generously. The store of coins in Martha's sack grew and grew.

"We will have to exchange this stuff for a few larger coins somewhere," she said. "I think we can do so safely at the railroad station. Let us go there."

The day had been a time of torture for the two children. Elinor was so tired that she thought that she would fall at each step, but the relentless hand held her up and pulled her on.

Rika, in the other woman's arms, had fallen asleep several times.

They did not mind that; her tear-stained little face with its long, curling lashes looked very pitiful, and as long as she slept they told a sad story, about her being lame. But Elinor had to walk; and she was sure that when she fell from exhaustion, Martha would probably kill her.

There was a great crowd at the station, and dozens of other beggars; but Martha noted with satisfaction that none had such beautiful children to beg for. There were many more coins in the sack before long, and just as Elinor's knees bent, under her, and she thought that now at last she would fall, the women set the children on a big box, and with the most horrible threats if they, stirred or spoke to anyone, walked off to the ticket office to change the small coins into something safer to handle.



Chapter XI

The Red Cross Car

When Warren was dismissed from the hospital, he found himself being stared at by Ivan in a very perplexing manner. Finally he demanded the reason. Ivan laughed.

"You look so clean," he said. "Your face does not go with the rest of you, those ragged clothes and all that. Besides, I have not seen what your natural face looked like for a few days. I had forgotten just what you did look like."

Warren smiled.

"Just the same, it did seem good to clean up little," he said. "However, just to oblige you I'll put on a few frills." He stooped and rubbed his hands in some plaster dust, and transferred it to his face. Ivan studied the change.

"That's better," he said. "As long as we have to wear these clothes, I think we had better look the part. There is one thing certain though. We are dressed exactly as we were in Warsaw, when we were visiting our friends, the thieves. I wish we could get some other clothes."

"I hadn't thought of that," said Warren. "I wish we could change, but how can we?"

"I don't know," said Ivan. "Certainly we can't risk having those people see us. We will have to be cautious."

"Where shall we go, I wonder?" mused Warren.

"I don't suppose it matters now," said Ivan. "It is so late in the afternoon. Tomorrow morning we will have to watch the market. They will be sure to come for more provisions."

"True enough," said Warren. "Let's go down to the central station and see if the trains are running again."

The boys sauntered down through the streets without being molested by the sharp-eyed soldiers who patrolled the way. They found the station a busy place. The trains were once more running, on broken schedules of course, but everything was so nearly adjusted to the usual order that there was transportation for the hundreds who were eagerly seeking passage. There were a great many foreigners carefully clutching their transports and hurrying out of the country. At the back of the station stood an automobile, a low, racing roadster.

"We had a ride in her last night," said Warren, as he approached and recognized the machine. "And it was some ride, wasn't it, Ivan?"

"It certainly was," said Ivan, smiling. "What's the red cross flag on it I wonder?"

"The Princess has given it over to the hospital, I suppose," said Warren. "No one will stop it now. Wonder who drives it? I'm sorry for anyone who rides with the crazy guy who tried to run it last night."

"Here is the chauffeur now," said Ivan, stepping back as a dark, burly man approached the machine and took a package from the tool-box.

"He is a new one," said Warren.

They wandered around the corner of the building and mingled with the throngs waiting for the train. It came puffing in, and as the crowd pressed forward, Warren heard a familiar, coarse, whining voice behind him. He looked; and as he did so, he was conscious of Ivan who, with the quickness of a bird, slipped between two people, and was out of sight. Instantly Warren followed him. They met behind a truck loaded with boxes.

Warren was shaking. "Did you see?" he asked.

"Yes," said Ivan in a low voice. "Elinor and Rika, too! What are we going to do?"

"I don't know," said Warren. "Just do what we have to do when the time comes. Don't risk them another hour. Elinor looks half dead. Keep out of sight and watch for a chance. Don't let the girls see you, any more than the women. They would give it away, sure. Come on!"

He slipped quickly through the crowd, only a boy, and unnoticed. Behind, at his heels, came a thin lad, soiled and ragged. It was Prince Ivan, Prince of one of the greatest houses in Warsaw, but his own father would not have recognized him. Together they slyly watched the two women in front of them who, each with a child, begged pitifully of the travelers. The woman who had Rika held her in her arms, but poor little Elinor, on foot, reached a tiny hand toward the passing throng, and fearfully glanced at her ugly jailer as she did so.

The train remained on the track. It was evidently going to make up a section. The women wandered here and there, and finally approached a big packing case near the station door. Here they stood, evidently consulting. One woman slyly, showed the other a handkerchief full of kopeks. Then while the boys scarcely dared to breathe, they seated the two children on the box, and with a fearful threat which caused the face of Elinor to turn even paler, they hurried into the waiting room, and turned towards the ticket window.

"Now!" said Warren, "and be quick!"

He ran up to the children, and taking his sister in his arms, pressed his hand over her mouth until he had spoken a word in her ear. Then followed by Ivan carrying Rika, he walked steadily round the corner of the platform.

Before him stood the roadster, with the Red Cross flag. Without an instant's hesitation, he slipped into the driver's seat, Elinor still in his arms. He thrust her between his knees, as Ivan took the other seat, and tucked little Rika out of sight in the same manner.

As he did so, they heard a series of hoarse screams, and the two women, beating the air and wringing their hands, came rushing around the corner. Warren started the car full speed, and they started with a jerk that almost threw them out. Looking behind, Ivan saw the women point to the car and to his dismay a soldier on a motorcycle jumped from his machine and ran up to them. As the car sped down the long avenue, Ivan saw a last glimpse of the man returning to his machine. They were followed.

"They are after us!" he said to Warren.

"What with?" asked Warren, his eyes on the road. "There was no other machine."

"A soldier on a motorcycle. Make the first turn you can."

Warren whipped the little racer round one curve and then another. He was thinking deeply.

Elinor commenced to cry.

"Don't let them get me, Warry!" she begged.

"You are all right, dear," he answered. Then to Ivan:

"I have it. Didn't you say you knew that Princess what-is-her-name that owns this car?"

"Yes, a little," said Ivan.

"Well, you could make her recognize whose son you are, couldn't you?"

"Of course!" said Ivan.

"Well," said Warren, "we can't get anywhere with the car, and the only thing for us to do is to go to the hospital as quickly as we can, and you get hold of that Princess, and do some explaining. You see she stands in with both sides because of the hospital. It's her own sister's house, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Ivan, "and that's the only thing to do. This is a Red Cross car now, and there will be a big fuss about it."

"Where are we, anyway?" said Warren, slowing down to regulation speed.

"Turn to your left and ahead for three blocks, then once to the right, and you will see the palace in the distance," said Ivan.

They swept on, reached the marble steps of the building, stopped the car, and Warren leaped to the ground.

He looked at his little sister. He could not speak, but held out his arms, and she sprang into them. She clung to him trembling, and calling his name over and over while he pressed kisses on her pale little cheeks. With Ivan still holding Rika, they hurried up the steps just as the soldier on the motorcycle whirled to the curb.

He leaped from his seat and followed them, talking furiously in German, but the boys were so close to the open door that they slipped inside before the man could lay a hand on them. A nurse came up and a doctor, and the boys commenced, both at once, one in Polish and the other in English, to explain matters. The doctor looked grave. No one would dream that the two thin, pale, ragged little girls were anything but the beggars they looked to be, and the doctor shook his head.

Ivan stamped his foot. "I want the Princess!" he said. "She will straighten this out. Send someone for the Princess!" he demanded.

"I think she is out," said the nurse; "but I will send." She gave a message to an assistant, and they waited in silence while the girl was gone. She returned in a moment.

"The Princess is not here," she said, "but Madame, her sister, is coming." As she spoke, the door opened, and the lovely face of Princess Olga appeared.

"What is the trouble?" she asked of the doctor, and glanced at the group before her.

One low cry she gave; one spring, and little Rika was folded to her breast. The baby arms were close around her neck, the little face hidden while the Princess murmured loving names and strained the little form close to her heart.

Warren was the first to speak. He turned to Ivan.

"Well, what do you know about that?" he said solemnly in English.

The doctor turned to Ivan and plied him with questions.

Presently the Princess looked up.

"Who are you?" she asked, noting the pale child at his side.

"My name is Morris, Warren Morris," said Warren. He would have explained farther, but the Princess, rising, lifted her head and looking reverently up, said simply, "God is good! Come with me!" Imperiously she led the way down the great hall, now full of cots, and to a narrow door. She opened this and pushed Warren through ahead of her.

And Evelyn, poor heart-broken Evelyn, saw him as he came. Then she had him in her arms; and for once Warren could not kiss her enough or hug her hard enough. But he had to be shared with Elinor who commenced to look happy once more.

"Where is father?" asked Warren doubtfully, when Evelyn seemed assured that he was real, and that she actually had Elinor back again.

"Out with the Princess," said Evelyn. Then for the first time she noticed that the Princess was gone, and the door shut, and they were alone.

"Warren, you must be very good to father," said Evelyn gently. "He has suffered more than I ever knew anyone could. He takes all the blame for everything."

"Well, -- " said Warren stubbornly, "a lot of it has been his fault."

"That doesn't matter now," said Evelyn. "Father is not to blame for the forgetfulness and selfishness in his work that we find so hard to bear. His parents are the ones to blame. They thought because he was such a bright child that everything should be made secondary to his needs. And then our dear mother went right on spoiling him. So now we, who are his children, can't expect to make him over. We have just got to remember that he is a truly great man -- in his own line, and we are very proud of him. We are older now, and things won't be so hard for us."

"You bet we are older!" said Warren. "I don't expect to feel any older when I am ninety than I do now. But you are right about father. I have felt pretty sore, sis, I confess, and when I thought you were dead, and Elinor lost for good, it didn't seem as though I could forgive him. You are right about his people. Folks have no right to let a kid run the whole place like that, even if it is to develop his brain. I'll tell you one thing, if ever I have any kids of my own, I'm going to bring them up after a plan of my own."

Evelyn smiled. "I hope it will work, Warry," she said.

Warren looked savage. "It will, you can bet," he said. "I will make them go to school, of course, but they will begin to qualify for the Boy Scouts when they are about three years old; and they will learn to shoot, and know first aid when they are about four, and a lot of other things when they are five or so."

Evelyn groaned. "I'm sorry for those children, Warren," she laughed.

"Well, perhaps I will give them a little more time, but they have got to understand that efficiency is as necessary when they are sixteen as when they are sixty. Do you remember those chaps we saw in Switzerland? They were way up in their studies. You know I went to school with a fellow one day, but when school was out they were doing things worth while. And the fellow I knew had the dandiest rifle I ever saw. He said it was a prize from the government for target shooting. And he knew how to handle that gun, too. He said there was a fine for carelessness with firearms.

"Then these Germans. I've seen dozens of fellows no older than I am. They are hard as nails and fit every minute. Say, what's father going to do?" he demanded. "Are we going to spend our lives here, or are we going home?"

"Father does not know yet that you are here, you know," Evelyn reminded him. "He ought to be here soon now."

"Let's get him to go home as soon as we can," said Warren.

"I've seen about all I can stand of these horrors." He put his arm around Evelyn's shoulders and embraced both dear sisters.

"Evelyn, we will never be the same children again," he said sadly. "Oh, I'm homesick for America! I want to go home to Princeton. I want to have it come Fourth of July and hear the crackers go off and see the flag hanging out of store windows, and upside down and wrong side to on people's lawns the way they most always hang it. I want to hooray for 'Mericky.' I am dead, dead sick of this, sissy. I want to go where I belong."

"Poor old Warren!" said Evelyn. "I know how you feel. I want to go, too. But you can't shake the dust of Europe off like that, you know. We have made friends, good friends here, and you will have to keep in touch with the Polish Boy Scouts. You can't shirk that, you know."

"No, of course not," agreed Warren. "I just want to go home and soak up on America for awhile. I've got a lot of things to tell those fellows, too!" he said solemnly.

"Well, we could go right away if father is willing, and if we could get passports and transportation," said Evelyn. "Only I've got to go back and get the baby."

"The WHAT!" shouted Warren.

"Why, the baby," said Evelyn. "The baby you brought me; the one you brought me from its dead mother."

"Sure enough!" said Warren. "Well, where is it, anyway?"

"Back in Warsaw," said Evelyn. "I left it with the woman who lived in the corner house. When the soldiers took us away, she came out to see what the disturbance was, and she offered to keep the baby."

"A baby!" said Warren. "So you are going to take it home! Well, that does seem almost the last straw! You don't suppose your friend in Warsaw would like to keep it?"

"No, I don't," said Evelyn firmly. "That woman has six, and her husband was killed, and she is ruined. She will have hard enough work feeding her own. She is an angel to keep it so, long. We have dozens of relatives over home, and they are all going to have the privilege of helping to care for our little war baby. I shall name her for the Princess."

"All right," said Warren. He went to the window and looked out. "I wish father would come," he said. "Is Jack with him? Suppose I go and look for them?"

"You will stay right here," said Evelyn. "I don't want one of you out of my sight from now on. Jack is with father. They went out to go to the market. Father has been helping a lot here. He has given the hospital all sorts of things that were badly needed. The Princess will send him in as soon as she comes. Isn't it like a fairy tale to think that we had little Rika all the time?"

"I wish you would begin at the beginning and tell me all that happened after you were arrested," said Warren. "I have had such a lot of scraps."

"All right," said Evelyn. She looked down at the little sister in her arms. "See," she said, "she has gone to sleep. The darling is exhausted."

Warren looked grave. "She has had the worst experience of all," he said. "We won't know for a good while just what she has undergone. I would not want to question her. It will have to come out in bits. And I think the baby will be a good thing after all. It will help occupy Elinor's attention and make her forget. Yes, we have got to get out of here as soon as we can on her account. Now go on."

Evelyn cuddled the sleeping child more closely, and commencing at the moment when the soldiers broke down the door, she told her brother the thrilling and almost unbelievable story of their adventure. Finally she reached the end. Warren had made no comments, but the stern and anxious expression of his face betrayed his feelings. Evelyn paused.

"And to think that I was right on the other side of that door when you were crying yesterday! Poor little sister, I hope you will never, never have to cry for me again."

There was a sound of rapid steps at the door. It was flung open and Jack rushed in, closely followed by the Professor.

Trouble and danger and separation change our viewpoint. There had been a time not long past when Warren regarded any demonstration of affection as unmanly, but now he found himself in his father's arms and only too glad to be there.



Chapter XII

Over The Sea

Evelyn had told the truth. Professor Morris was a changed man. For the first time in all his orderly humdrum student existence, he had had to face war and death and murder, and all the crimes that stalk through a land at such times.

It had accomplished what all the arguments, all the lecturing, all the entreaties in the world would never have accomplished. Professor Morris had been shaken out of himself. There had been sleepless nights when his life had looked very poor and thin and useless. What was his book, a dry thing of many pages, when he compared it to the needs of the dear children who had been so loyal and so true to him? It came to him that culture may be made as selfish and as harmful as any vice there is.

But Benjamin Morris was, after all, a man; and late as it was, it was not too late for him to humbly resolve to be a better father, and a more valuable citizen. And he kept his word.

Presently Ivan returned. The boy had purposely kept away until the reunited family had had time to talk everything all over. When he entered, Professor Morris sat looking at him, with his eyes narrowed and a puzzled look on his face. Evelyn knew that look, and wondered what was passing in her father's mind. He sat quite silent, and after a little left the room. When he returned, he brought the Princess Olga, who was leading the little Rika as though she dared not leave her out of her sight.

"We have been talking things over," said Princess Olga. "Of course the only reasonable thing for Professor Morris to do is to return to America without delay. He has no right to remain here and possibly endanger the lives of so many young people, and there is nothing that he can do for us. Some day we will want help, and then we know that you will all come to our aid. Ivan, we have been talking it all over with my husband, the Prince, and we have decided that the best thing for you to do is to go also. Wait," she said as Ivan shook his head. "My boy, our country is in ruins. Your father is at the front, we know not where. You can not serve him by remaining here where you are, every moment in danger of being arrested and held as a prisoner or worse. Your estates are in ruins; but not withstanding, you are, after your father, the head of your house. You owe to Poland the one thing you can now do for her. You must preserve and safeguard your life. And you must go to the University where Professor Morris is such an eminent instructor. You must learn statesmanship. Some day, Ivan, Poland will need you. What chance have you here now in this stricken land?

"I want you to go, Ivan. We will take the responsibility. And I want you to take these jewels, and use them for your expenses and education!" She held out a glittering handful of priceless gems.

"No," said Professor Morris firmly. "Princess, you will need all you have. It happens that I have plenty of money, and we live very simply, so there is enough and to spare for the two children we hope to take with us."

"Two?" said the Princess.

"The baby," said the Professor. "I confess the needs of an infant seem too complex and difficult for me to cope with, but my daughter entertains no fears, and insists upon taking the little fellow with us."

"It's a girl, father," corrected Evelyn.

"Ah, yes," said the Professor, bowing. "I believe you did say that he is a girl."

"I have told him at least a dozen times," said Evelyn in a whisper to Warren.

"I suppose we have got to take her along, no matter what he is," Warren whispered back.

"However," said the Professor, glancing reprovingly at the children, "there is plenty of money, in reason, and if Ivan prefers, we will keep an account of his educational expenses, and at some future date he can repay what I shall deem necessary to expend for him."

"That is better," said the Princess. She turned to Ivan.

"You will go, Ivan."

"Yes," said Ivan. Then sadly, "But I wish I could see my father."

"It is indeed hard," said the Princess. "We feel that he must be unhurt however, and I know that he will be so relieved, and glad to know that you are in a place of safety. So that is settled." She smiled.

"Now there is one more thing to be done. I have here a permit from the General in charge of the city. It gives us safe conduct on the roads to Warsaw and return, to get the baby. I have arranged for one of the nurses to go with the new chauffeur and Warren. I will take part of her duties, and Evelyn may assist me. She will get the baby and bring it here to us. They can go tonight, and return tomorrow. All will then be ready for your departure, if in the meantime Professor Morris can arrange to get your passports and your sailing privileges."

"It sounds easy," said Warren to Evelyn. "When do you suppose we will start?"

"As soon as the car is ready," said the Princess. "Get wraps for yourself, Warren. The nurse is ready, and she has everything needful for the baby."

"Oh, Warren, be careful, begged Evelyn. I declare I have half a mind to go with you!"

Warren laughed. "I have a whole mind that you will not!" he said, patting her shoulder. "You stay right here and don't go out of the place, and keep father and Ivan and Elinor where you can see them all the time. And if we are not back by noon tomorrow, don't begin to worry. Just lay our delay to a puncture or something of that sort. We won't be molested. The paper from the General is as good as a regiment of men. You had better believe that no one would dare hurt us, or even detain us while I have that to show them."

"Well, be careful just the same," begged Evelyn.

"I surely will," promised Warren.

Everything went as smoothly as Warren had anticipated. The trip to Warsaw was without a hitch. Again and again they were stopped by soldiers, and each time the paper from the Commanding General acted like magic. Indeed, they were more than once assisted on their way, or directed to short cuts. In Warsaw it was the same. Warren, however, avoided that part of the city where he thought he might come in contact with Captain Handel, and driving by another route, approached the house of the neighbor who had so kindly taken care of the homeless little waif. The child was safe and well, having suffered less than they had feared from its terrible experience. With a thousand thanks and promises to write, Warren left the good, motherly woman and started on the return trip.

They slept at an obscure little village that night in peace. The town had been overlooked in the tempest of war, and was untouched.

At the inn they found good food and plenty of it. In the morning, when they started, they found every available part of the car crammed with offerings for the wounded soldiers. The chauffeur had spent a busy evening talking to the horrified villagers and it is to be believed that the terrors he had witnessed in Lodz and elsewhere did not lose in the telling. So there were all sorts of offerings for the wounded; bread and dried fish and cheese; and money, sometimes gold, sometimes a single kopek wrapped in scraps of paper, written over with heartfelt prayers of pity. There was scarcely room for the passengers to crowd in the car.

Warren took the wheel, and the chauffeur, still the hero of the occasion, stood on the running board and waved his cap and called his farewells as long as they were in sight.

The baby slept most of the time. It was a good baby, and Warren began to regard it with less distrust. They reached Lodz without accident and as they drew up at the palace, now only a hospital, Warren's watch stood at twelve. It had been a wonderful trip.

Everything was going well. The Prince was stronger, and his wife, the beautiful Princess, was smiling happily.

All that day and the next the Professor and the three boys went from office to office and back again to the army headquarters, getting the necessary papers.

It was a difficult matter to get everything adjusted, but finally it was done, and there was no longer any reason for them to remain.

They said good-bye to the Princess and her children, and at last started on the journey home.

It was a time to be remembered as long as they lived. All of Europe was plunged in gloom. Even the neutral countries they touched or crossed in their roundabout way were oppressed by such sorrow that it was almost as bad as war.

Reaching a seaport at last, they secured passage on a slow American boat, and it was not until they watched the shore receding from their view that they actually believed that they were on the way home.

"Just the things we have seen coming over from Lodz would fill a book," said Warren to the group at the rail.

"I wouldn't want to read it," said Jack, shuddering.

"Nor I!" said Evelyn. "Oh, boys, you don't know how funny you look in the clothes you have on!"

"What's the matter with my clothes?" said Warren, looking down at the very short trousers and very long coat he was wearing. "I don't see but what I am all right, but doesn't Jack look cuty-cute? Kind of Lord Fauntleroy effect!"

Everyone stared at Jack, who looked himself over in surprise. "It is all they had at that store we went to that would fit me. I try to turn those pants up, but they keep coming down." Everyone laughed as Jack stooped and once more tried to turn up the loose trousers which enveloped his slim legs. Left to themselves, they reached half way to his ankles, so Jack, who was used to knickerbockers, had carefully rolled them to his knee. The result was that most of the time one leg or the other hung dismally down its full length. His jacket was a short roundabout, something like an Eton jacket, and his shirt was soft and frilled.

"I don't see why we didn't just wear the things we had on," he complained.

"I guess not!" said Warren. "Those work clothes? Why, Jack, see how dressy we are now! We look like somebody; a bunch of 'em! We have got sample clothes from half the countries in Europe. See how neutral that makes us! Take yourself, Jack. Your feet are Polish, and your pants are German, and the top of you looks Dutch. Is it?"

"My cap came from home," said Jack furiously, "and so did my face! The minute we get out here a way, I am going to yell Hurrah for America as loud as ever I can."

"Wow!" said Warren. "Excuse me, Jack, old fellow, I didn't mean to be disrespectful. We are all in the same fix as far as clothes go. Even Evelyn looks a little queer. 'All the world is a little queer,' he quoted, 'and thee is a little queer.'"

Safe on board ship, our party found that they were utterly tired out. They slept hour after hour; they were furiously hungry. The days went swiftly, without accident. Professor Morris, true to his new resolutions, spent a great part of each day with his children, and they found him a most delightful and amusing companion. He developed an alarming fondness for the baby, which he persisted in calling "him." He was fond of holding the quiet little creature, but after one of his lapses into the forgetfulness of the past, he happened to think of something he wanted to do so he laid his newspaper in Evelyn's lap, and before she could stop him placed the baby firmly in a waste paper box head down.

After that Evelyn watched him. They had brought a young refugee with them as nurse for the baby, so Evelyn was not burdened with too much care.

The boys played games and made plans and wrote letters. Ivan commenced a diary. He said he would never be able to remember every single thing that was happening, and going to happen, and he didn't want to forget it. Warren planned to have an evening with the home Scouts and tell them all that had occurred.

"And you will be Exhibit A," he declared, clapping Ivan on the shoulder.

The voyage drew to an end, as all fortunate voyages will. The last night came clear and fine. There was a stir of joyful anticipation on the great ship. Everybody packed up what trifles they had been able to bring away with them. Everybody talked and exchanged addresses and said good-bye. The day of landing is always too, full and confused for anything of that sort. Once more the Professor's manuscript seemed to him to be a thing of value. He picked it up and put it down a thousand times. It was a relief to everyone when the hour grew so late that even the most restless turned in, and went to sleep or at least tried to.

At gray dawn Ivan was aroused by Warren shaking him.

"Get up, Ivan, get up!" he cried. "I can see it!" The boy was shaking violently, and his teeth chattered.

"What ails you?" said Ivan, speaking in Polish. "See what?"

Warren answered in English. "America. Home, the little old United States!" A dry sob choked him. "Oh!" he said, "I didn't know I felt like this! Hurry up, old Scout! Dress and let's get out!"

Voices sounded through the ship; people stirred and hurried with their dressing. It was as though a shock of electricity had stirred them. Certainly there had been no spoken call.

As the boys hurried to the deck, the risen sun, a ball of gold, blazed like a celestial blessing, a flood of glory on the marvelous shore line ahead. Warren rushed forward.

But Ivan, without a look, turned and made his solitary way to the stern of the ship, and there, all alone, looked away over the empty sea.

For long he gazed. His eyes were filled with tears.

"Good-bye, my father," he said. "Good-bye, my country. I will come back to you." He flung his hand out in a passionate gesture of farewell. Then with a last look, Prince Ivan, homeless, countryless, and fatherless, slowly turned, and, the boy Ivan went soberly to join Warren, who, crazy with joy, hung yelling over the rail at the prow.

Before them, like the vision of an enchanted land, rose the wonderful shore line of the harbor; and before them, nearer and nearer, clearer and clearer, the Statue of Liberty, wise, strong, majestic, with the only true majesty of earth on her beautiful brow, the majesty of Freedom and of Truth.

They had reached America.

<eob>

Red Cap Tales: Stolen From The Treasure Chest Of The Wizard Of The North Which Theft Is Humbly Acknowledged

By

S. R. Crockett



Certain Small Pharaohs That Knew Not Joseph


IT was all Sweetheart's fault, and this is how it came about.

She and I were at Dryburgh Abbey, sitting quietly on a rustic seat, and looking toward the aisle in which slept the Great Dead. The long expected had happened, and we had made pilgrimage to our Mecca. Yet, in spite of the still beauty of the June day, I could see that a shadow lay upon our Sweetheart's brow.

"Oh, I know he was great," she burst out at last, "and what you read me out of the Life was nice. I like hearing about Sir Walter -- but -- "

I knew what was coming.

"But what?" I said, looking severely at the ground, so that I might be able to harden my heart against the pathos of Sweetheart's expression.

"But -- I can't read the novels -- indeed I can't. I have tried Waverley at least twenty times. And as for Rob Roy -- "

Even the multiplication table failed here, and at this, variously a-sprawl on the turf beneath, the smaller fry giggled.

"Course," said Hugh John, who was engaged in eating grass like an ox, "we know it is true about Rob Roy. She read us one whole volume, and there wasn't no Rob Roy, nor any fighting in it. So we pelted her with fir-cones to make her stop and read over Treasure Island to us instead!"

"Yes, though we had heard it twenty times already," commented Sir Toady Lion, trying his hardest to pinch his brother's legs on the sly.

"Books wifout pictures is silly!" said a certain Maid Margaret, a companion new to the honourable company, who was weaving daisy-chains, her legs crossed beneath her, Turk fashion. In literature she had got as far as words of one syllable, and had a poor opinion even of them.

"I had read all Scott's novels long before I was your age," I said reprovingly.

The children received this announcement with the cautious silence with which every rising generation listens to the experiences of its elders when retailed by way of odious comparison.

"Um-m!" said Sir Toady, the licensed in speech; "we know all that. Oh, yes; and you didn't like fruit, and you liked medicine in a big spoon, and eating porridge and -- "

"Oh, we know -- we know!" cried all the others in chorus. Whereupon I informed them what would have happened to us thirty years ago if we had ventured to address our parents in such fashion. But Sweetheart, with the gravity of her age upon her, endeavoured to raise the discussion to its proper level.

"Scott writes such a lot before you get at the story," she objected, knitting her brows; "why couldn't he just have begun right away?"

"With Squire Trelawney and Dr. Livesey drawing at their pipes in the oak-pannelled dining room, and Black Dog outside the door, and Pew coming tapping along the road with his stick!" cried Hugh John, turning off a sketchy synopsis of his favourite situations in fiction.

"Now that's what I call a proper book!" said Sir Toady, hastily rolling himself out of the way of being kicked. (For with these unusual children, the smooth ordinary upper surfaces of life covered a constant succession of private wars and rumours of wars, which went on under the table at meals, in the schoolroom, and even, it is whispered, in church.)

As for blithe Maid Margaret, she said nothing, for she was engaged in testing the capacities of a green slope of turf for turning somersaults upon.

"In Sir Walter Scott's time," I resumed gravely, "novels were not written for little girls -- "

"Then why did you give us Miss Edgeworth to read?" said Sweetheart, quickly. But I went on without noticing the interruption, "Now, if you like, I will tell you some of Sir Walter's stories over again, and then I will mark in your own little edition the chapters you can read for yourselves."

The last clause quieted the joyous shout which the promise of a story -- any sort of a story -- had called forth. An uncertain look crept over their faces, as if they scented afar off that abomination of desolation -- "lessons in holiday time."

"Must we read the chapters?" said Hugh John, unhopefully.

"Tell us the stories, anyway, and leave it to our honour!" suggested Sir Toady Lion, with a twinkle in his eye.

"Is it a story -- oh, don't begin wifout me!" Maid Margaret called from behind the trees, her sturdy five-year-old legs carrying her to the scene of action so fast that her hat fell off on the grass and she had to turn back for it.

"Well, I will tell you, if I can, the story of 'Waverley,'" I said.

"Was he called after the pens?" said Toady Lion the irreverent, but under his breath. He was, however, promptly kicked into silence by his peers -- seriously this time, for he who interferes with the telling of a story is a "Whelk," -- which, for the moment, is the family word for whatever is base, mean, unprofitable, and unworthy of being associated with.

But first I told them about the writing of Waverley, and the hand at the Edinburgh back window which wrote and wrote. Only that, but the story as told by Lockhart had affected my imagination as a boy.

"Did you ever hear of the Unwearied Hand?" I asked them.

"It sounds a nice title," said Sir Toady; "had he only one?"

"It was in the early summer weather of 1814," I began, "after a dinner in a house in George Street, that a young man, sitting at the wine with his companions, looked out of the window, and, turning pale, asked his next neighbour to change seats with him.

"'There it is -- at it again!' he said, with a thump of his fist on thetable that made the decanters jump, and clattered the glasses; 'it has haunted me every night these three weeks. Just when I am lifting my glass I look through the window, and there it is at it -- writing -- writing -- always writing!'

"So the young men, pressing about, looked eagerly, and lo! seen through the back window of a house in a street built at right angles, they saw the shape of a man's hand writing swiftly, steadily, on large quarto pages. As soon as one was finished, it was added to a pile which grew and grew, rising, as it were, visibly before their eyes.

"'It goes on like that all the time, even after the candles are lit,' said the young man, 'and it makes me ashamed. I get no peace for it when I am not at my books. Why cannot the man do his work without making others uncomfortable?'

"Perhaps some of the company may have thought it was not a man at all, but some prisoned fairy tied to an endless task -- Wizard Michael's familiar spirit, or Lord Soulis's imp Red Cap doing his master's bidding with a goose-quill.

"But it was something much more wonderful than any of these. It was the hand of Walter Scott finishing Waverley, at the rate of a volume every ten days!"

"Why did he work so hard?" demanded Hugh John, whom the appearance of fifty hands diligently writing would not have annoyed -- no, not if they had all worked like sewing-machines.

"Because," I answered, "the man who wrote Waverley was beginning to have more need of money. He had bought land. He was involved in other people's misfortunes. Besides, for a long time, he had been a great poet, and now of late there had arisen a greater."

"I know," cried Sweetheart, "Lord Byron -- but I don't think he was."

"Anyway Fitzjames and Roderick Dhu is ripping!" announced Hugh John, and, rising to his feet, he whistled shrill in imitation of the outlaw. It was the time to take the affairs of children at the fulness of the tide.

"I think," I ventured, "that you would like the story of Waverley if I were to tell it now. I know you will like Rob Roy. Which shall it be first?"

Then there were counter-cries of "Waverley" and "Rob Roy" -- all the fury of a contested election. But Sweetheart, waiting till the brawlers were somewhat breathed, indicated the final sense of the meeting by saying quietly, "Tell us the one the hand was writing!"



Red Cap Tales

Told From

Waverley



The First Tale From "Waverley"


I. Good-Bye To Waverley-Honour

ON a certain Sunday evening, toward the middle of the eighteenth century, a young man stood practising the guards of the broadsword in the library of an old English manor-house. The young man was Captain Edward Waverley, recently assigned to the command of a company in Gardiner's regiment of dragoons, and his uncle was coming in to say a few words to him before he set out to join the colours.

Being a soldier and a hero, Edward Waverley was naturally tall and handsome, but, owing to the manner of his education, his uncle, an high Jacobite of the old school, held that he was "somewhat too bookish" for a proper man. He must therefore see a little of the world, asserted old Sir Everard.

His Aunt Rachel had another reason for wishing him to leave Waverley-Honour. She had actually observed her Edward look too often across at the Squire's pew in church! Now Aunt Rachel held it no wrong to look at Squire Stubbs's pew if only that pew had been empty. But it was (oh, wickedness!) just when it contained the dear old-fashioned sprigged gown and the fresh pretty face of Miss Cecilia Stubbs, that Aunt Rachel's nephew looked most often in that direction. In addition to which the old lady was sure she had observed "that little Celie Stubbs" glance over at her handsome Edward in a way that -- well, when she was young! And here the old lady bridled and tossed her head, and the words which her lips formed themselves to utter (though she was too ladylike to speak them) were obviously "The Minx!" Hence it was clear to the most simple and unprejudiced that a greater distance had better be put between the Waverley loft and the Squire's pew -- and that as soon as possible.

Edward's uncle, Sir Everard, had wished him to travel abroad in company with his tutor, a staunch Jacobite clergyman by the name of Mr. Pembroke. But to this Edward's father, who was a member of the government, unexpectedly refused his sanction. Now Sir Everard despised his younger brother as a turncoat (and indeed something little better than a spy), but he could not gainsay a father's authority, even though he himself had brought the boy up to be his heir.

"I am willing that you should be a soldier," he said to Edward; "your ancestors have always been of that profession. Be brave like them, but not rash. Remember you are the last of the Waverleys and the hope of the house. Keep no company with gamblers, with rakes, or with Whigs. Do your duty to God, to the Church of England, and -- " He was going to say "to the King," when he remembered that by his father's wish Edward was going to fight the battles of King George. So the old Jacobite finished off rather lamely by repeating, "to the Church of England and all constituted authorities!"

Then the old man, not trusting himself to say more, broke off abruptly and went down to the stables to choose the horses which were to carry Edward to the north. Finally, he delivered into the hands of his nephew an important letter addressed as follows: -- 

"To Cosmo Comyne Bradwardine, Esquire of Bradwardine, at his principal mansion of Tully-Veolan in Perthshire, North Britain, -- These. -- "

For that was the dignified way in which men of rank directed their letters in those days.

The leave-taking of Mr. Pembroke, Edward's tutor, was even longer and more solemn. And had Edward attended in the least to his moralisings, he might have felt somewhat depressed. In conclusion, the good clergyman presented him with several pounds of foolscap, closely written over in a neat hand.

"These," he said, handling the sheets reverently, "are purposely written small that they may be convenient to keep by you in your saddle-bags. They are my works -- my unpublished works. They will teach you the real fundamental principles of the Church, principles concerning which, while you have been my pupil, I have been under obligation never to speak to you. But now as you read them, I doubt not but that the light will come upon you! At all events, I have cleared my conscience."

Edward, in the quiet of his chamber, glanced at the heading of the first: A Dissent from Dissenters or the Comprehension Confuted. He felt the weight and thickness of the manuscript, and promptly confuted their author by consigning the package to that particular corner of his travelling trunk where he was least likely to come across it again.

On the other hand, his Aunt Rachel warned him with many head-shakings against the forwardness of the ladies whom he would meet with in Scotland (where she had never been). Then, more practically, she put into his hand a purse of broad gold pieces, and set on his finger a noble diamond ring.

As for Miss Celie Stubbs, she came to the Waverley church on the last day before his departure, arrayed in all her best and newest clothes, mighty fine with hoops, patches, and silks everywhere. But Master Edward, who had his uniform on for the first time, his gold-laced hat beside him on the cushion, his broadsword by his side, and his spurs on his heels, hardly once looked at the Squire's pew. At which neglect little Celie pouted somewhat at the time, but since within six months she was married to Jones, the steward's son at Waverley-Honour, with whom she lived happy ever after, we may take it that her heart could not have been very deeply touched by Edward's inconstancy.



II. The Enchanted Castle

Edward Waverley found his regiment quartered at Dundee in Scotland, but, the time being winter and the people of the neighbourhood not very fond of the "red soldiers," he did not enjoy the soldiering life so much as he had expected. So, as soon as the summer was fairly come, he asked permission to visit the Castle of Bradwardine, in order to pay his respects to his uncle's friend.

It was noon of the second day after setting out when Edward Waverley arrived at the village of Tully-Veolan to which he was bound. Never before had he seen such a place. For, at his uncle's house of Waverley-Honour, the houses of villagers, all white and neat, stood about a village green, or lurked ancient and ivy-grown under the shade of great old park trees. But the turf-roofed hovels of Tully-Veolan, with their low doors supported on either side by all too intimate piles of peat and rubbish, appeared to the young Englishman hardly fit for human beings to live in. Indeed, from the hordes of wretched curs which barked after the heels of his horse, Edward might have supposed them meant to serve as kennels -- save, that is, for the ragged urchins who sprawled in the mud of the road and the old women who, distaff in hand, dashed out to rescue them from being trampled upon by Edward's charger.

Passing gardens as full of nettles as of pot-herbs, and entering between a couple of gate-posts, each crowned by the image of a rampant bear, the young soldier at last saw before him, at the end of an avenue, the steep roofs and crow-stepped gable ends of Bradwardine, half dwelling-house, half castle. Here Waverley dismounted, and, giving his horse to the soldier-servant who had accompanied him, he entered a court in which no sound was to be heard save the plashing of a fountain. He saw the door of a tall old mansion before him. Going up he raised the knocker, and instantly the echoes resounded through the empty house. But no one came to answer. The castle appeared uninhabited, the court a desert. Edward glanced about him, half expecting to be hailed by some ogre or giant, as adventurers used to be in the fairy tales he had read in childhood. But instead he only saw all sorts of bears, big and little, climbing (as it seemed) on the roof, over the windows, and out upon the ends of the gables -- while over the door at which he had been vainly knocking he read in antique lettering the motto, "BEWAR THE BAR." But all these bruins were of stone, and each one of them kept as still and silent as did everything else about this strange mansion -- except, that is, the fountain, which, behind him in the court, kept up its noisy splashing.

Feeling, somehow, vaguely uncomfortable, Edward Waverley crossed the court into a garden, green and pleasant, but to the full as solitary as the castle court. Here again he found more bears, all sitting up in rows on their haunches, on parapets and along terraces, as if engaged in looking at the view. He wandered up and down, searching for some one to whom to speak, and had almost made up his mind that he had found a real enchanted Castle of Silence, when in the distance he saw a figure approaching up one of the green walks. There was something uncouth and strange about the way the newcomer kept waving his hands over his head -- then, for no apparent reason, flapping them across his breast like a groom on a frosty day, hopping all the time first on one foot and then on the other. Tiring of this way of getting over the ground, he would advance by standing leaps, keeping both feet together. The only thing he seemed quite incapable of doing was to use his feet, one after the other, as ordinary people do when they are walking. Indeed, this strange guardian of the enchanted castle of Bradwardine looked like a gnome or fairy dwarf. For he was clad in an old-fashioned dress of grey, slashed with scarlet. On his legs were scarlet stockings and on his head a scarlet cap, which in its turn was surmounted by a turkey's feather.

He came along dancing and singing in jerks and snatches, till, suddenly looking up from the ground, he saw Edward. In an instant his red cap was off, and he was bowing and saluting, and again saluting and bowing, with, if possible, still more extravagant gestures than before. Edward asked this curious creature if the Baron Bradwardine were at home, and what was his astonishment to be instantly answered in rhyme:

"The Knight's to the mountain His bugle to wind; The Lady's to greenwood Her garland to bind. The bower of Burd Ellen Has moss on the floor, That the step of Lord William, Be silent and sure."

This was impressive enough, surely; but, after all, it did not tell young Captain what he wanted to know. So he continued to question the strange wight, and finally, after eliciting many unintelligible sounds, was able to make out the single word "butler."

"HE came along dancing and singing in jerks and snatches, till, suddenly looking up from the ground, he saw Edward. In an instant his red cap was off, and he was bowing and saluting, and again saluting and bowing, with, if possible, still more extravagant gestures than before."

Pouncing upon this, Edward commanded the Unknown to lead him instantly to the butler.

Nothing loath, the fool danced and capered on in front, and, at a turning of the path, they found an old man, who seemed by his dress to be half butler, half gardener, digging diligently among the flower beds. Upon seeing Captain Waverley, he let drop his spade, undid his green apron, frowning all the time at Edward's guide for bringing his master's guest upon him without warning, to find him digging up the earth like a common labourer. But the Bradwardine butler had an explanation ready.

His Honour was with the folk, getting down the Black Hag (so he confided to Edward). The two gardener lads had been ordered to attend his Honour. So in order to amuse himself, he, the majordomo of Bradwardine, had been amusing himself with dressing Miss Rose's flower beds. It was but seldom that he found time for such like, though personally he was very fond of garden work.

"He cannot get it wrought in more than two days a week, at no rate whatever!" put in the scarecrow in the red cap and the turkey feather.

"Go instantly and find his Honour at the Black Hag," cried the majordomo of Bradwardine, wrathful at this interference, "and tell him that there is a gentleman come from England waiting him at the Hall."

"Can this poor fellow deliver a letter?" Edward asked doubtfully.

"With all fidelity, sir," said the butler, "that is, to any one whom he respects. After all, he is more knave than fool. We call the innocent Davie Dolittle, though his proper name is Davie Gellatley. But the truth is, that since my young mistress, Miss Rose Bradwardine, took a fancy to dress him up in fine clothes, the creature cannot be got to do a single hand's turn of work. But here comes Miss Rose herself. Glad will she be to welcome one of the name of Waverley to her father's house!"


III. The Baron And The Bear

Rose Bradwardine was still quite young. Scarce did the tale of her years number seventeen, but already she was noted over all the countryside as a pretty girl, with a skin like snow, and hair that glistened like pale gold when the light fell upon it. Living so far from society, she was naturally not a little shy. But as soon as her first feeling of bashfulness was over, Rose spoke freely and brightly. Edward and she, however, had but little time to be alone together. For it was not long before the Baron of Bradwardine appeared, striding toward them as if he had possessed himself of the giant's seven-league boots. Bradwardine was a tall, thin, soldierly man, who in his time had seen much of the world, and who under a hard and even stern exterior, hid a heart naturally warm.

He was much given to the singing of French songs and to making long and learned Latin quotations. And indeed he quoted Latin, even with the tears standing in his eyes, as he first shook Edward by the hand and then embraced him in the foreign fashion on both cheeks -- all to express the immense pleasure it was to receive in his house of Tully-Veolan "a worthy scion of the old stock of Waverley-Honour."

While Miss Rose ran off to make some changes in her dress, the Baron conducted Edward into a hall hung about with pikes and armour. Four or five servants, in old-fashioned livery, received them with honour, the majordomo at their head. The butler-gardener was not to be caught napping a second time.

Bradwardine took Captain Waverley at once into an old dining room all panelled with black oak, round the walls of which hung pictures of former chiefs of the line of Tully-Veolan. Somewhere out-of-doors a bell was ringing to announce the arrival of other guests, and Edward observed with some interest that the table was laid for six people. In such a desolate country it seemed difficult to imagine where they would arrive from.

Upon this point Edward soon received enlightenment. First, there was the Laird of Balmawhapple, -- "a discreet young gentleman," said the Baron, "much given to field sports." Next came the Laird of Killancureit, who cultivated his own fields and cared for his own cattle -- thereby (quoth the Baron) showing the commonness of his origin. Added to these were a "non-juring" Episcopal minister -- that is, one who had refused to take the oaths of allegiance to King George's government, and, last of all, the "Baron-Bailie" or land-steward of Bradwardine, one Mr. Macwheeble.

This last, to show his consciousness of his inferior position, seated himself as far as possible from the table, and as often as he wanted to eat, he bent himself nearly double over his plate, in the shape of a clasp-knife about to shut. When dinner was over, Rose and the clergyman discreetly retired, when, with a sign to the butler, the Baron of Bradwardine produced out of a locked case a golden cup called the Blessed Bear of Bradwardine, in which first the host and then all the company pledged the health of the young English stranger. After a while, the Baron and Edward set out to see their guests a certain distance on their way, going with them down the avenue to the village "change-house" or inn, where Balmawhapple and Killancureit had stabled their horses.

Edward, being weary, would much rather have found himself in bed, but this desertion of good company the Baron would noways allow. So under the low cobwebbed roof of Lucky Macleary's kitchen the four gentlemen sat down to "taste the sweets of the night." But it was not long before the wine began to do its work in their heads. Each one of them, Edward excepted, talked or sang without paying any attention to his fellows. From wine they fell to politics, when Balmawhapple proposed a toast which was meant to put an affront upon the uniform Edward wore, and the King in whose army he served.

"To the little gentleman in black velvet," cried the young Laird, "he who did such service in 1702, and may the white horse break his neck over a mound of his making!"

The "little gentleman in black velvet" was the mole over whose hillock King William's horse is said to have stumbled, while the "white horse" represented the house of Hanover.

Though of a Jacobite family, Edward could not help taking offence at the obvious insult, but the Baron was before him. The quarrel was not his, he assured him. The guest's quarrel was the host's -- so long as he remained under his roof.

"Here," quoth the Baron, "I am in loco parentis to you, Captain Waverley. I am bound to see you scatheless. And as for you, Mr. Falconer of Balmawhapple, I warn you to let me see no more aberrations from the paths of good manners."

"And I tell you, Mr. Cosmo Comyne Bradwardine of Bradwardine and Tully-Veolan," retorted the other, in huge disdain, "that I will make a muir cock of the man that refuses my toast, whether he be a crop-eared English Whig wi' a black ribband at his lug, or ane wha deserts his friends to claw favour wi' the rats of Hanover!"

In an instant rapiers were out, and the Baron and Balmawhapple hard at it. The younger man was stout and active, but he was no match for the Baron at the sword-play. And the encounter would not have lasted long, had not the landlady, Lucky Macleary, hearing the well-known clash of swords, come running in on them, crying that surely the gentlemen would not bring dishonour on an honest widow-woman's house, when there was all the lee land in the country to do their fighting upon.

So saying, she stopped the combat very effectually by flinging her plaid over the weapons of the adversaries.

*    *    *    *    *

Next morning Edward awoke late, and in no happy frame of mind. It was an age of duels, and with his first waking thoughts there came the memory of the insult which had been passed upon him by the Laird of Balmawhapple. His position as an officer and a Waverley left him no alternative but to send that sportsman a challenge. Upon descending, he found Rose Bradwardine presiding at the breakfast table. She was alone, but Edward felt in no mood for conversation, and sat gloomy, silent, and ill-content with himself and with circumstances. Suddenly he saw the Baron and Balmawhapple pass the window arm in arm, and the next moment the butler summoned him to speak with his master in another apartment.

There he found Balmawhapple, no little sulky and altogether silent, with the Baron by his side. The latter in his capacity of mediator made Edward a full and complete apology for the events of the past evening -- an apology which the young man gladly accepted along with the hand of the offender -- somewhat stiffly given, it is true, owing to the necessity of carrying his right arm in a sling -- the result (as Balmawhapple afterwards assured Miss Rose) of a fall from his horse.

It was not till the morning of the second day that Edward learned the whole history of this reconciliation, which had at first been so welcome to him. It was Daft Davie Gellatley, who, by the roguish singing of a ballad, first roused his suspicions that something underlay Balmawhapple's professions of regret for his conduct.

"The young man will brawl at the evening board Heard ye so merry the little birds sing? But the old man will draw at the dawning the sword, And the throstle-cock's head is under his wing."

Edward could see by the sly looks of the Fool that he meant something personal by this, so he plied the butler with questions, and discovered that the Baron had actually fought Balmawhapple on the morning after the insult, and wounded him in the sword-arm!

Here, then, was the secret of the young Laird's unexpected submission and apology. As Davie Gellatley put it, Balmawhapple had been "sent hame wi' his boots full o' bluid!"


The First Interlude Of Action

The tale-telling had at this point to be broken off. Clouds began to spin themselves from Eildon top. Dinner also was in prospect, and, most of all, having heard so much of the tale, the four listeners desired to begin to "play Waverley."

Sweetheart made a stately, if skirted, Bradwardine. Besides, she was in Cesar, and had store of Latin quotations -- mostly, it is true, from the examples in the grammar, such as "Illa incedit regina!" Certainly she walked like a queen. Or, as it might be expressed, more fittingly with the character of the Baron in the original:

"Stately stepped she east the wa', And stately stepped she west."

Hugh John considered the hero's part in any story only his due. His only fault with that of Waverley was that so far he had done so little. He specially resented the terrible combat "in the dawning" between the Baron and the overbold Balmawhapple (played by Maid Margaret). Sir Toady Lion as low comedian ("camelion" he called it) performed numerous antics as Daft Davie Gellatley. He had dressed the part to perfection by putting his striped jersey on outside his coat, and sticking in his cricket cap such feathers as he could find.

"Lie down, Hugh John," he cried, in the middle of his dancing and singing round and round the combatants; "why, you are asleep in bed!"

This, according to the authorities, being obvious, the baffled hero had to succumb, with the muttered reflection that "Jim Hawkins wouldn't have had to stay asleep, when there was a fight like that going on!"

Still, however, Hugh John could not restrain the natural rights of criticism. He continually raised his head from his pillow of dried branches to watch Sweetheart and Maid Margaret.

"You fight just like girls," he cried indignantly; "keep your left hand behind you, Bradwardine -- or Balmawhapple will hack it off! I say -- girls are silly things. You two are afraid of hurting each other. Now me and Toady Lion -- "

And he gave details of a late fraternal combat much in the manner of Froissart.

It is to be noted that thus far both Sweetheart and Maid Margaret disdained the female parts, the latter even going the length of saying that she preferred Celie Stubbs, the Squire's daughter at Waverley-Honour, to Rose Bradwardine. On being asked for an explanation of this heresy, she said, "Well, at any rate, Celie Stubbs got a new hat to come to church in!"

*    *    *    *    *

And though I read the "Repentance and a Reconciliation" chapter, which makes number Twelve of Waverley, to the combatants, I was conscious that I must hasten on to scenes more exciting if I meant to retain the attention of my small but exacting audience. Furthermore, it was beginning to rain. So, hurriedly breaking off the tale, we drove back to Melrose across the green holms of St. Boswells.

It was after the hour of tea, and the crowd of visitors had ebbed away from the precincts of the Abbey before the tale was resumed. A flat "throuch" stone sustained the narrator, while the four disposed themselves on the sunny grass, in the various attitudes of severe inattention which youth assumes when listening to a story. Sweetheart pored into the depths of a buttercup. Hugh John scratched the freestone of a half-buried tomb with a nail till told to stop. Sir Toady Lion, having a "pinch-bug" coralled in his palms, sat regarding it cautiously between his thumbs. Only Maid Margaret, her dimpled chin on her knuckles, sat looking upward in rapt attention. For her there was no joy like that of a story. Only, she was too young to mind letting the tale-teller know it. That made the difference.

Above our heads the beautiful ruin mounted, now all red gold in the lights, and purple in the shadows, while round and round, and through and through, from highest tower to lowest arch, the swifts shrieked and swooped.


The Second Tale From "Waverley"


I. The Cattle-Lifting

NEXT morning (I continued, looking up for inspiration to the pinnacles of Melrose, cut against the clear sky of evening, as sharply as when "John Morow, master mason," looked upon his finished work and found it very good) -- next morning, as Captain Edward Waverley was setting out for his morning walk, he found the castle of Bradwardine by no means the enchanted palace of silence he had first discovered. Milkmaids, bare-legged and wild-haired, ran about distractedly with pails and three-legged stools in their hands, crying, "Lord, guide us!" and "Eh, sirs!"

Bailie Macwheeble, mounted on his dumpy, round-barrelled pony, rode hither and thither with half the ragged rascals of the neighbourhood clattering after him. The Baron paced the terrace, every moment glancing angrily up at the Highland hills from under his bushy grey eyebrows.

From the byre-lasses and the Bailie, Edward could obtain no satisfactory explanation of the disturbance. He judged it wiser not to seek it from the angry Baron.

Within-doors, however, he found Rose, who, though troubled and anxious, replied to his questions readily enough.

"There has been a 'creach,' that is, a raid of cattle-stealers from out of the Highland hills," she told him, hardly able to keep back her tears -- not, she explained, because of the lost cattle, but because she feared that the anger of her father might end in the slaying of some of the Caterans, and in a blood-feud which would last as long as they or any of their family lived.

"And all because my father is too proud to pay blackmail to Vich Ian Vohr!" she added.

"Is the gentleman with that curious name," said Edward, "a local robber or a thief-taker?"

"Oh, no," Rose laughed outright at his southern ignorance, "he is a great Highland chief and a very handsome man. Ah, if only my father would be friends with Fergus Mac-Ivor, then Tully-Veolan would once again be a safe and happy home. He and my father quarrelled at a county meeting about who should take the first place. In his heat he told my father that he was under his banner and paid him tribute. But it was Bailie Macwheeble who had paid the money without my father's knowledge. And since then he and Vich Ian Vohr have not been friends."

"But what is blackmail?" Edward asked in astonishment. For he thought that such things had been done away with long ago. All this was just like reading an old black-letter book in his uncle's library.

"It is money," Rose explained, "which, if you live near the Highland border, you must pay to the nearest powerful chief -- such as Vich Ian Vohr. And then, if your cattle are driven away, all you have to do is just to send him word and he will have them sent back, or others as good in their places. Oh, you do not know how dreadful to be at feud with a man like Fergus Mac-Ivor. I was only a girl of ten when my father and his servants had a skirmish with a party of them, near our home-farm -- so near, indeed, that some of the windows of the house were broken by the bullets, and three of the Highland raiders were killed. I remember seeing them brought in and laid on the floor in the hall, each wrapped in his plaid. And next morning their wives and daughters came, clapping their hands and crying the coronach and shrieking -- and they carried away the dead bodies, with the pipes playing before them. Oh, I could not sleep for weeks afterward, without starting up, thinking that I heard again these terrible cries."

All this seemed like a dream to Waverley -- to hear this young gentle girl of seventeen talk familiarly of dark and bloody deeds, such as even he, a grown man and a soldier, had only imagined -- yet which she had seen with her own eyes!

By dinner-time the Baron's mood had grown somewhat less stormy. He seemed for the moment to forget his wounded honour, and was even offering, as soon as the quarrel was made up, to provide Edward with introductions to many powerful northern chiefs, when the door opened, and a Highlander in full costume was shown in by the butler.

"Welcome, Evan Dhu Maccombich!" said the Baron, without rising, and speaking in the manner of a prince receiving an embassy; "what news from Fergus Mac-Ivor Vich Ian Vohr?"

The ambassador delivered a courteous greeting from the Highland chief. "Fergus Mac-Ivor (he said) was sorry for the cloud that hung between him and his ancient friend. He hoped that the Baron would be sorry too -- and that he should say so. More than this he did not ask."

This the Baron readily did, drinking to the health of the chief of the Mac-Ivors, while Evan Maccombich in turn drank prosperity to the house of Bradwardine.


II. The Robber's Cave

Then these high matters being finished, the Highlander retired with Bailie Macwheeble, doubtless to arrange with him concerning the arrears of blackmail. But of that the Baron was supposed to know nothing. This done, the Highlander began to ask all about the party which had driven off the cattle, their appearance, whence they had come, and in what place they had last been seen. Edward was much interested by the man's shrewd questions and the quickness with which he arrived at his conclusions. While on his part Evan Dhu was so flattered by the evident interest of the young Englishman, that he invited him to "take a walk with him into the mountains in search of the cattle," promising him that if the matter turned out as he expected, he would take Edward to such a place as he had never seen before and might never have a chance of seeing again.

Waverley accepted with eager joy, and though Rose Bradwardine turned pale at the idea, the Baron, who loved boldness in the young, encouraged the adventure. He gave Edward a young gamekeeper to carry his pack and to be his attendant, so that he might make the journey with fitting dignity.

Through a great pass, full of rugged rocks and seamed with roaring torrents -- indeed, the very pass of Bally-Brough in which the reivers had last been spied -- across weary and dangerous morasses, where Edward had perforce to spring from tuft to tussock of coarse grass, Evan Dhu led our hero into the depths of the wild Highland country, -- where no Saxon foot trod or dared to tread without the leave of Vich Ian Vohr, as the chief's foster-brother took occasion to inform Edward more than once.

By this time night was coming on, and Edward's attendant was sent off with one of Evan Dhu's men, that they might find a place to sleep in, while Evan himself pushed forward to warn the supposed cattle-stealer, one Donald Bean Lean, of the party's near approach. For, as Evan Dhu said, the Cateran might very naturally be startled by the sudden appearance of a sidier roy -- or red soldier -- in the very place of his most secret retreat.

Edward was thus left alone with the single remaining Highlander, from whom, however, he could obtain no further information as to his journey's end -- save that, as the Sassenach was somewhat tired, Donald Bean might possibly send the currach for him.

Edward wished much to know whether the currach was a horse, a cart, or a chaise. But in spite of all his efforts, he could get no more out of the man with the Lochaber axe than the words repeated over and over again, "Aich aye, ta currach! Aich aye, ta currach!"

However, after stumbling on a little farther, they came out on the shores of a loch, and the guide, pointing through the darkness in the direction of a little spark of light far away across the water, said, "Yon's ta cove!" Almost at the same moment the dash of oars was heard, and a shrill whistle came to their ears out of the darkness. This the Highlander answered, and a boat appeared in which Edward was soon seated, and on his way to the robber's cave.

The light, which at first had been no bigger than a rush-light, grew rapidly larger, glowing red (as it seemed) upon the very bosom of the lake. Cliffs began to rise above their heads, hiding the moon. And, as the boat rapidly advanced, Edward could make out a great fire kindled on the shore, into which dark mysterious figures were busily flinging pine branches. The fire had been built on a narrow ledge at the opening of a great black cavern, into which an inlet of the loch seemed to advance. The men rowed straight for this black entrance. Then, letting the boat run on with shipped oars, the fire was soon passed and left behind, and the cavern entered through a great rocky arch. At the foot of some natural steps the boat stopped. The beacon brands which had served to guide them were thrown hissing into the water, and Edward found himself lifted out of the boat by brawny arms and carried almost bodily into the depths of the cavern. Presently, however, he was allowed to walk, though still guided on either side, when suddenly at a turn of the rock passage, the cave opened out, and Edward found the famous Cateran, Donald Bean Lean, and his whole establishment plain before his eyes.

The cavern was lit with pine torches, and about a charcoal fire five or six Highlanders were seated, while in the dusk behind several others slumbered, wrapped in their plaids. In a large recess to one side were seen the carcasses of both sheep and cattle, hung by the heels as in a butcher's shop, some of them all too evidently the spoils of the Baron of Bradwardine's flocks and herds.

The master of this strange dwelling came forward to welcome Edward, while Evan Dhu stood by his side to make the necessary introductions. Edward had expected to meet with a huge savage warrior in the captain of such banditti, but to his surprise he found Donald Bean Lean to be a little man, pale and insignificant in appearance, and not even Highland in dress. For at one time Donald had served in the French army. So now, instead of receiving Edward in his national costume, he had put on an old blue-and-red foreign uniform, in which he made so strange a figure that, though it was donned in his honour, his visitor had hard work to keep from laughing. Nor was the freebooter's conversation more in accord with his surroundings. He talked much of Edward's family and connections, and especially of his uncle's Jacobite politics -- on which last account, he seemed inclined to welcome the young man with more cordiality than, as a soldier of King George, Edward felt to be his due. The scene which followed was, however, better fitted to the time and place.

At a half-savage feast Edward had the opportunity of tasting steaks fresh cut from some of the Baron's cattle, broiled on the coals before his eyes, and washed down with draughts of Highland whiskey.

Yet in spite of the warmth of his welcome, there was something very secret and unpleasant about the shifty cunning glance of this little robber-chief, who seemed to know so much about the royal garrisons, and even about the men of Edward's own troop whom he had brought with him from Waverley-Honour.

When at last they were left alone together, Evan Dhu having lain down in his plaid, the little captain of cattle-lifters asked Captain Waverley in a very significant manner, "if he had nothing particular to say to him."

Edward, a little startled at the tone in which the question was put, answered that he had no other reason for coming to the cave but a desire to see so strange a dwelling-place.

For a moment Donald Bean Lean looked him full in the face, as if waiting for something more, and then, with a nod full of meaning, he muttered: "You might as well have confided in me. I am as worthy of trust as either the Baron of Bradwardine or Vich Ian Vohr! But you are equally welcome to my house!"

His heather bed, the flickering of the fire, the smoking torches, and the movement of the wild outlaws going and coming about the cave, soon, however, diverted Waverley's thoughts from the mysterious words of his host. His eyelids drew together, nor did he reopen them till the morning sun, reflected from the lake, was filling all the cave with a glimmering twilight.


The Second Interlude

As soon as this part of the tale was finished, the audience showed much greater eagerness to enter immediately upon the acting of Donald Bean Lean's cattle-raid, and its consequences, than it had previously displayed as to the doings of Edward Waverley.

As Hugh John admitted, this was "something like!" The Abbey precincts were instantly filled with the mingled sounds characteristic of all well-conducted forays, and it was well indeed that the place was wholly deserted. For the lowings of the driven cattle, the shouts of the triumphant Highlanders, the deep rage of the Baron, stalking to and fro wrapped in his cloak on the Castle terrace, might well have astonished the crowd which in these summer days comes from the four corners of the world "to view fair Melrose aright."

It was not till the edge had worn off their first enthusiasm, that it became possible to collect them again in order to read "The Hold of a Highland Robber," which makes Chapter Seventeenth of Waverley itself. And the reading so fired the enthusiasm of Sweetheart that she asked for the book to take to bed with her. The boys were more practical, though equally enthusiastic.

"Wait till we get home," cried Hugh John, cracking his fingers and thumbs. "I know a proper place for Donald Bean Lean's cave."

"And I," said Sir Toady Lion, "will light a fire by the pond and toss the embers into the water. It will be jolly to hear 'em hiss, I tell you!"

"But what," asked Maid Margaret, "shall we do for the cattle and sheep that were hanging by the heels, when Edward went into Donald Bean Lean's cave?"

"Why, we will hang you up by the heels and cut slices off you!" said Sir Toady, with frowning truculence.

Whereat the little girl, a little solemnised, began to edge away from the dangerous neighbourhood of such a pair of young cannibals. Sweetheart reproached her brothers for inventing calumnies against their countrymen.

"Even the Highlanders were never so wicked," she objected; "they did not eat one another."

"Well, anyway," retorted Sir Toady Lion, unabashed, "Sawney Bean did. Perhaps he was a cousin of Donald's, though in the history it says that he came from East Lothian."

"Yes," cried Hugh John, "and in an old book written in Latin it says (father read it to us) that one of his little girls was too young to be executed with the rest on the sands of Leith. So the King sent her to be brought up by kind people, where she was brought up without knowing anything of her father, the cannibal, and her mother, the cannibaless -- "

"Oh," cried Sweetheart, who knew what was coming, putting up her hands over her ears, "please don't tell that dreadful story all over again."

"Father read it out of a book -- so there!" cried Sir Toady, implacably, "go on, Hugh John!"

"And so when this girl was about as big as Sweetheart, and, of course, could not remember her grandfather's nice cave or the larder where the arms and legs were hung up to dry in the smoke -- "

"Oh, you horrid boy!" cried Sweetheart, not, however, removing herself out of ear-shot -- because, after all, it was nice to shiver just a little.

"Oh, yes, and I have seen the cave," cried Sir Toady, "it is on the shore near Ballantrae -- a horrid place. Go on, Hugh John, tell about Sawney Bean's grandchild!"

"Well, she grew up and up, playing with dolls just like other girls, till she was old enough to be sent out to service. And after she had been a while about the house to which she went, it was noticed that some of the babies in the neighbourhood began to go a-missing, and they found -- "

"I think she was a nursemaid!" interrupted Sir Toady, dispassionately. "That must have been it. The little wretches cried -- so she ate them!"

"Oh," cried Sweetheart, stopping her ears with her fingers, "don't tell us what they found -- I believe you made it all up, anyway."

"No, I didn't," cried Hugh John, shouting in her ear as if to a very deaf person, "it was father who read it to us, out of a big book with fat black letters. So it must be true!"

Sir Toady was trying to drag away his sister's arms that she might have the benefit of details, when I appeared in the distance. Whereupon Hugh John, who felt his time growing limited, concluded thus, "And when they were taking the girl away to hang her, the minister asked her why she had killed the babies, and she answered him, 'If people only knew how good babies were -- especially little girls -- there would not be one left between Forth and Solway!'"

Then quite unexpectedly Maid Margaret began to sob bitterly.

"They shan't hang me up and eat me," she cried, running as hard as she could and flinging herself into my arms; "Hugh John and Sir Toady say they will, as soon as we get home."

Happily I had a light cane of a good vintage in my hand, and it did not take long to convince the pair of young scamps of the inconvenience of frightening their little sister. Sweetheart looked on approvingly as two forlorn young men were walked off to a supper, healthfully composed of plain bread and butter, and washed down by some nice cool water from the pump.

"I told you!" she said, "you wouldn't believe me."

All the same she was tender-hearted enough to convey a platter of broken meats secretly up to their "condemned cell," as I knew from finding the empty plate under their washstand in the morning. And as Maid Margaret was being carried off to be bathed and comforted, a Voice, passing their door, threatened additional pains and penalties to little boys who frightened their sisters.

"It was all in a book," said Hugh John, defending himself from under the bedclothes, "father read it to us!"

"We did it for her good," suggested Sir Toady.

"If I hear another word out of you -- " broke in the Voice; and then added, "go to sleep this instant!"

The incident of the cave had long been forgotten and forgiven, before I could continue the story of Waverley in the cave of Donald Bean Lean. We sat once more "in oor ain hoose at hame," or rather outside it, near a certain pleasant chalet in a wood, from which place you can see a brown and turbulent river running downward to the sea.



The Third Tale From "Waverley"


I. The Chief Of The Mac-Ivors And The Chief's Sister

WHEN Edward awoke next morning, he could not for a moment remember where he was. The cave was deserted. Only the grey ashes of the fire, a few gnawed bones, and an empty keg remained to prove that he was still on the scene of last night's feast. He went out into the sunlight. In a little natural harbour the boat was lying snugly moored. Farther out, on a rocky spit, was the mark of last night's beacon-fire. Here Waverley had to turn back. Cliffs shut him in on every side, and Edward was at a loss what to do, till he discovered, climbing perilously out in the rock above the cave mouth, some slight steps or ledges. These he mounted with difficulty, and, passing over the shoulder of the cliff, found himself presently on the shores of a loch about four miles long, surrounded on every side by wild heathery mountains.

In the distance he could see a man fishing and a companion watching him. By the Lochaber axe which the latter carried Edward recognised the fisher as Evan Dhu. On a stretch of sand under a birch tree, a girl was laying out a breakfast of milk, eggs, barley bread, fresh butter, and honeycomb. She was singing blithely, yet she must have had to travel far that morning to collect such dainties in so desolate a region.

This proved to be Alice, the daughter of Donald Bean Lean, and it is nothing to her discredit that she had made herself as pretty as she could, that she might attend upon the handsome young Englishman. All communication, however, had to be by smiles and signs, for Alice spoke no English. Nevertheless she set out her dainties with right good-will, and then seated herself on a stone a little distance away to watch for an opportunity of serving the young soldier.

Presently Evan Dhu came up with his catch, a fine salmon-trout, and soon slices of the fish were broiling on the wood embers. After breakfast, Alice gathered what was left into a wicker basket, and, flinging her plaid about her, presented her cheek to Edward for "the stranger's kiss." Evan Dhu made haste to secure a similar privilege, but Alice sprang lightly up the bank out of his reach, and with an arch wave of her hand to Edward she disappeared.

Then Evan Dhu led Edward back to the boat. The three men embarked, and after emerging from the mouth of the cavern, a clumsy sail was hoisted, and they bore away up the lake -- Evan Dhu all the time loud in the praises of Alice Bean Lean.

Edward said that it was a pity that such a maiden should be the daughter of a common thief. But this Evan hotly denied. According to Evan, Donald Bean Lean, though indeed no reputable character, was far from being a thief. A thief was one who stole a cow from a poor cotter, but he who lifted a drove from a Sassenach laird was "a gentleman drover."

"But he would be hanged, all the same, if he were caught!" objected Edward. "I do not see the difference."

"To be sure, he would die for the law, as many a pretty man has done before him," cried Evan. "And a better death than to die, lying on damp straw in yonder cave like a mangy tyke!"

"And what," Edward suggested, "would become of pretty Alice then?"

"Alice is both canny and fendy," said the bold Evan Dhu, with a cock of his bonnet, "and I ken nocht to hinder me to marry her mysel'!"

Edward laughed and applauded the Highlander's spirit, but asked also as to the fate of the Baron of Bradwardine's cattle.

"By this time," said Evan, "I warrant they are safe in the pass of Bally-Brough and on their road back to Tully-Veolan. And that is more than a regiment of King George's red soldiers could have brought about!"

Evan Dhu had indeed some reason to be proud.

Reassured as to this, Edward accompanied his guide with more confidence toward the castle of Vich Ian Vohr. The "five miles Scots" seemed to stretch themselves out indefinitely, but at last the figure of a hunter, equipped with gun, dogs, and a single attendant, was seen far across the heath.

"Shogh," said the man with the Lochaber axe, "tat's the Chief!"

Evan Dhu, who had boasted of his master's great retinue, denied it fiercely.

"The Chief," he said, "would not come out with never a soul with him but Callum Beg, to meet with an English gentleman."

But in spite of this prophecy, the Chief of Clan Ivor it was. Fergus Mac-Ivor, whom his people called Vich Ian Vohr, was a young man of much grace and dignity, educated in France, and of a strong, secret, and turbulent character, which by policy he hid for the most part under an appearance of courtesy and kindness. He had long been mustering his clan in secret, in order once more to take a leading part in another attempt to dethrone King George, and to set on the throne of Britain either the Chevalier St. George or his son Prince Charles.

When Waverley and the Chief approached the castle -- a stern and rugged pile, surrounded by walls, they found a large body of armed Highlanders drawn up before the gate.

"These," said Vich Ian Vohr, carelessly, "are a part of the clan whom I ordered out, to see that they were in a fit state to defend the country in such troublous times. Would Captain Waverley care to see them go through part of their exercise?"

Thereupon the men, after showing their dexterity at drill, and their fine target-shooting, divided into two parties, and went through the incidents of a battle -- the charge, the combat, the flight, and the headlong pursuit -- all to the sound of the great warpipes.

Edward asked why, with so large a force, the Chief did not at once put down such robber bands as that of Donald Bean Lean.

"Because," said the Chief, bitterly, "if I did, I should at once be summoned to Stirling Castle to deliver up the few broadswords the government has left us. I should gain little by that. But there is dinner," he added, as if anxious to change the subject, "let me show you the inside of my rude mansion."

The long and crowded dinner-table to which Edward sat down, told of the Chief's immense hospitality. After the meal, healths were drunk, and the bard of the clan recited a wild and thrilling poem in Gaelic -- of which, of course, Edward could not understand so much as one word, though it excited the clansmen so that they sprang up in ecstasy, many of them waving their arms about in sympathy with the warlike verses. The Chief, exactly in the ancient manner, presented a silver cup full of wine to the minstrel. He was to drink the one and keep the other for himself.

After a few more toasts, Vich Ian Vohr offered to take Waverley up to be presented to his sister. They found Flora Mac-Ivor in her parlour, a plain and bare chamber with a wide prospect from the windows. She had her brother's dark curling hair, dark eyes, and lofty expression, but her expression seemed sweeter, though not, perhaps, softer. She was, however, even more fiercely Jacobite than her brother, and her devotion to "the King over the Water" (as they called King James) was far more unselfish than that of Vich Ian Vohr. Flora Mac-Ivor had been educated in a French convent, yet now she gave herself heart and soul to the good of her wild Highland clan and to the service of him whom she looked on as the true King.

She was gracious to Edward, and at the request of Fergus, told him the meaning of the war-song he had been listening to in the hall. She was, her brother said, famed for her translations from Gaelic into English, but for the present she could not be persuaded to recite any of these to Edward.

He had better fortune, however, when, finding Flora Mac-Ivor in a wild spot by a waterfall, she sang him, to the accompaniment of a harp, a song of great chiefs and their deeds which fired the soul of the young man. He could not help admiring -- he almost began to love her from that moment.

After this reception, Edward continued very willingly at Glennaquoich -- both because of his growing admiration for Flora, and because his curiosity increased every day as to this wild race, and the life so different from all that he had hitherto known. Nothing occurred for three weeks to disturb his pleasant dreams, save the chance discovery, made when he was writing a letter to the Baron, that he had somehow lost his seal with the arms of Waverley, which he wore attached to his watch. Flora was inclined to blame Donald Bean Lean for the theft, but the Chief scouted the idea. It was impossible, he said, when Edward was his guest, and, besides (he added slyly), Donald would never have taken the seal and left the watch. Whereupon Edward borrowed Vich Ian Vohr's seal, and, having despatched his letter, thought no more of the matter.

Soon afterwards, whilst Waverley still remained at Glennaquoich, there was a great hunting of the stag, to which Fergus went with three hundred of his clan to meet some of the greatest Highland chiefs, his neighbours. He took Edward with him, and the numbers present amounted almost to those of a formidable army. While the clansmen drove in the deer, the chiefs sat on the heather in little groups and talked in low tones. During the drive, the main body of the deer, in their desperation, charged right upon the place where the chief sportsmen were waiting in ambush. The word was given for every one to fling himself down on his face. Edward, not understanding the language, remained erect, and his life was only saved by the quickness of Vich Ian Vohr, who seized him and flung him down, holding him there by main force till the whole herd had rushed over them. When Edward tried to rise, he found that he had severely sprained his ankle.

However, among those present at the drive, there was found an old man, half-surgeon, half-conjurer, who applied hot fomentations, muttering all the time of the operation such gibberish as Gaspar-Melchior-Balthazar-max-prax-fax!

Thus it happened that, to his great disappointment, Edward was unable to accompany the clansmen and their chiefs any farther. So Vich Ian Vohr had Edward placed in a litter, woven of birch and hazel, and walked beside this rude couch to the house of an old man, a smaller chieftain, who, with only a few old vassals, lived a retired life at a place called Tomanrait.

Here he left Edward to recruit, promising to come back in a few days, in the hope that by that time Edward would be able to ride a Highland pony in order to return to Glennaquoich.

On the sixth morning Fergus returned, and Edward gladly mounted to accompany him. As they approached the castle, he saw, with pleasure, Flora coming to meet them.


II. Misfortunes Never Come Single

The Chief's beautiful sister appeared very glad to see Edward, and, as her brother spoke a few hasty words to her in Gaelic, she suddenly clasped her hands, and, looking up to heaven, appeared to ask a blessing upon some enterprise. She then gave Edward some letters that had arrived for him during his absence. It was perhaps as well that Edward took these to his room to open, considering the amount of varied ill news that he found in them.

The first was from his father, who had just been dismissed from his position as King's minister, owing (as he put it) to the ingratitude of the great -- but really, as was proved afterwards, on account of some political plots which he had formed against his chief, the prime minister of the day.

Then his generous uncle, Sir Everard, wrote that all differences were over between his brother and himself. He had espoused his quarrel, and he directed Edward at once to send in the resignation of his commission to the War Office without any preliminaries, forbidding him longer to serve a government which had treated his father so badly.

But the letter which touched Edward most deeply was one from his commanding officer at Dundee, which declared curtly that if he did not report himself at the headquarters of the regiment within three days after the date of writing, he would be obliged to take steps in the matter which would be exceedingly disagreeable to Captain Waverley.

Edward at once sat down and wrote to Colonel Gardiner that, as he had thus chosen to efface the remembrance of past civilities, there was nothing left to him but to resign his commission, which he did formally, and ended his letter by requesting his commanding officer to forward this resignation to the proper quarter.

No little perplexed as to the meaning of all this, Edward was on his way to consult Fergus Mac-Ivor on the subject, when the latter advanced with an open newspaper in his hand.

"Do your letters," he asked, "confirm this unpleasant news?"

And he held out the Caledonian Mercury, in which not only did he find his father's disgrace chronicled, but on turning to the Gazette he found the words, "Edward Waverley, Captain in the  -- th regiment of dragoons, superseded for absence without leave." The name of his successor, one Captain Butler, followed immediately.

On looking at the date of Colonel Gardiner's missive as compared with that of the Gazette, it was evident that his commanding officer had carried out his threat to the letter. Yet it was not at all like him to have done so. It was still more out of keeping with the constant kindness that he had shown to Edward. It was the young man's first idea, in accordance with the customs of the time, to send Colonel Gardiner a challenge. But, upon Fergus Mac-Ivor's advice, Edward ultimately contented himself with adding a postscript to his first letter, marking the time at which he had received the first summons, and regretting that the hastiness of his commander's action had prevented his anticipating it by sending in his resignation.

"That, if anything," said Fergus, "will make this Calvinistic colonel blush for his injustice."

But it was not long before some part at least of the mystery was made plain. Fergus took advantage of Edward's natural anger at his unworthy treatment, to reveal to him that a great rising was about to take place in the Highlands in favour of King James, and to urge him to cast in his lot with the clans. Flora, on the contrary, urged him to be careful and cautious, lest he should involve others to whom he owed everything, in a common danger with himself.

Edward, whose fancy (if not whose heart) had gradually been turning more and more toward the beautiful and patriotic Flora, appeared less interested in rebellion than in obtaining her brother's good-will and bespeaking his influence with his sister.

"Out upon you," cried Fergus, with pretended ill-humour, "can you think of nothing but ladies at such a time? Besides, why come to me in such a matter? Flora is up the glen. Go and ask herself. And Cupid go with you! But do not forget that my lovely sister, like her loving brother, is apt to have a pretty strong will of her own!"

Edward's heart beat as he went up the rocky hillside to find Flora. She received and listened to him with kindness, but steadily refused to grant him the least encouragement. All her thoughts, her hopes, her life itself, were set on the success of this one bold stroke for a crown. Till the rightful King was on his throne, she could not think of anything else. Love and marriage were not for such as Flora Mac-Ivor. Edward, in spite of the manifest good-will of the chief, had to be content with such cold comfort as he could extract from Flora's promise that she would remember him in her prayers!

Next morning Edward was awakened to the familiar sound of Daft Davie Gellatley's voice singing below his window. For a moment he thought himself back at Tully-Veolan. Davie was declaring loudly that

"My heart's in the Highland, my heart is not here."

Then, immediately changing to a less sentimental strain, he added with a contemptuous accent:

"There's nocht in the Highlands but syboes and leeks, And lang-leggit callants gaun wanting the breeks; Wanting the breeks, and without hose or shoon, But we'll a' win the breeks when King Jamie comes hame."

Edward, eager to know what had brought the Bradwardine "innocent" so far from home, dressed hastily and went down. Davie, without stopping his dancing for a moment, came whirling past, and, as he went, thrust a letter into Waverley's hand. It proved to be from Rose Bradwardine, and among other things it contained the news that the Baron had gone away to the north with a body of horsemen, while the red soldiers had been at Tully-Veolan searching for her father and also asking after Edward himself. Indeed they had carried off his servant prisoner, together with everything he had left at Tully-Veolan. Rose also warned him against the danger of returning thither, and at the same time sent her compliments to Fergus and Flora. The last words in the letter were, "Is she not as handsome and accomplished as I described her to be?"

Edward was exceedingly perplexed. Knowing his innocence of all treason, he could not imagine why he should be accused of it. He consulted Fergus, who told him he would to a certainty be hanged or imprisoned if he went south. Nevertheless, Edward persisted in "running his hazard." The Chief, though wishful to keep him, did not absolutely say him nay. Flora, instead of coming down to bid him good-bye, sent only excuses. So altogether it was in no happy frame of mind that Edward rode away to the south upon the Chief's horse, Brown Dermid, and with Callum Beg for an attendant in the guise of a Lowland groom.

Callum warned his master against saying anything when they got to the first little Lowland town, either on the subject of the Highlands, or about his master, Vich Ian Vohr.

"The people there are bitter Whigs, teil burst them!" he said fiercely. As they rode on they saw many people about the street, chiefly old women in tartan hoods and red cloaks, who seemed to cast up their hands in horror at the sight of Waverley's horse. Edward asked the reason.

"Oh," said Callum Beg, "it's either the muckle Sunday hersel', or the little government Sunday that they caa the Fast!"

It proved to be the latter, and the innkeeper, a severe sly-looking man, received them with scanty welcome. Indeed, he only admitted them because he remembered that it was in his power to fine them for the crime of travelling on a Fast Day by an addition to the length of his reckoning next morning.

But as soon as Edward announced his wish for a horse and guide to Perth, the hypocritical landlord made ready to go with him in person. Callum Beg, excited by the golden guinea which Waverley gave him, offered to show his gratitude by waiting a little distance along the road, and "kittlin' the landlord's quarters wi' her skene-occle" -- or, in other words, setting a dagger in his back. Apparently Vich Ian Vohr's page thought no more of such a deed than an ordinary English boy would have thought of stealing an apple out of an orchard.


The Third Interlude -- Being Mainly A Few Words Upon Heroes

Among the listeners there was somewhat less inclination than before to act this part of the story. For one thing, the boys were righteously indignant at the idea of any true hero being in love -- unless, indeed, he could carry off his bride from the deck of a pirate vessel, cutlass in hand, and noble words of daring on his lips.

As for the girls, well -- they knew that the bushes were dripping wet, and that if they set their feet upon their native heath, they would certainly be made to change their stockings as soon as they went home. This was a severe discourager of romance. There was nothing to prevent any one of them from asking questions, however. That was a business in which they excelled.

"But why did the Highland people want to rebel, anyway?" demanded Hugh John. "If I could have hunted like that, and raided, and carried off cattle, and had a castle with pipes playing and hundreds of clansmen to drill, I shouldn't have been such a soft as to rebel and get them all taken away from me!"

"It was because they were loyal to their rightful King," said Sweetheart, who is a Cavalier and a Jacobite -- in the intervals of admiring Cromwell, and crying because they shot down the poor Covenanters.

"I think," said Sir Toady, who had been sitting very thoughtful, "that they just liked to fight, and King George would not let them. So they wanted a king who would not mind. Same as us, you know. If we are caught fighting in school, we get whipped, but father lets us fight outside as much as we want to. Besides, what did old Vich Ian Vohr want with all these silly Highlanders, eating up everything in his castle, if there were never any battles that they could fight for him?"

This was certainly a very strong and practical view, and so much impressed the others that they sat a long while quiet, turning it over in their minds.

"Well, at any rate," said Sweetheart, dropping her head with a sigh to go on with her seam, "I know that Flora Mac-Ivor was truly patriotic. See how she refused to listen to Waverley, all because she wanted to give her life for the cause."

"Humph," said Hugh John, disrespectfully turning up his nose, "that's all girls think about -- loving, an' marrying, an' playing on harps -- "

"I don't play on harps," sighed Sweetheart, "but I do wish I had a banjo!"

"I wish I had a targe and a broadsword, and the Chief's horse, Brown Dermid, to ride on," said Hugh John, putting on his "biggety" look.

"And a nice figure you would cut," sneered Sir Toady Lion, provokingly; "Highlanders don't fight on horseback! You ought to know that!"

Whereupon the first engagement of the campaign was immediately fought out on the carpet. And it was not till after the intervention of the Superior Power had restored quiet that the next tale from Waverley could be proceeded with.



The Fourth Tale From "Waverley"


Here And There Among The Heather

NOT long after Callum Beg had been left behind, and indeed almost as soon as the innkeeper and Edward were fairly on their way, the former suddenly announced that his horse had fallen lame and that they must turn aside to a neighbouring smithy to have the matter attended to.

"And as it is the Fast Day, and the smith a religious man, it may cost your Honour as muckle as sixpence a shoe!" suggested the wily innkeeper, watching Edward's face as he spoke.

For this announcement Edward cared nothing. He would gladly have paid a shilling a nail to be allowed to push forward on his journey with all speed. Accordingly to the smithy of Cairnvreckan they went. The village was in an uproar. The smith, a fierce-looking man, was busy hammering "dogs' heads" for musket-locks, while among the surrounding crowd the names of great Highland chiefs -- Clanronald, Glengarry, Lochiel, and that of Vich Ian Vohr himself, were being bandied from mouth to mouth.

Edward soon found himself surrounded by an excited mob, in the midst of which the smith's wife, a wild witchlike woman, was dancing, every now and then casting her child up in the air as high as her arms would reach, singing all the while, and trying to anger the crowd, and especially to infuriate her husband, by the Jacobite songs which she chanted.

At last the smith could stand this provocation no longer. He snatched a red-hot bar of iron from the forge, and rushed at his wife, crying out that he would "thrust it down her throat." Then, finding himself held back by the crowd from executing vengeance on the woman, all his anger turned upon Edward, whom he took to be a Jacobite emissary. For the news which had caused all this stir was that Prince Charles had landed and that the whole Highlands was rallying to his banner.

So fierce and determined was the attack which the angry smith of Cairnvreckan made on Edward that the young man was compelled to draw his pistol in self-defence. And as the crowd threatened him and the smith continued furiously to attack with the red-hot iron, almost unconsciously his finger pressed the trigger. The shot went off, and immediately the smith fell to the ground. Then Edward, borne down by the mob, was for some time in great danger of his life. He was saved at last by the interference of the minister of the parish, a kind and gentle old man, who caused Edward's captors to treat him more tenderly. So that instead of executing vengeance upon the spot as they had proposed, they brought him before the nearest magistrate, who was, indeed, an old military officer, and, in addition, the Laird of the village of Cairnvreckan, one Major Melville by name.

"SO fierce and determined was the attack which the angry smith of Cairnvreckan made on Edward that the young man was compelled to draw his pistol in self-defence."

The latter proved to be a stern soldier, so severe in manner that he often became unintentionally unjust. Major Melville found that though the blacksmith's wound proved to be a mere scratch, and though he had to own that the provocation given was a sufficient excuse for Edward's hasty action, yet he must detain the young man prisoner upon the warrant issued against Edward Waverley, which had been sent out by the Supreme Court of Scotland.

Edward, who at once owned to his name, was astonished beyond words to find that not only was he charged with being in the company of actual rebels, such as the Baron of Bradwardine and Vich Ian Vohr, but also with trying to induce his troop of horse to revolt by means of private letters addressed to one of them, Sergeant Houghton, in their barracks at Dundee. Captain Waverley was asserted to have effected this through the medium of a pedlar named Will Ruthven, or Wily Will -- whose very name Edward had never heard up to that moment.

As the magistrate's examination proceeded, Waverley was astonished to find that, instead of clearing himself, everything he said, every article he carried about his person, was set down by Major Melville as an additional proof of his complicity with treason. Among these figured Flora's verses, his own presence at the great hunting match among the mountains, his father's and Sir Everard's letters, even the huge manuscripts written by his tutor (of which he had never read six pages) -- all were brought forward as so many evidences of his guilt.

Finally, the magistrate informed Edward that he would be compelled to detain him a prisoner in his house of Cairnvreckan. But that if he would furnish such information as it was doubtless in his power to give concerning the forces and plans of Vich Ian Vohr and the other Highland chiefs, he might, after a brief detention, be allowed to go free. Edward fiercely exclaimed that he would die rather than turn informer against those who had been his friends and hosts. Whereupon, having refused all hospitality, he was conducted to a small room, there to be guarded till there was a chance of sending him under escort to the Castle of Stirling.

Here he was visited by Mr. Morton, the minister who had saved him from the clutches of the mob, and so sympathetically and kindly did he speak, that Edward told him his whole story from the moment when he had first left Waverley-Honour. And though the minister's favourable report did not alter the opinion Major Melville had formed of Edward's treason, it softened his feelings toward the young man so much that he invited him to dinner, and afterwards did his best to procure him favourable treatment from the Westland Whig captain, Mr. Gifted Gilfillan, who commanded the party which was to convoy him to Stirling Castle.

The escort which was to take Edward southward was not so strong as it might have been. Part of Captain Gifted Gilfillan's command had stayed behind to hear a favourite preacher upon the occasion of the afternoon Fast Day service at Cairnvreckan. Others straggled for purposes of their own, while as they went along, their leader lectured Edward upon the fewness of those that should be saved. Heaven, he informed Edward, would be peopled exclusively by the members of his own denomination. Captain Gifted was still engaged in condemning all and sundry belonging to the Churches of England and Scotland, when a stray pedlar joined his party and asked of "his Honour" the favour of his protection as far as Stirling, urging as a reason the uncertainty of the times and the value of the property he carried in his pack.

The pedlar, by agreeing with all that was said, and desiring further information upon spiritual matters, soon took the attention of Captain Gifted Gilfillan from his prisoner. He declared that he had even visited, near Mauchline, the very farm of the Whig leader. He congratulated him upon the fine breed of cattle he possessed. Then he went on to speak of the many evil, popish, and unchristian things he had seen in his travels as a pedlar over the benighted countries of Europe. Whereupon Gifted Gilfillan became so pleased with his companion and so enraptured with his subject, that he allowed his party to string itself out along the route without an attempt at discipline, or even the power of supporting each other in case of attack.

The leaders were ascending a little hill covered with whin bushes and crowned with low brushwood, when, after looking about him quickly to note some landmarks, the pedlar put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. He explained that he was whistling on a favourite dog, named Bawty, which he had lost. The Covenanter reproved him severely for thinking of a useless dog in the midst of such precious and improving conversation as they were holding together.

But in spite of his protests the pedlar persisted in his whistling, and presently, out of a copse close to the path, six or eight stout Highlanders sprang upon them brandishing their claymores.

"The Sword of the Lord and of Gideon!" shouted Gifted Gilfillan, nothing daunted. And he was proceeding to lay about him stoutly, when the pedlar, snatching a musket, felled him to the ground with the butt. The scattered Whig party hurried up to support their leader. In the scuffle, Edward's horse was shot, and he himself somewhat bruised in falling. Whereupon some of the Highlanders took him by the arms, and half-supported, half-carried him away from the highroad, leaving the unconscious Gifted still stretched on the ground. The Westlanders, thus deprived of a leader, did not even attempt a pursuit, but contented themselves with sending a few dropping shots after the Highlanders, which, of course, did nobody any harm.

They carried Edward fully two miles, and it was not till they reached the deep covert of a distant glen that they stopped with their burden. Edward spoke to them repeatedly, but the only answer he got was that they "had no English." Even the mention of the name of Vich Ian Vohr, which he had hitherto regarded as a talisman, produced no response.

Moreover, Edward could see from the tartans of his captors that they were not of the Clan Ivor. Nor did the hut, into which they presently conveyed our hero, reveal any more. Edward was placed in a large bed, planked all round, and after his bruises were attended to by an old woman, the sliding panel was shut upon him. A kind of fever set his ideas wandering, and sometimes he fancied that he heard the voice of Flora Mac-Ivor speaking in the hut without. He tried to push back the panel, but the inmates had secured it on the outside with a large nail.

Waverley remained some time in these narrow quarters, ministered to by the old woman and at intervals hearing the same gentle girlish voice speaking outside, without, however, ever being able to see its owner. At last, after several days, two of the Highlanders who had first captured him returned, and by signs informed him that he must get ready to follow them immediately.

At this news Edward, thoroughly tired of his confinement, rejoiced, and, upon rising, found himself sufficiently well to travel. He was seated in the smoky cottage quietly waiting the signal for departure, when he felt a touch on his arm, and, turning, he found himself face to face with Alice, the daughter of Donald Bean Lean. With a quick movement she showed him the edges of a bundle of papers which she as swiftly concealed. She then laid her finger on her lips, and glided away to assist old Janet, his nurse, in packing his saddle-bags. With the tail of his eye, however, Edward saw the girl fold the papers among his linen without being observed by the others. This being done, she took no further notice of him whatever, except that just at the last, as she was leaving the cottage, she turned round and gave him a smile and nod of farewell.

The tall Highlander who was to lead the party now made Edward understand that there was considerable danger on the way. He must follow without noise, and do exactly as he was bidden. A steel pistol and a broadsword were given him for use in case of attack. The party had not been long upon its night journeying, moving silently along through the woods and copses in Indian file, before Edward found that there was good reason for this precaution.

At no great distance he heard the cry of an English sentinel, "All's well!" Again and again the cry was taken up by other sentries till the sound was lost in the distance. The enemy was very near, but the trained senses of the Highlanders in their own rugged country were more than a match for the discipline of the regulars.

A little farther on they passed a large building, with lights still twinkling in the windows. Presently the tall Highlander stood up and sniffed. Then motioning Waverley to do as he did, he began to crawl on all fours toward a low and ruinous sheep-fold. With some difficulty Edward obeyed, and with so much care was the stalk conducted, that presently, looking over a stone wall, he could see an outpost of five or six soldiers lying round their camp-fire, while in front a sentinel paced backward and forward, regarding the heavens and whistling Nancy Dawson as placidly as if he were a hundred miles from any wild rebel Highlandmen.

At that moment the moon, which up to this time had been hidden behind clouds, shone out clear and bright. So Edward and his Highland guide had perforce to remain where they were, stuck up against the dike, not daring to continue their journey in the full glare of light, while the Highlander muttered curses on "MacFarlane's lanthorn," as he called the moon.

At last the Highlander, motioning Edward to stay where he was, began with infinite pains to worm his way backward on all fours, taking advantage of every bit of cover, lying stock-still behind a boulder while the sentry was looking in his direction, and again crawling swiftly to a more distant bush as often as he turned his back or marched the other way. Presently Edward lost sight of the Highlander, but before long he came out again at an altogether different part of the thicket, in full view of the sentinel, at whom he immediately fired a shot -- the bullet wounding the soldier on the arm, stopping once and for all the whistling of Nancy Dawson.

Then all the soldiers, awakened by the shot and their comrade's cry, advanced alertly toward the spot where the tall man had been seen. He had, however, retired, but continued to give them occasionally such a view of his figure in the open moonlight, as to lead them yet farther from the path.

Meanwhile, taking advantage of their leader's ruse, Waverley and his attendants made good speed over the heather till they got behind a rising ground, from which, however, they could still hear the shouts of the pursuers, and the more distant roll of the royal drums beating to arms. They had not gone far before they came upon an encampment in a hollow. Here several Highlanders, with a horse or two, lay concealed. They had not arrived very long before the tall Highlander, who had led the soldiers such a dance, made his appearance quite out of breath, but laughing gayly at the ease with which he had tricked his pursuers.

Edward was now mounted on a stout pony, and the whole party set forward at a good round pace, accompanied by the Highlanders as an escort. They continued without molestation all the night, till, in the morning light, they saw a tall old castle on the opposite bank of the river, upon the battlements of which they could see the plaid and targe of a Highland sentry, and over which floated the white banner of the exiled Stuarts.

They passed through a small town, and presently were admitted into the courtyard of the ancient fortress, where Edward was courteously received by a chief in full dress and wearing a white cockade. He showed Waverley directly to a half-ruinous apartment where, however, there was a small camp bed. Here he was about to leave him, after asking him what refreshment he would take, when Edward, who had had enough of mysteries, requested that he might be told where he was.

"You are in the castle of Doune, in the district of Menteith," said the governor of the castle, "and you are in no danger whatever. I command here for his Royal Highness Prince Charles."

At last it seemed to Waverley as if he had reached a place of rest and safety. But it was not to be. On the very next day he was put in charge of a detachment of irregular horsemen who were making their way eastward to join the forces of the Prince. The leader of this band was no other than the Laird of Balmawhapple, who, backing words by deeds, had mustered his grooms and huntsmen in the cause of the Stuarts. Edward attempted to speak civilly to him, but found himself brutally repulsed. Captain Falconer of Balmawhapple had noways forgotten the shrewd pinch in the sword-arm which he had received from the Baron of Bradwardine in Waverley's quarrel.

At first Edward had better luck with his Lieutenant, a certain horse-coper or dealer. This man had sold Balmawhapple the chargers upon which to mount his motley array, and seeing no chance of getting his money except by "going out" himself, he had accepted the post of Lieutenant in the Chevalier's army. So far good. But just at the moment when it seemed that our hero was about to get some information of a useful sort, Balmawhapple rode up, and demanded of his Lieutenant if he had not heard his orders that no one should speak to the prisoner.

After that they marched in silence, till, as the little company of adventurers was passing Stirling Castle, Balmawhapple must needs sound his trumpet and display his white banner. This bravado, considerably to that gentleman's discomfiture, was answered at once by a burst of smoke from the Castle, and the next moment a cannon-ball knocked up the earth a few feet from the Captain's charger, and covered Balmawhapple himself with dirt and stones. An immediate retreat of the command took place without having been specially ordered.

As they approached Edinburgh, they could see that white wreaths of smoke circled the Castle. The cannonade rolled continuously. Balmawhapple, however, warned by what had happened at Stirling, gave the Castle a wide berth, and finally, without having entered the city, he delivered up his prisoner at the door of the ancient palace of Holyrood.

And so, for the time being, Edward's adventures in the wild Highlands were ended.


Interlude Of Sticking-Plaster

This time the children were frankly delighted.

"It's just like Kidnapped, father," cried Hugh John, more truly than he dreamed of, "there's the Flight through the Heather, you remember, and the tall man is Allan Breck, heading off the soldiers after the Red Fox was shot. There was a sentinel that whistled, too -- Allan heard him when he was fishing, and learned the tune -- oh, and a lot of things the same!"

"I like the part best where Alice Bean gives him the papers," said Sweetheart; "perhaps she was in love with him, too."

"Pshaw!" cried Toady Lion; "much good that did him. He never even got them looked at. But it was a pity that he did not get a chance at a King George soldier with that lovely sword and steel pistol. The Highlanders had all the luck."

"I would have banged it off anyway," declared Hugh John; "fancy carrying a pistol like that all the way, scouting and going Indian file, and never getting a shot at anybody!"

"What I want to know," said Sweetheart, dreamily, "is why they all thought Edward a traitor. I believe the papers that Alice Bean Lean put in his bag would reveal the secret, if Waverley only had time to read them."

"Him," said Sir Toady, naturally suspicious of all girls' heroes, "why, he's always falling down and getting put to bed. Then somebody has to nurse him. Why doesn't he go out and fight, like Fergus Mac-Ivor? Then perhaps Flora would have him; though what he wanted her for -- a girl -- I don't know. She could only play harps and -- make poetry."

So with this bitter scorn for the liberal arts, they all rushed off to enact the whole story, the tale-teller consenting, as occasion required, to take the parts of the wounded smith, the stern judge, or the Cameronian Captain. Hugh John hectored insufferably as Waverley. Sir Toady scouted and stalked as the tall Highlander, whom he refused to regard as anybody but Allan Breck. Sweetheart moved gently about as Alice Bean -- preparing breakfast was quite in her line -- while Maid Margaret, wildly excited, ran hither and thither as a sort of impartial chorus, warning all and sundry of the movements of the enemy.

I saw her last, seated on a knoll and calling out "Bang" at the pitch of her voice. She was, she explained, nothing less imposing than the castle of Edinburgh itself, cannonading the ranks of the Pretender. While far away, upon wooden chargers, Balmawhapple's cavalry curvetted on the slopes of Arthur's Seat and cracked vain pistols at the frowning fortress. There was, in fact, all through the afternoon, a great deal of imagination loose in our neighbourhood. And even far into the gloaming sounds of battle, boastful recriminations, the clash of swords, the trample and rally of the heavy charge, even the cries of the genuinely wounded, came fitfully from this corner and that of the wide shrubberies.

And when all was over, as they sat reunited, Black Hanoverian and White Cockade, victor and vanquished, in the kindly truce of the supper-table, Hugh John delivered his verdict.

"That's the best tale you have told us yet. Every man of us needed to have sticking-plaster put on when we came in -- even Sweetheart!"

Than which, of course, nothing could have been more satisfactory.



The Fifth Tale From "Waverley"


The White Cockade

IT was Fergus Mac-Ivor himself who welcomed Edward within the palace of Holyrood, where the adventurous Prince now kept his court.

Hardly would he allow Edward even to ask news of Flora, before carrying him off into the presence-chamber to be presented. Edward was deeply moved by the Chevalier's grace and dignity, as well as moved by the reception he received. The Prince praised the deeds of his ancestors, and called upon him to emulate them. He also showed him a proclamation in which his name was mentioned along with those of the other rebels as guilty of high treason. Edward's heart was melted. This princely kindness, so different from the treatment which he had received at the hands of the English government, the direct appeal of the handsome and gallant young Chevalier, perhaps also the thought of pleasing Flora in the only way open to him, all overwhelmed the young man, so that, with a sudden burst of resolve, he knelt down and devoted his life and his sword to the cause of King James.

The Prince raised and embraced Waverley, and in a few words confided to him that the English general, having declined battle and gone north to Aberdeen, had brought his forces back to Dunbar by sea. Here it was the Prince's instant intention to attack him.

Before taking leave he presented Edward with the splendid silver-hilted sword which he wore, itself an heirloom of the Stuarts. Then he gave him over into the hands of Fergus Mac-Ivor, who forthwith proceeded to make Waverley into a true son of Ivor by arraying him in the tartan of the clan, with plaid floating over his shoulder and buckler glancing upon his arm.

Soon after came the Baron of Bradwardine, anxious about the honour of his young friend Edward. He said that he desired to know the truth as to the manner in which Captain Waverley had lost his commission in Colonel Gardiner's dragoons, -- so that, if he should hear his honour called in question, he might be able to defend it, -- which, no doubt, he would have performed as stoutly and loyally as he had previously done upon the sulky person of the Laird of Balmawhapple.

The morrow was to be a day of battle. But it was quite in keeping with the gay character of the adventurer-prince, that the evening should be spent in a hall in the ancient palace of Holyrood. Here Edward, in his new full dress as a Highlander and a son of Ivor, shone as the handsomest and the boldest of all. And this, too, in spite of the marked coldness with which Flora treated him. But to make amends, Rose Bradwardine, close by her friend's side, watched him with a sigh on her lip, and colour on her cheek -- yet with a sort of pride, too, that she should have been the first to discover what a gallant and soldierly youth he was. Jacobite or Hanoverian, she cared not. At Tully-Veolan or at a court ball, she was equally proud of Edward Waverley.


Next morning our hero was awakened by the screaming of the warpipes outside his bedroom, and Callum Beg, his attendant, informed him that he would have to hurry if he wished to come up with Fergus and the Clan Ivor, who had marched out with the Prince when the morning was yet grey.

Thus spurred, Edward proved himself no laggard. On they went, threading their way through the ranks of the Highland army, now getting mixed up with Balmawhapple's horsemen, who, careless of discipline, went spurring through the throng amid the curses of the Highlanders. For the first time Edward saw with astonishment that more than half the clansmen were poorly armed, many with only a scythe on a pole or a sword without a scabbard, while some for a weapon had nothing better than their dirks, or even a stake pulled out of the hedge. Then it was that Edward, who hitherto had only seen the finest and best armed men whom Fergus could place in the field, began to harbour doubts as to whether this unmilitary array could defeat a British army, and win the crown of three kingdoms for the young Prince with whom he had rashly cast in his lot.

"ROSE BRADWARDINE, close by her friend's side, watched him with a sigh on her lip, and colour on her cheek -- yet with a sort of pride, too, that she should have been the first to discover what a gallant and soldierly youth he was."

But his dismal and foreboding thoughts were quickly changed to pride when whole Clan Ivor received him with a unanimous shout and the braying of their many warpipes.

"Why," said one of a neighbouring clan, "you greet the young Sassenach as if he were the Chief himself!"

"If he be not Bran, he is Bran's brother!" replied Evan Dhu, who was now very grand under the name of Ensign Maccombich.

"Oh, then," replied the other, "that will doubtless be the young English duinhé-wassel who is to be married to the Lady Flora?"

"That may be or that may not be," retorted Evan, grimly; "it is no matter of yours or mine, Gregor."

The march continued -- first by the shore toward Musselburgh and then along the top of a little hill which looked out seaward. While marching thus, news came that Bradwardine's horse had had a skirmish with the enemy, and had sent in some prisoners.

Almost at the same moment from a sort of stone shed (called a sheep smearing-house) Edward heard a voice which, as if in agony, tried to repeat snatches of the Lord's Prayer. He stopped. It seemed as if he knew that voice.

He entered, and found in the corner a wounded man lying very near to death. It was no other than Houghton, the sergeant of his own troop, to whom he had written to send him the books. At first he did not recognise Edward in his Highland dress. But as soon as he was assured that it really was his master who stood beside him, he moaned out, "Oh, why did you leave us, Squire?" Then in broken accents he told how a certain pedlar called Ruffin had shown them letters from Edward, advising them to rise in mutiny.

"Ruffin!" said Edward, "I know nothing of any such man. You have been vilely imposed upon, Houghton."

"Indeed," said the dying man, "I often thought so since. And we did not believe till he showed us your very seal. So Tims was shot, and I was reduced to the ranks."

Not long after uttering these words, poor Houghton breathed his last, praying his young master to be kind to his old father and mother at Waverley-Honour, and not to fight with these wild petticoat men against old England.

The words cut Edward to the heart, but there was no time for sentiment or regret. The army of the Prince was fast approaching the foe. The English regiments came marching out to meet them along the open shore, while the Highlanders took their station on the higher ground to the south. But a morass separated the combatants, and though several skirmishes took place on the flanks, the main fighting had to be put off till another day. That night both sides slept on their arms, Fergus and Waverley joining their plaids to make a couch, on which they lay, with Callum Beg watching at their heads.

Before three, they were summoned to the presence of the Prince. They found him giving his final directions to the chiefs. A guide had been found who would guide the army across the morass. They would then turn the enemy's flank, and after that the Highland yell and the Highland claymore must do the rest.

The mist of the morning was still rolling thick through the hollow between the armies when Clan Ivor got the word to charge. Prestonpans was no midnight surprise. The English army, regularly ranked, stood ready, waiting. But their cavalry, suddenly giving way, proved themselves quite unable to withstand the furious onslaught of the Highlanders. Edward charged with the others, and was soon in the thickest of the fray. It happened that while fighting on the battle line, he was able to save the life of a distinguished English officer, who, with the hilt of his broken sword yet in his hand, stood by the artillery from which the gunners had run away, disdaining flight and waiting for death. The victory of the Highlanders was complete. Edward even saw his old commander, Colonel Gardiner, struck down, yet was powerless to save him. But long after, the reproach in the eyes of the dying soldier haunted him. Yet it expressed more sorrow than anger -- sorrow to see him in such a place and in such a dress.

But this was soon forgotten when the prisoner he had taken, and whom the policy of the Prince committed to his care and custody, declared himself as none other than Colonel Talbot, his uncle's dearest and most intimate friend. He informed Waverley that on his return from abroad he had found both Sir Everard and his brother in custody on account of Edward's reported treason. He had, therefore, immediately started for Scotland to endeavour to bring back the truant. He had seen Colonel Gardiner, and had found him, after having made a less hasty inquiry into the mutiny of Edward's troop, much softened toward the young man. All would have come right, concluded Colonel Talbot, had it not been for our hero's joining openly with the rebels in their mad venture.

Edward was smitten to the heart when he heard of his uncle's sufferings, believing that they were on his account. But he was somewhat comforted when Colonel Talbot told him that through his influence Sir Everard had been allowed out under heavy bail, and that Mr. Richard Waverley was with him at Waverley-Honour.

Yet more torn with remorse was Edward when, having once more arrived in Edinburgh, he found at last the leather valise which contained the packet of letters Alice Bean Lean had placed among his linen. From these he learned that Colonel Gardiner had thrice written to him, once indeed sending the letter by one of the men of Edward's own troop, who had been instructed by the pedlar to go back and tell the Colonel that his officer had received them in person. Instead of being delivered to Waverley, the letters had been given to a certain Mr. William Ruffin, or Riven, or Ruthven, whom Waverley saw at once could be none other than Donald Bean Lean himself. Then all at once remembering the business of the robber cave, he understood the loss of his seal, and poor Houghton's dying reproach that he should not have left the lads of his troop so long by themselves.

Edward now saw clearly how in a moment of weakness he had made a great and fatal mistake by joining with the Jacobites. But his sense of honour was such that in spite of all Colonel Talbot could say, he would not go back on his word. His own hastiness, the clever wiles of Fergus Mac-Ivor, Flora's beauty, and most of all the rascality of Donald Bean Lean had indeed brought his neck, as old Major Melville had prophesied, within the compass of the hangman's rope.

The best Edward could now do was to send a young soldier of his troop, who had been taken at Prestonpans, to his uncle and his father with letters explaining all the circumstances. By Colonel Talbot's advice and help this messenger was sent aboard one of the English vessels cruising in the Firth, well furnished with passes which would carry him in safety all the way to Waverley-Honour.

Still the days went by, and nothing was done. Still the Prince halted in Edinburgh waiting for reinforcements which never came. He was always hopeful that more clans would declare for him or that other forces would be raised in the Lowlands or in England. And meanwhile, chiefly because in the city there was nothing for them to do, plans and plots were being formed. Quarrellings and jealousies became the order of the day among the troops of the White Cockade. One morning Fergus Mac-Ivor came in to Edward's lodgings, furious with anger because the Prince had refused him two requests, -- one, to make good his right to be an Earl, and the other, to give his consent to his marriage with Rose Bradwardine. Fergus must wait for the first, the Prince had told him, because that would offend a chief of his own name and of greater power, who was still hesitating whether or not to declare for King James. As for Rose Bradwardine, neither must he think of her. Her affections were already engaged. The Prince knew this privately, and, indeed, had promised already to favour the match upon which her heart was set.

As for Edward himself, he began about this time to think less and less of the cruelty of Flora Mac-Ivor. He could not have the moon, that was clear -- and he was not a child to go on crying for it. It was evident, also, that Rose Bradwardine liked him, and her marked favour, and her desire to be with him, had their effect upon a heart still sore from Flora's repeated and haughty rejections.

One of the last things Edward was able to do in Edinburgh, was to obtain from the Prince the release of Colonel Talbot, whom he saw safely on his way to London from the port of Leith. After that it was with actual relief that Edward found the period of waiting in Edinburgh at last at an end, and the Prince's army to the number of six thousand men marching southward into England. All was now to be hazarded on the success of a bold push for London.

The Highlanders easily escaped a superior army encamped on the borders. They attacked and took Carlisle on their way, and at first it seemed as if they had a clear path to the capital before them. Fergus, who marched with his clan in the van of the Prince's army, never questioned their success for a moment. But Edward's clearer eye and greater knowledge of the odds made no such mistake.

He saw that few joined them, and those men of no great weight, while all the time the forces of King George were daily increasing. Difficulties of every kind arose about them the farther they marched from their native land. Added to which there were quarrels and dissensions among the Prince's followers, those between his Irish officers and such Highland chiefs as Fergus being especially bitter.

Even to Edward, Fergus became fierce and sullen, quite unlike his former gay and confident self. It was about Flora that the quarrel, long smouldering, finally broke into flame. As they passed this and that country-seat, Fergus would always ask if the house were as large as Waverley-Honour, and whether the estate or the deer park were of equal size. Edward had usually to reply that they were not nearly so great. Whereupon Fergus would remark that in that case Flora would be a happy woman.

"But," said Waverley, who tired of the implied obligation, "you forget Miss Flora has refused me, not once, but many times. I am therefore reluctantly compelled to resign all claims upon her hand."

At this, Fergus thought fit to take offence, saying that having once made application for Flora's hand, Waverley had no right to withdraw from his offer without the consent of her guardian. Edward replied that so far as he was concerned, the matter was at an end. He would never press himself upon any lady who had repeatedly refused him.

Whereupon, Fergus turned away furiously, and the quarrel was made. Edward betook himself to the camp of his old friend, the Baron, and, as he remembered the instruction he had received in the dragoons, he became easily a leader and a great favourite among the Lowland cavalry which followed the old soldier Bradwardine.

But he had left seeds of bitter anger behind him in the camp of the proud clan he had quitted.

Some of the Lowland officers warned him of his danger, and Evan Dhu, the Chief's foster-brother -- who, ever since the visit to the cave had taken a liking to Edward -- waited for him secretly in a shady place and bade him beware. The truth was that the Clan Mac-Ivor had taken it into their heads that Edward had somehow slighted their Lady Flora. They saw that the Chief's brow was dark against Edward, and therefore he became all at once fair game for a bullet or a stab in the dark.

And the first of these was not long in arriving.

*    *    *    *    *

And here (I concluded) is the end of the fifth tale.

"Go on -- oh -- go on!" shouted all the four listeners in chorus; "we don't want to play or to talk, just now. We want to know what happened."

"Very well, then," said I, "then the next story shall be called 'Black Looks and Bright Swords.'"

Carrying out which resolve we proceeded at once to the telling of



The Sixth Tale From "Waverley"


Black Looks And Bright Swords

IT was in the dusk of an avenue that Evan Dhu had warned Waverley to beware, and ere he had reached the end of the long double line of trees, a pistol cracked in the covert, and a bullet whistled close past his ear.

"There he is," cried Edward's attendant, a stout Merseman of the Baron's troop; "it's that devil's brat, Callum Beg."

And Edward, looking through the trees, could make out a figure running hastily in the direction of the camp of the Mac-Ivors.

Instantly Waverley turned his horse, and rode straight up to Fergus.

"Colonel Mac-Ivor," he said, without any attempt at salutation, "I have to inform you that one of your followers has just attempted to murder me by firing upon me from a lurking-place."

"Indeed!" said the Chief, haughtily; "well, as that, save in the matter of the lurking-place, is a pleasure I presently propose for myself, I should be glad to know which of my clansmen has dared to anticipate me."

"I am at your service when you will, sir," said Edward, with equal pride, "but in the meantime the culprit was your page, Callum Beg."

"Stand forth, Callum Beg," cried Vich Ian Vohr; "did you fire at Mr. Waverley?"

"No," said the unblushing Callum.

"You did," broke in Edward's attendant, "I saw you as plain as ever I saw Coudingham kirk!"

"You lie!" returned Callum, not at all put out by the accusation. But his Chief demanded Callum's pistol. The hammer was down. The pan and muzzle were black with smoke, the barrel yet warm. It had that moment been fired.

"Take that!" cried the Chief, striking the boy full on the head with the metal butt; "take that, for daring to act without orders and then lying to disguise it."

Callum made not the slightest attempt to escape the blow, and fell as if he had been slain on the spot.

"And now, Mr. Waverley," said the Chief, "be good enough to turn your horse twenty yards with me out upon the common. I have a word to say to you."

Edward did so, and as soon as they were alone, Fergus fiercely charged him with having thrown aside his sister Flora in order to pay his court to Rose Bradwardine, whom, as he knew, Fergus had chosen for his own bride.

"It was the Prince -- the Prince himself who told me!" added Fergus, noticing the astonishment on Edward's face.

"Did the Prince tell you that I was engaged to Miss Rose Bradwardine?" cried Edward.

"He did -- this very morning," shouted Fergus; "he gave it as a reason for a second time refusing my request. So draw and defend yourself, or resign once and forever all claims to the lady."

"In such a matter I will not be dictated to by you or any man living!" retorted Waverley, growing angry in his turn.

In a moment swords were out and a fierce combat was beginning, when a number of Bradwardine's cavalry, who being Lowlanders were always at feud with the Highlandmen, rode hastily up, calling on their companions to follow. They had heard that there was a chance of a fight between their corps and the Highlanders. Nothing would have pleased them better. The Baron himself threatened that unless the Mac-Ivors returned to their ranks, he would charge them, while they on their side pointed their guns at him and his Lowland cavalry.

A cry that the Prince was approaching alone prevented bloodshed. The Highlanders returned to their places. The cavalry dressed its ranks. It was indeed the Chevalier who arrived. His first act was to get one of his French officers, the Count of Beaujeu, to set the regiment of Mac-Ivors and the Lowland cavalry again upon the road. He knew that the Count's broken English would put them all in better humour, while he himself remained to make the peace between Fergus and Waverley.

Outwardly the quarrel was soon made up. Edward explained that he had no claims whatever to be considered as engaged to Rose Bradwardine or any one else, while Fergus sulkily agreed that it was possible he had made a mistake. The Prince made them shake hands, which they did with the air of two dogs whom only the presence of the master kept from flying at each other's throats. Then after calming the Clan Mac-Ivor and riding awhile with the Baron's Lowland cavalry, the Prince returned to the Count of Beaujeu, saying with a sigh, as he reined his charger beside him, "Ah, my friend, believe me this business of prince-errant is no bed of roses!"

*    *    *    *    *

It was not long before the poor Prince had a further proof of this fact.

On the 5th of December, after a council at Derby, the Highland chiefs, disappointed that the country did not rally about them, and that the government forces were steadily increasing on all sides, compelled the Prince to fall back toward Scotland. Fergus Mac-Ivor fiercely led the opposition to any retreat. He would win the throne for his Prince, or if he could not, then he and every son of Ivor would lay down their lives. That was his clear and simple plan of campaign. But he was easily overborne by numbers, and when he found himself defeated in council, he shed actual tears of grief and mortification. From that moment Vich Ian Vohr was an altered man.

Since the day of the quarrel Edward had seen nothing of him. It was, therefore, with great surprise that he saw Fergus one evening enter his lodgings and invite him to take a walk with him. The Chieftain smiled sadly as he saw his old friend take down his sword and buckle it on. There was a great change in the appearance of Vich Ian Vohr. His cheek was hollow. His eye burned as if with fever.

As soon as the two young men had reached a beautiful and solitary glen, Fergus began to tell Edward that he had found out how wrongheaded and rash he had been in the matter of their quarrel. "Flora writes me," continued Fergus, "that she never had, and never could have, the least intention of giving you any encouragement. I acted hastily -- like a madman!"

Waverley hastily entreated him to let all be forgotten, and the two comrades-in-arms shook hands, this time heartily and sincerely.

Notwithstanding, the gloom on the Chief's brow was scarcely lightened. He even besought Waverley to betake himself at once out of the kingdom by an eastern port, to marry Rose Bradwardine, and to take Flora with him as a companion to Rose, and also for her own protection.

Edward was astonished at this complete change in Fergus.

"What!" he cried, "abandon the expedition on which we have all embarked?"

"Embarked," answered the Chief, bitterly; "why, man, the expedition is going to pieces! It is time for all those who can, to get ashore in the longboat!"

"And what," said Edward, "are the other Highland chiefs going to do?"

"Oh, the chiefs," said Fergus, contemptuously, "they think that all the heading and hanging will, as before, fall to the lot of the Lowlands, and that they will be left alone in their poor and barren Highlands, to 'listen to the wind on the hill till the waters abate.' But they will be disappointed. The government will make sure work this time, and leave not a clan in all the Highlands able to do them hurt. As for me, it will not matter. I shall either be dead or taken by this time to-morrow. I have seen the Bodach Glas -- the Grey Spectre."

Edward looked the surprise he did not speak.

"Why!" continued Fergus, in a low voice, "were you so long about Glennaquoich and yet never heard of the Bodach Glas? The story is well known to every son of Ivor. I will tell it you in a word. My forefather, Ian nan Chaistel, wasted part of England along with a Lowland chief named Halbert Hall. After passing the Cheviots on their way back, they quarrelled about the dividing of the spoil, and from words came speedily to blows. In the fight, the Lowlanders were cut off to the last man, and their leader fell to my ancestor's sword. But ever since that day the dead man's spirit has crossed the Chief of Clan Ivor on the eve of any great disaster. My father saw him twice, once before he was taken prisoner at Sheriff-Muir, and once again on the morning of the day on which he died."

Edward cried out against such superstition.

"How can you," he said, "you who have seen the world, believe such child's nonsense as that?"

"Listen," said the Chief, "here are the facts, and you can judge for yourself. Last night I could not sleep for thinking on the downfall of all my hopes for the cause, for the Prince, for the clan -- so, after lying long awake, I stepped out into the frosty air. I had crossed a small foot-bridge, and was walking backward and forward, when I saw, clear before me in the moonlight, a tall man wrapped in a grey plaid, such as the shepherds wear. The figure kept regularly about four yards from me."

"That is an easy riddle," exclaimed Edward; "why, my dear Fergus, what you saw was no more than a Cumberland peasant in his ordinary dress!"

"So I thought at first," answered Fergus, "and I was astonished at the man's audacity in daring to dog me. I called to him, but got no answer. I felt my heart beating quickly, and to find out what I was afraid of, I turned and faced first north, and then south, east, and west. Each way I turned, I saw the grey figure before my eyes at precisely the same distance! Then I knew I had seen the Bodach Glas. My hair stood up, and so strong an impression of awe came upon me that I resolved to return to my quarters. As I went, the spirit glided steadily before me, till we came to the narrow bridge, where it turned and stood waiting for me. I could not wade the stream. I could not bring myself to turn back. So, making the sign of the cross, I drew my sword and cried aloud, 'In the name of God, Evil Spirit, give place!'

"'Vich Ian Vohr,' it said in a dreadful voice, 'beware of to-morrow!'

"It was then within half a yard of my sword's point, but as the words were uttered it was gone. There was nothing either on the bridge or on the way home. All is over. I am doomed. I have seen the Bodach Glas, the curse of my house."

Edward could think of nothing to say in reply. His friend's belief in the reality of the vision was too strong. He could only ask to be allowed to march once more with the sons of Ivor, who occupied the post of danger in the rear. Edward easily obtained the Baron's leave to do so, and when the Clan Mac-Ivor entered the village, he joined them, once more arm in arm with their Chieftain. At the sight, all the Mac-Ivors' ill feeling was blown away in a moment. Evan Dhu received him with a grin of pleasure. And the imp Callum, with a great patch on his head, appeared particularly delighted to see him.

But Waverley's stay with the Clan Ivor was not to be long. The enemy was continually harassing their flanks, and the rear-guard had to keep lining hedges and dikes in order to beat them off. Night was already falling on the day which Fergus had foretold would be his last, when in a chance skirmish of outposts the Chief with a few followers found himself surrounded by a strong attacking force of dragoons. A swift eddy of the battle threw Edward out to one side. The cloud of night lifted, and he saw Evan Dhu and a few others, with the Chieftain in their midst, desperately defending themselves against a large number of dragoons who were hewing at them with their swords. It was quite impossible for Waverley to break through to their assistance. Night shut down immediately, and he found it was equally impossible for him to rejoin the retreating Highlanders, whose warpipes he could still hear in the distance.


Interlude Of Brevity

The Bodach Glas held the children. The brilliant sunshine of the High Garden in which they had listened to the tale became instantly palest moonlight, and between them and the strawberry bed they saw the filmy plaid of the Grey Spectre of the House of Ivor. It had been helpful and even laudable to play-act the chief scenes when the story was beginning, but now they had no time. It would have been an insult to the interest of the narrative.

Doubtless, if they had had the book, they would have skipped, to know "how it all ended." But it was time for the evening walk. So, instead of stringing themselves out along the way as was their custom, seeing if the raspberry bushes had grown any taller since the morning, the four collected in a close swarm about the tale-teller, like bees about an emigrant queen.

"You must tell us the rest -- you must!" they said, linking arms about my waist to prevent any attempt at an evasion of such just demands.

So, being secretly no little pleased with their eagerness, I launched out upon the conclusion of the whole matter -- which showed, among other things, how Waverley-Honour was more honoured than ever and the Blessed Bear of Bradwardine threefold blessed.



The Last Tale From "Waverley"


The Baron's Surprise

AFTER wandering about for some time Edward came unexpectedly upon a hamlet. Lights gleamed down the street, and Edward could hear loud voices and the tramp of horses. The sound of shouted orders and soldiers' oaths soon told him that he was in great danger. For these were English troops, and if they caught him in his Mac-Ivor tartan, would assuredly give him short shrift and a swift bullet.

Lingering a moment uncertainly near the gate of a small garden enclosure, he felt himself caught by gentle hands and drawn toward a house.

"Come, Ned," said a low voice, "the dragoons are down the village, and they will do thee a mischief. Come with me into feyther's!"

Judging this to be very much to the purpose, Edward followed, but when the girl saw the tall figure in tartans instead of the sweetheart she had expected, she dropped the candle she had lighted, and called out for her father.

A stout Westmoreland peasant at once appeared, poker in hand, and presently Edward found himself not ill received -- by the daughter on account of a likeness to her lover (so she said) and by the father because of a certain weakness for the losing side. So, in the house of Farmer Jopson, Edward slept soundly that night, in spite of the dangers which surrounded him on every side. In the morning the true Edward, whose name turned out to be Ned Williams, was called in to consult with father and daughter. It seemed impossible for Edward to go north to rejoin the Prince's forces. They had evacuated Penrith and marched away toward Carlisle. The whole intervening country was covered by scouting parties of government horsemen. Whereupon Ned Williams, who wished above all things to rid the house of his handsome namesake, lest his sweetheart Cicely should make other mistakes, offered to get Waverley a change of clothes, and to conduct him to his father's farm near Ulswater. Neither old Jopson nor his daughter would accept a farthing of money for saving Waverley's life. A hearty handshake paid one; a kiss, the other. And so it was not long before Ned Williams was introducing our hero to his family, in the character of a young clergyman who was detained in the north by the unsettled state of the country.

On their way into Cumberland they passed the field of battle where Edward had lost sight of Fergus. Many bodies still lay upon the face of the moorland, but that of Vich Ian Vohr was not among them, and Edward passed on with some hope that in spite of the Bodach Glas, Fergus might have escaped his doom. They found Callum Beg, however, his tough skull cloven at last by a dragoon's sword, but there was no sign either of Evan or of his Chieftain.

In the secure shelter of good Farmer Williams's house among the hills, it was Edward's lot to remain somewhat longer than he intended. In the first place, it was wholly impossible to move for ten days, owing to a great fall of snow. Then he heard how that the Prince had retreated farther into Scotland, how Carlisle had been besieged and taken by the English, and that the whole north was covered by the hosts of the Duke of Cumberland and General Wade.

But in the month of January it happened that the clergyman who came to perform the ceremony at the wedding of Ned Williams and Cicely Jopson, brought with him a newspaper which he showed to Edward. In it Waverley read with astonishment a notice of his father's death in London, and of the approaching trial of Sir Everard for high treason -- unless (said the report) Edward Waverley, son of the late Richard Waverley, and heir to the baronet, should in the meantime surrender himself to justice.

It was with an aching anxious heart that Waverley set out by the northern diligence for London. He found himself in the vehicle opposite to an officer's wife, one Mrs. Nosebag, who tormented him all the way with questions, on several occasions almost finding him out, and once at least narrowly escaping giving him an introduction to a recruiting sergeant of his own regiment.

However, in spite of all risks, he arrived safely under Colonel Talbot's roof, where he found that, though the news of his father's death was indeed true, yet his own conduct certainly had nothing to do with the matter -- nor was Sir Everard in the slightest present danger.

Whereupon, much relieved as to his family, Edward proclaimed his intention of returning to Scotland as soon as possible -- not indeed to join with the rebels again, but for the purpose of seeking out Rose Bradwardine and conducting her to a place of safety.

It was not, perhaps, the wisest course he might have pursued. But during his lonely stay at Farmer Williams's farm, Edward's heart had turned often and much to Rose. He could not bear to think of her alone and without protection. By means of a passport (which had been obtained for one Frank Stanley, Colonel Talbot's nephew), Waverley was able easily to reach Edinburgh. Here from the landlady, with whom he and Fergus had lodged, Edward first heard the dread news of Culloden, of the slaughter of the clans, the flight of the Prince, and, worst of all, how Fergus and Evan Dhu, captured the night of the skirmish, were presently on trial for their lives at Carlisle. Flora also was in Carlisle, awaiting the issue of the trial, while with less certainty Rose Bradwardine was reported to have gone back to her father's mansion of Tully-Veolan. Concerning the brave old Baron himself, Edward could get no news, save that he had fought most stoutly at Culloden, but that the government were particularly bitter against him because he had been 'out' twice -- that is, he had taken part both in the first rising of the year 1715, and also in that which had just been put down in blood at Culloden.

Without a moment's hesitation, Edward set off for Tully-Veolan, and after one or two adventures he arrived there, only to find the white tents of a military encampment whitening the moor above the village. The house itself had been sacked. Part of the stables had been burned, while the only living being left about the mansion of Tully-Veolan was no other than poor Davie Gellatley, who, chanting his foolish songs as usual, greeted Edward with the cheering intelligence that "A' were dead and gane -- Baron -- Bailie -- Saunders Saunderson -- and Lady Rose that sang sae sweet!"

However, it was not long before he set off at full speed, motioning Waverley to follow him. The innocent took a difficult and dangerous path along the sides of a deep glen, holding on to bushes, rounding perilous corners of rock, till at last the barking of dogs directed them to the entrance of a wretched hovel. Here Davie's mother received Edward with a sullen fierceness which the young man could not understand -- till, from behind the door, holding a pistol in his hand, unwashed, gaunt, and with a three weeks' beard fringing his hollow cheeks, he saw come forth -- the Baron of Bradwardine himself.

After the first gladsome greetings were over, the old man had many a tale to tell his young English friend. But his chief grievance was not his danger of the gallows, nor the discomfort of his hiding-place, but the evil-doing of his cousin, to whom, as it now appeared, the Barony of Bradwardine now belonged. Malcolm of Inch-Grabbit had, it appeared, come to uplift the rents of the Barony. But the country people, being naturally indignant that he should have so readily taken advantage of the misfortune of his kinsman, received him but ill. Indeed, a shot was fired at the new proprietor by some unknown marksman in the gloaming, which so frightened the heir that he fled at once to Stirling and had the estate promptly advertised for sale.

"In addition to which," continued the old man, "though I bred him up from a boy, he hath spoken much against me to the great folk of the time, so that they have sent a company of soldiers down here to destroy all that belongs to me, and to hunt his own blood-kin like a partridge upon the mountains."

"Aye," cried Janet Gellatley, "and if it had not been for my poor Davie there, they would have catched the partridge, too!"

Then with a true mother's pride Janet told the story of how the poor innocent had saved his master. The Baron was compelled by the strictness of the watch to hide, all day and most of the nights, in a cave high up in a wooded glen.

"A comfortable place enough," the old woman explained; "for the goodman of Corse-Cleugh has filled it with straw. But his Honour tires of it, and he comes down here whiles for a warm at the fire, or at times a sleep between the blankets. But once, when he was going back in the dawn, two of the English soldiers got a glimpse of him as he was slipping into the wood and banged off a gun at him. I was out on them like a hawk, crying if they wanted to murder a poor woman's innocent bairn! Whereupon they swore down my throat that they had seen 'the auld rebel himself,' as they called the Baron. But my Davie, that some folk take for a simpleton, being in the wood, caught up the old grey cloak that his Honour had dropped to run the quicker, and came out from among the trees as we were speaking, majoring and play-acting so like his Honour that the soldier-men were clean beguiled, and even gave me sixpence to say nothing about their having let off their gun at 'poor crack-brained Sawney,' as they named my Davie!"

It was not till this long tale was ended that Waverley heard what he had come so far to find out -- that Rose was safe in the house of a Whig Laird, an old friend of her father's, and that the Bailie, who had early left the army of the Prince, was trying his best to save something out of the wreck for her.

The next morning Edward went off to call on Bailie Macwheeble. At first the man of law was not very pleased to see him, but when he learned that Waverley meant to ask Rose to be his wife, he flung his best wig out of the window and danced the Highland fling for very joy. This rejoicing was a little marred by the fact that Waverley was still under proscription. But when a messenger of the Bailie's had returned from the nearest post-town with a letter from Colonel Talbot, all fear on this account was at an end. Colonel Talbot had, though with the greatest difficulty, obtained royal Protections for both the Baron of Bradwardine and for Edward himself. There was no doubt that full pardons would follow in due course.

Right thankfully the Baron descended from his cave, as soon as Edward carried him the good news, and with Davie Gellatley and his mother, all went down to the house of Bailie Macwheeble, where supper was immediately served.

It was from old Janet Gellatley, Davie's mother, that Waverley learned whom he had to thank for rescuing him from the hands of Captain Gifted Gilfillan, and to whom the gentle voice belonged which had cheered him during his illness. It was none other than Rose Bradwardine herself. To her, Edward owed all. She had even given up her jewels to Donald Bean Lean, that he might go scatheless. She it was who had provided a nurse for him in the person of old Janet Gellatley herself, and lastly she had seen him safely on his way to Holyrood under the escort of the sulky Laird of Balmawhapple.

So great kindness certainly required very special thanks. And Edward was not backward in asking the Baron for permission to accompany him to the house of Duchran, where Rose was at present residing. So well did Edward express his gratitude to Rose, that she consented to give all her life into his hands, that he might go on showing how thankful he was.

Of course the marriage could not take place for some time, because the full pardons of the Baron and Edward took some time to obtain. For Fergus Mac-Ivor, alas, no pardon was possible. He and Evan Dhu were condemned to be executed for high treason at Carlisle, and all that Edward could do was only to promise the condemned Chieftain that he would be kind to the poor clansmen of Vich Ian Vohr, for the sake of his friend.

As for Evan Dhu, he might have escaped. The Judge went the length of offering to show mercy, if Evan would only ask it. But when Evan Dhu was called upon to plead before the Court, his only request was that he might be permitted to go down to Glennaquoich and bring up six men to be hanged in the place of Vich Ian Vohr.

"And," he said, "ye may begin with me the first man!"

At this there was a laugh in the Court. But Evan, looking about him sternly, added: "If the Saxon gentlemen are laughing because a poor man such as me thinks my life, or the life of any six of my degree, is worth that of Vich Ian Vohr, they may be very right. But if they laugh because they think I would not keep my word, and come back to redeem him, I can tell them they ken neither the heart of a Hielandman nor the honour of a gentleman!"

After these words, there was no more laughing in that Court.

Nothing now could save Fergus Mac-Ivor. The government were resolved on his death as an example, and both he and Evan were accordingly executed, along with many others of the unhappy garrison of Carlisle.

*    *    *    *    *

Edward and Rose were married from the house of Duchran, and some days after they started, according to the custom of the time, to spend some time upon an estate which Colonel Talbot had bought, as was reported, a very great bargain. The Baron had been persuaded to accompany them, taking a place of honour in their splendid coach and six, the gift of Sir Everard. The coach of Mr. Rubrick of Duchran came next, full of ladies, and many gentlemen on horseback rode with them as an escort to see them well on their way.

At the turning of the road which led to Tully-Veolan, the Bailie met them. He requested the party to turn aside and accept of his hospitality at his house of Little Veolan. The Baron, somewhat put out, replied that he and his son-in-law would ride that way, but that they would not bring upon him the whole matrimonial procession. It was clear, however, that the Baron rather dreaded visiting the ancient home of his ancestors, which had been so lately sold by the unworthy Malcolm of Inch-Grabbit into the hands of a stranger. But as the Bailie insisted, and as the party evidently wished to accept, he could not hold out.

When the Baron arrived at the avenue, he fell into a melancholy meditation, thinking doubtless of the days when he had taken such pride in the ancient Barony which had passed for ever away from the line of the Bradwardines. From these bitter thoughts he was awakened by the sight of the two huge stone bears which had been replaced over the gate-posts.

Then down the avenue came the two great deer-hounds, Ban and Buscar, which had so long kept their master company in his solitude, with Daft Davie Gellatley dancing behind them.

The Baron was then informed that the present owner of the Barony was no other than Colonel Talbot himself. But that if he did not care to visit the new owner of Bradwardine, the party would proceed to Little Veolan, the house of Bailie Macwheeble.

Then, indeed, the Baron had need of all his greatness of mind. But he drew a long breath, took snuff abundantly, and remarked that as they had brought him so far, he would not pass the Colonel's gate, and that he would be happy to see the new master of his tenants. When he alighted in front of the Castle, the Baron was astonished to find how swiftly the marks of spoliation had been removed. Even the roots of the felled trees had disappeared. All was fair and new about the house of Tully-Veolan, even to the bright colours of the garb of Davie Gellatley, who ran first to one and then to the other of the company, passing his hands over his new clothes and crying, "Braw, braw Davie!"

The dogs, Bran and Buscar, leaping upon him, brought tears into the Baron's eyes, even more than the kind welcome of Colonel Talbot's wife, the Lady Emily. Still more astonishing appeared the changes in the so lately ruined courtyard. The burned stables had been rebuilt upon a newer and better plan. The pigeon-house was restocked, and populous with fluttering wings. Even the smallest details of the garden, and the multitude of stone bears on the gables, had all been carefully restored as of old.

The Baron could hardly believe his eyes, and he marvelled aloud that Colonel Talbot had not thought fit to replace the Bradwardine arms by his own. But here the Colonel, suddenly losing patience, declared that he would not, even to please these foolish boys, Waverley and Frank Stanley (and his own more foolish wife), continue to impose upon another old soldier. So without more ado he told the Baron that he had only advanced the money to buy back the Barony, and that he would leave Bailie Macwheeble to explain to whom the estate really belonged.

Trembling with eagerness the Bailie advanced, a formidable roll of papers in his hand.

He began triumphantly to explain that Colonel Talbot had indeed bought Bradwardine, but that he had immediately exchanged it for Brere-wood Lodge, which had been left to Edward under his father's will. Bradwardine had therefore returned to its ancient Lord in full and undisputed possession, and the Baron was once more master of all his hereditary powers, subject only to an easy yearly payment to his son-in-law.

Tears were actually in the old gentleman's eyes as he went from room to room, so that he could scarce speak a word of welcome either to the guests within, or of thanks to the rejoicing farmers and cottars who, hearing of his return, had gathered without. The climax of his joy was, however, reached when the Blessed Bear of Bradwardine itself, the golden cup of his line, mysteriously recovered out of the spoil of the English army by Frank Stanley, was brought to the Baron's elbow by old Saunders Saunderson.

Truth to tell, the recovery of this heirloom afforded the old man almost as much pleasure as the regaining of his Barony, and there is little doubt that a tear mingled with the wine, as, holding the Blessed Bear in his hand, the Baron solemnly proposed the healths of the united families of Waverley-Honour and Bradwardine.


The End Of The Last Tale From "Waverley."



Red Cap Tales

Told From

Guy Mannering



Guy Mannering


Where We Told The Second Tale

SUMMER there had been none. Autumn was a mockery. The golden harvest fields lay prostrate under drenching floods of rain. Every burn foamed creamy white in the linns and sulked peaty brown in the pools. The heather, rich in this our Galloway as an emperor's robe, had scarce bloomed at all. The very bees went hungry, for the lashing rain had washed all the honey out of the purple bells.

Nevertheless, in spite of all, we were again in Galloway -- that is, the teller of tales and his little congregation of four. The country of Guy Mannering spread about us, even though we could scarce see a hundred yards of it. The children flattened their noses against the blurred window-panes to look. Their eyes watered with the keen tang of the peat reek, till, tired with watching the squattering of ducks in farm puddles, they turned as usual upon the family sagaman, and demanded, with that militant assurance of youth which succeeds so often, that he should forthwith and immediately "tell them something."

The tales from Waverley had proved so enthralling that there was a general demand for "another," and Sir Toady Lion, being of an arithmetical turn of mind, proclaimed that there was plenty of material, in so much as he had counted no fewer than twenty-four "all the same" upon the shelf before he left home.

Thus, encouraged by the dashing rain on the windows and with the low continual growl of Solway surf in our ears, we bent ourselves to fill a gap in a hopeless day by the retelling of



A First Tale From "Guy Mannering"


I. Witchcraft And Wizardry

THROUGH storm and darkness a young Oxford scholar came to the New Place of Ellangowan. He had been again and again refused shelter along the road for himself and his tired horse, but at last he found himself welcomed by Godfrey Bertram, the Laird of Ellangowan, attended by Dominie Sampson, his faithful companion, the village schoolmaster, on the threshold of the great house.

That very night an heir was born to the line of the Bertrams of Ellangowan, one of the most ancient in Galloway, and as usual the New Place was full of company come from far and near to make merry over the event. Godfrey himself, a soft, good-natured, pliable man, welcomed Mannering (for that was the name of the young Oxford student), and set him forthwith to calculating the horoscope of the babe from the stars. This, Mannering, to whom astrology seemed no better than child's play, was at first unwilling to do, until the awkward opposition of Dominie Sampson, as well as some curiosity to see if he could remember the terms of the sham-science learned in youth, caused him to consent to make the calculation.

He was still further pushed on by the appearance of a wild gipsy woman, a sort of queen among the ragged wandering tribe which camped in a little hamlet on the Laird's estates. She entered the house singing shrilly a kind of ancient spell:

"Trefoil, vervain, John's wort, dill, Hinder witches of their will! Weel is them, that weel may Fast upon Saint Andrew's day. Saint Bride and her brat, Saint Colme and his cat, Saint Michael and his spear Keep the house frae reif and weir."

So sang Meg Merrilies, the gipsy, a great cudgel in her hand, and her dress and bearing more like those of a man than of a woman. Elf-locks shot up through the holes in her bonnet, and her black eyes rolled with a kind of madness. Soon, however, Godfrey, who evidently only half disbelieved in her powers as a witch, dismissed her to the kitchen with fair words, while Guy Mannering, whom his strange adventure had rendered sleepless, walked forth into the night. The vast ruins of the ancient castle of the Bertrams rose high and silent on the cliffs above him, but beneath, in the little sandy cove, lights were still moving briskly, though it was the dead hour of the night. A smuggler brig was disloading a cargo of brandy, rum, and silks, most likely, brought from the Isle of Man.

At sight of his figure moving on the cliffs above, a voice on the shore sang out, "Ware hawk! Douse the glim!" And in a moment all was darkness beneath him.

When Mannering returned to his chamber in the dim light of the morning, he proceeded to carry out his calculations according to the strictest rules of astrology, marking carefully the hour of the birth of the babe. He found that young Harry Bertram, for so it had been decided to name the child, was threatened with danger in his fifth, his tenth, and his twenty-first years.

More dissatisfied than he cared to own with these results, Mannering walked out again to view the ruins of the old castle of Ellangowan in the morning light. They were, he now saw, of vast extent and much battered on the side toward the sea -- so much so, indeed, that he could observe through a gap in the mason-work, the smuggling brig getting ready to be off with the tide. Guy Mannering penetrated into the courtyard, and was standing there quietly, thinking of the past greatness of the house of Bertram, when suddenly, from a chamber to the left, he heard the voice of the gipsy, Meg Merrilies. A few steps took him to a recess from which, unseen himself, he could observe what she was doing. She continued to twirl her distaff, seemingly unconscious of his presence, and also, after her own fashion, to "spae" the fortune of young Harry Bertram, just as Mannering had so lately been doing himself. Curiosity as to whether their results would agree kept him quiet while she wove her spell. At last she gave her verdict: "A long life, three score and ten years, but thrice broken by trouble or danger. The threads thrice broke, three times united. He'll be a lucky lad if he wins through wi' it!"

Mannering had hardly time to be astonished at the manner in which the gipsy's prophecy confirmed his own half-playful calculations, before a voice, loud and hoarse as the waves that roared beneath the castle, called to the witch-wife, "Meg, Meg Merrilies -- gipsy -- hag -- tousand deyvils!"

"Coming, Captain -- I am coming!" answered Meg, as calmly as if some one had been calling her pet names. Through the broken portion of the wall to seaward a man made his appearance. He was hard of feature, savage-looking, and there was a cruel glint in his eyes which told of a heart without pity.

The man's body, powerful and thick-set as an oak, his immense strength, his savage temper made him shunned and disliked. There were few indeed who would have ventured to cross the path of Dirk Hatteraick, whose best name was "black smuggler," and whose worst a word it was safest to speak in a whisper, lest a bird of the air should carry the matter.

On the present occasion Dirk had come to the gipsy queen to demand of her a charm for a fair wind and a prosperous voyage. For the less religion such a man has, the more superstitious he is apt to be.

"Where are you, Mother Deyvilson?" he cried again. "Donner and blitzen, here we have been staying for you full half an hour! Come, bless the good ship and the voyage -- and be cursed to ye for a hag of Satan!"

At that moment, catching sight of Mannering, the smuggler stopped with a strange start. He thrust his hand into his pocket as if to draw out a hidden weapon, exclaiming: "What cheer, brother? You seem on the outlook, eh?"

But with a glance at the intruder Meg Merrilies checked him. In a moment Hatteraick had altered his tone, and was speaking to Mannering civilly, yet still with an undercurrent of sullen suspicion which he tried to disguise under a mask of familiarity.

"You are, I suppose," said Mannering, calmly, "the master of that vessel in the bay?"

"Ay, ay, sir," answered the sailor, "I am Captain Dirk Hatteraick of the Yungfrauw Hagenslaapen, and I am not ashamed of my name or of my vessel, either. Right cognac I carry -- rum, lace, real Mechlin, and Souchong tea -- if you will come aboard, I will send you ashore with a pouchful of that last -- Dirk Hatteraick knows how to be civil!"

Mannering got rid of his offers without openly offending the man, and was well content to see the precious pair vanish down the stone stairs which had formerly served the garrison of the castle in time of siege.

On his return to the house of Ellangowan, Mannering related his adventure, and asked of his host who this villanous-looking Dutchman might be, and why he was allowed to wander at will on his lands.

This was pulling the trigger, and Mr. Bertram at once exploded into a long catalogue of griefs. According to him, the man was undoubtedly one Captain Dirk Hatteraick, a smuggler or free-trader. As for allowing him on his lands -- well, Dirk was not very canny to meddle with. Besides, impossible as it was to believe, he, Godfrey Bertram of Ellangowan, was not upon his Majesty's commission of the peace for the county. Jealousy had kept him off -- among other things the ill-will of the sitting member. Besides which -- after all a gentleman must have his cognac, and his lady her tea and silks. Only smuggled articles came into the country. It was a pity, of course, but he was not more to blame than others.

Thus the Laird maundered on, and Mannering, glad to escape being asked about the doubtful fortune which the stars had predicted for the young heir, did not interrupt him. On the next day, however, before he mounted his horse, he put the written horoscope into a sealed envelope, and, having strictly charged Bertram that it should not be opened till his son reached the age of five years, he took his departure with many expressions of regret.

The next five years were outwardly prosperous ones for Godfrey Bertram of Ellangowan. As the result of an election where he had been of much service to the winning candidate, he was again made a Justice of the Peace, and immediately he set about proving to his brothers of the bench that he could be both a determined and an active magistrate. But this apparent good, brought as usual much of evil with it. Many old kindly customs and courtesies had endeared Godfrey Bertram to his poorer neighbours. He was, they said, no man's enemy, and even the gipsies of the little settlement would have cut off their right hands before they touched a pennyworth belonging to the Laird, their patron and protector. But the other landlords twitted him with pretending to be an active magistrate, and yet harbouring a gang of gipsies at his own door-cheek. Whereupon the Laird went slowly and somewhat sadly home, revolving schemes for getting rid of the colony of Derncleugh, at the head of which was the old witch-wife Meg Merrilies.

Occasions of quarrel were easy to find. The sloe-eyed gipsy children swinging on his gates were whipped down. The rough-coated donkeys forbidden to eat their bite of grass in peace by the roadside. The men were imprisoned for poaching, and matters went so far that one stout young fellow was handed over to the press-gang at Dumfries and sent to foreign parts to serve on board a man-of-war.

The gipsies, on their side, robbed the Ellangowan hen-roosts, stole the linen from my lady's bleaching-green, cut down and barked the young trees -- though all the while scarce believing that their ancient friend the Laird of Ellangowan had really turned against them.

During these five years the son, so strangely brought into the world on the night of Mannering's visit, had been growing into the boldest and brightest of boys. A wanderer by nature from his youth, he went fearlessly into each nook and corner of his father's estates in search of berries and flowers. He hunted every bog for rushes to weave grenadiers' caps, and haled the hazelnuts from the lithe coppice boughs.

To Dominie Sampson, long since released from his village school, the difficult task was committed of accompanying, restraining, and guiding this daring spirit and active body. Shy, uncouth, awkward, with the memory of his failure in the pulpit always upon him, the Dominie was indeed quite able to instruct his pupil in the beginnings of learning, but it proved quite out of his power to control the pair of twinkling legs belonging to Master Harry Bertram. Once was the Dominie chased by a cross-grained cow. Once he fell into the brook at the stepping-stones, and once he was bogged in his middle in trying to gather water-lilies for the young Laird. The village matrons who relieved Dominie Sampson on this last occasion, declared that the Laird might just as well "trust the bairn to the care o' a tatie-bogle!" But the good tutor, nothing daunted, continued grave and calm through all, only exclaiming, after each fresh misfortune, the single word "Prodeegious!"

Often, too, Harry Bertram sought out Meg Merrilies at Derncleugh, where he played his pranks among the gipsies as fearlessly as within the walls of Ellangowan itself. Meanwhile the war between that active magistrate Godfrey Bertram and the gipsies grew ever sharper. The Laird was resolved to root them out, in order to stand well with his brother magistrates. So the gipsies sullenly watched while the ground officer chalked their doors in token that they must "flit" at the next term.

At last the fatal day arrived. A strong force of officers summoned the gipsies to quit their houses, and when they did not obey, the sheriff's men broke down the doors and pulled the roofs off the poor huts of Derncleugh.

Godfrey Bertram, who was really a kindly man, had gone away for the day to avoid the sight, leaving the business to the chief exciseman of the neighbourhood, -- one Frank Kennedy, a bold, roistering blade, who knew no fear, and had no qualms whatever about ridding the neighbourhood of a gang of "sorners and thieves," as he called the Derncleugh gipsies.

But as Godfrey was riding back to Ellangowan with a single servant, right in the middle of the King's highway, he met the whole congregation of the exiles, evicted from their ruined houses, and sullenly taking their way in search of a new shelter against the storms of the oncoming winter. His servant rode forward to command every man to stand to his beast's head while the Laird was passing.

"He shall have his half of the road," growled one of the tall thin gipsies, his features half-buried in a slouch hat, "but he shall have no more. The highway is as free to our cuddies as to his horse."

Never before had the Laird of Ellangowan received such a discourteous reception. Anxious at the last to leave a good impression, he stammered out as he passed one of the older men, "And your son, Gabriel Baillie, is he well?" (He meant the young man who had been sent by means of the press-gang to foreign parts.) With a deep scowl the old man replied, "If I had heard otherwise, you would have heard it too!"

At last Godfrey Bertram thought that he had escaped. He had passed the last laden donkey of the expelled tribe. He was urging his beast toward Ellangowan with a saddened spirit, when suddenly at a place where the road was sunk between two high banks, Meg Merrilies appeared above him, a freshly cut sapling in her hand, her dark eyes flashing anger, and her elf-locks straying in wilder confusion than ever.

"Ride your ways, Laird of Ellangowan," she cried, "ride your ways, Godfrey Bertram! This day ye have quenched seven smoking hearths -- see if the fire in your own parlour burns the brighter for that? Ye have riven the thatch off seven cottars' houses -- look if your roof-tree stands the faster. There are thirty yonder that would have shed their lifeblood for you -- thirty, from the child of a week to the auld wife of a hundred, that you have made homeless, that you have sent out to sleep with the fox and the blackcock. Our bairns are hanging on our weary backs -- look to it that your braw cradle at hame is the fairer spread! Now ride your ways, Godfrey Bertram. These are the last words ye shall ever hear from Meg Merrilies, and this the last staff that I shall ever cut in the bonny woods of Ellangowan!"

And with the gesture of a queen delivering sentence she broke the sapling she had held in her hand, and flung the fragments into the road. The Laird was groping in his pocket for half a crown, and thinking meanwhile what answer to make. But disdaining both his reply and his peace-offering, Meg strode defiantly downhill after the caravan.

*    *    *    *    *

Not only was there war by land at Ellangowan. There was also war by sea. The Laird, determined for once not to do things by halves, had begun to support Frank Kennedy, the chief revenue officer, in his campaign against the smugglers. Armed with Ellangowan's warrant, and guided by his people who knew the country, Kennedy swooped down upon Dirk Hatteraick as he was in the act of landing a large cargo upon Ellangowan's ground. After a severe combat he had been able to clap the government broad-arrow upon every package and carry them all off to the nearest customs' post. Dirk Hatteraick got safely away, but he went, vowing in English, Dutch, and German, the direst vengeance against Frank Kennedy, Godfrey Bertram, and all his enemies.

It was a day or two after the eviction of the gipsies when the Lady of Ellangowan, suddenly remembering that it was her son Harry's fifth birthday, demanded of her husband that he should open and read the horoscope written by the wandering student of the stars five years before. While they were arguing about the matter, it was suddenly discovered that little Harry was nowhere to be found. His guardian, Dominie Sampson, having returned without him, was summoned to give an account of his stewardship by the angry mother.

"Mr. Sampson," she cried, "it is the most extraordinary thing in the world wide, that you have free up-putting in this house, -- bed, board, washing, and twelve pounds sterling a year just to look after that boy, -- and here you have let him out of your sight for three hours at a time!"

Bowing with awkward gratitude at each clause in this statement of his advantages, the poor Dominie was at last able to stammer out that Frank Kennedy had taken charge of Master Harry, in the face of his protest, and had carried him off to Warroch Head to see the taking of Dirk Hatteraick's ship by the King's sloop-of-war, which he had ridden all the way to Wigton Bay to bring about.

"And if that be so," cried the Lady of Ellangowan, "I am very little obliged to Frank Kennedy. The bairn may fall from his horse, or anything may happen."

The Laird quieted his wife by telling her that he and Frank Kennedy had together seen the sloop-of-war giving chase to Dirk Hatteraick's ship, and that even then the Dutchman, disabled and on fire, was fast drifting upon the rocks. Frank Kennedy had ridden off to assist in the capture by signalling to the man-of-war from Warroch Head, and had evidently picked up little Harry upon the way. He would doubtless, continued the Laird, be back in a little time. For he had ordered the punch-bowl to be made ready, that they might drink good luck to the King's service and confusion to all smugglers and free-traders wherever found.

But hour after hour went by, and neither Frank Kennedy nor the boy Harry returned. The night approached. Parties of searchers anxiously beat the woods and patrolled the cliffs. For long they found nothing, but at last a boat's crew, landing perilously at the foot of the precipices, came upon the body of the excise officer, a sword-cut in his head, lying half in and half out of the water. He had been flung from the cliffs above. Frank Kennedy was dead -- as to that there was no question. But what had become of the child, Harry Bertram? That -- no one could answer. Not a trace of him was to be found. The smuggler's ship still burned fiercely, but Dirk Hatteraick and his men had completely vanished. Some one suggested the gipsies, whereupon the Laird mounted the first horse he came across and rode furiously to the huts of Derncleugh. Bursting in a door, he found on the ruined hearth of the house that had once sheltered Meg Merrilies, a fire still smouldering. But there, too, Godfrey Bertram discovered nothing and no one.

While he remained on the spot, dazed and uncertain, looking at the blackened hearthstone, his old servant entered hastily to bid him return at once to Ellangowan. His wife had been taken dangerously ill. Godfrey spurred as fast as horse would carry him, but Death had gone faster, and had arrived before him. When he reached the gate, the Lady of Ellangowan was dead, leaving him with a little baby girl less than an hour old. The shock of Kennedy's murder and her own little Harry's loss had killed her.



Interlude Of Interrogation

The melancholy conclusion of the first Guy Mannering tale kept the children quieter than usual. I think they regretted a little the gallant opening of Waverley, but as ever they were full of questions.

"And all that happened here, in our Galloway?" began Sweetheart, looking about her at the hills of dark heather and the sparkling Solway sands, from which the storm-clouds were just beginning to lift.

"Yes," I answered her, "though it is doubtful if Scott ever was in Galloway. But he had seen Criffel across from Dumfries-shire, and the castle of Ellangowan is certainly described from the ruins of Caerlaverock, opposite New Abbey. Besides, had he not good old Joseph Train, the Castle Douglas exciseman, to tell him everything -- than whom no man knew Galloway better?"

"Did gipsies really steal children?" said Maid Margaret, with some apprehension. She was somewhat anxious, for an affirmative answer might interfere with certain wide operations in blackberrying which she was planning.

"Sometimes they did," I answered, "but not nearly so often as they were blamed for. They had usually enough mouths of their own to feed. So, unless they were sure of a ransom, or perhaps occasionally for the sake of revenge, gipsies very seldom were guilty of kidnapping."

"But they always do steal them in books," said Hugh John; "well, I would just like to see them cart me off! And if they took Sir Toady Lion, they would soon send him back. He eats so much!"

This was Hugh John's idea of a joke, and somewhat hastily I interrupted fraternal strife by returning to the general subject.

"Adam Smith, a very learned man, who afterwards wrote The Wealth of Nations, was stolen by gipsies when a child," I said.

"I wish they had just kept him," said Hugh John, unexpectedly; "then we wouldn't have had to paraphrase the beastly thing at school. It is as full of jaw-breakers as a perch is full of bones."

"Was little Harry really stolen by gipsies, or was he killed over the cliff?" queried Maid Margaret.

"Of course he was stolen, silly," broke in Sir Toady Lion, sagely; "look how much more of the book there has got to be all about him. Think there would be all that, if he got killed right at the beginning, eh?"

"Do any people smuggle nowadays?" demanded Hugh John.

"Of course they do -- in Spain," interjected Sir Toady Lion, "father got put in prison there once."

"That was all owing to a mistake," I explained hastily (for really this had nothing to do with Scott); "it was only because your parent happened to be wearing the same kind of hat as a certain well-known smuggler, a very desperate character."

"HUM-M!" said Sir Toady Lion, suddenly developing a cold in the nose.

"Well, anyway, they do smuggle -- though not much in this country now," said Sweetheart, "and I'm glad father knew a man who smuggled in Spain. It makes this book so much more real."

"Getting put in prison instead of him made it almost too real," said Sir Toady. He is a most disconcerting and ironical boy. One often wonders where he gets it from.

So to shut off further questioning, I proceeded immediately with the telling of the second tale from Guy Mannering.



The Second Tale From "Guy Mannering"


I. Happy Dominie Sampson

IT was seventeen long years after the murder of Frank Kennedy and the disappearance of little Harry Bertram when Guy Mannering, now a soldier famous for his wars in the East, penetrated a second time into Galloway. His object was to visit the family of Ellangowan, and secretly, also, to find out for himself in what way his random prophesies had worked out.

But he arrived at an unfortunate time. He found that, chiefly by the plotting and deceit of a rascally lawyer, one Gilbert Glossin, the Bertrams were on the point of being sold out of Ellangowan. All their money had been lost, and the sale of the estate was being forced on by the rascally lawyer Glossin for his own ends.

The old man Godfrey Bertram also was very near his end. And indeed on the very day of the sale, and while Mannering was paying his respects to his former host, the sight of Glossin so enraged the feeble old man that he was taken with a violent passion, falling back in his chair and dying in a few minutes.

Mannering, whose heart was greatly touched, was most anxious to do all that he could to assist Lucy Bertram, the old man's daughter, but he was compelled by an urgent summons to return into England. It had been his intention to save the estate of Ellangowan from the clutches of the scoundrel Glossin by buying it himself, but the drunkenness of a postboy whom he had sent with a letter to Mr. Mac-Morlan, the lawyer in charge of the sale, defeated his intentions, so that Ellangowan became the property of the traitor. So young Lucy Bertram and Dominie Sampson (who refused to be separated from her) became for the moment inmates of Mr. Mac-Morlan's house. The Dominie found a pupil or two in the neighbourhood that he might not be chargeable to his dear Lucy or her friend Mr. Mac-Morlan. And so, in the twenty-first year after the birth of an heir, and after Mannering's prophecy concerning him, there seemed an end to the ancient house of the Bertrams of Ellangowan.

During these years, Colonel Mannering also had a tale to tell. Wedded early to the wife of his youth and his heart, he had gone to India in the service of the Honourable, the East India Company. There by his valour and talent he had rapidly acquired both wealth and position. But during the twenty-first year an event occurred which gave him a distaste for the land of his adoption, and he had come back to his native country with the idea of settling down, far away from old memories and new entanglements.

In a duel which he had fought in India with a young man named Brown -- a brave youth of no position, who had offended Mannering by his attentions to his daughter, and by establishing himself in his house as a friend of the family -- he had left Brown for dead on the field, hardly escaping himself with his life from a sudden attack of the armed banditti who, in the India of that day, were always hovering round desert places. The shock of that morning had so told on the health of Mannering's wife that she died shortly afterwards, leaving him with one daughter, Julia -- a proud, sprightly, sentimental girl, whom he had brought home, and placed under the care of a friend named Mervyn, whose house stood upon one of the Cumberland lakes.

So it came about that when Mannering was in Scotland, he received a letter from his friend which took him to Mervyn Hall as fast as horse-flesh could carry him.

His friend wrote, as he was careful to say, without his wife's knowledge. Mr. Mervyn told Colonel Mannering that he was certain that his daughter Julia was receiving secret visits from some one whom she did not dare to see openly. Not only were there long solitary walks and hill-climbings, but on several occasions he had heard up the lake at midnight, as if under her windows, a flageolet playing a little Indian air to which Julia Mannering was partial. This was evidently a signal, for a boat had been seen hastily crossing the lake, and the sash of Julia's window had been heard to shut down at the first alarm. Mr. Mervyn said that, little as he liked playing the part of tale-bearer, he felt that Julia was under his care, and he would not deserve his old name of Downright Dunstable if he did not inform her father of what he had discovered. Julia, he said, was both a charming and high spirited girl, but she was too much her own father's daughter to be without romantic ideas. On the whole, concluded Mr. Mervyn, it behooved the Colonel to come at once to Mervyn Hall and look after his own property.

This was the letter which, put into his hands at a seaport town in Scotland, lost Mannering the estate of Ellangowan, and threw the ancient seat of many generations of Bertrams into the clutches of the scoundrelly Glossin. For Colonel Mannering instantly posted off to the south, having first of all sent despatches to Mr. Mac-Morlan by the untrustworthy postilion -- the same who arrived a day too late for the sale.

When Colonel Mannering first went to Mervyn Hall, he could make nothing of the case. Of course he believed Brown to have died by his hand in India, and he could find no traces of any other man likely to be making love to his daughter. Nevertheless he had brought back a plan with him from Scotland, which, he thought, would put an end to all future difficulties. The helplessness of Lucy Bertram had moved his heart. Besides, he was more amused than he cared to own by the originality of the Dominie. He had easily obtained, by means of Mr. Mac-Morlan, a furnished house in the neighbourhood of Ellangowan, and he resolved for a time at least to repose himself there after his campaigns. His daughter Julia would thus have a companion in Lucy Bertram, and it was easy to provide the Dominie with an occupation. For the library of an uncle of Mannering's, who had been a learned bishop of the Church of England, had been willed to him. The Dominie was the very man to put the books in order. So indeed it was arranged, after some saucy remarks from Miss Mannering as to the supposed Scottish accent and probable red hair of her companion.

Then Colonel Mannering, accustomed to do nothing by halves, sent down his directions about Dominie Sampson, whose heart indeed would have been broken if he had been separated from the young mistress over whom he had watched from childhood.

"Let the poor man be properly dressed," wrote the Colonel to Mr. Mac-Morlan, "and let him accompany his young lady to Woodbourne!"

The dressing of Dominie Sampson was, however, easier said than done. For it would hurt the pride of the Dominie to have clothes presented to him as to a schoolboy. But Lucy Bertram soon settled the matter. The Dominie, she said, would never notice the difference, if they put one garment at a time into his sleeping room and took away the other. This was what her father had always done when the wardrobe of his dependent needed renewing. Nor had the Dominie ever showed the least consciousness of the change.

So said, so done. A good tailor, having come and looked Mr. Sampson over, readily agreed to provide him with two excellent suits, one black and one raven grey, such as would fit the Dominie as well as a man of such an out-of-the-way build could be fitted by merely human needles and shears.

The Dominie, when completely equipped, made no remark upon the change -- further than that, in his opinion, the air of a seaport town like Kippletringan seemed to be favourable to wearing-apparel.

It was the depth of winter when the Mannerings arrived at Woodbourne. All were a little anxious. Even Dominie Sampson longed to be at his books, and going repeatedly to the windows demanded, "Why tarry the wheels of their chariot?" But when at last they came, Lucy and Julia Bertram were soon friends, while the Dominie stood with uplifted hands, exclaiming, "Prodeegious! Prodeegious!" as, one after another, the thirty or forty cart-loads of books were deposited on the library floor ready to his hand. His arms flapped like windmills, and the uncouth scholar counted himself the happiest man on earth as he began to arrange the great volumes on the shelves. Not that he got on very quickly. For he wrote out the catalogue in his best running-hand. He put the books on the shelves as carefully as if they had been old and precious china. Yet in spite of the Dominie's zeal, his labours advanced but slowly. Often he would chance to open a volume when halfway up the ladder. Then, his eye falling upon some entrancing passage, he would stand there transfixed, oblivious of the flight of time, till a serving-maid pulled his skirts to tell him dinner was waiting. He would then bolt his food in three-inch squares, and rush back to the library, often with his dinner napkin still tied round his neck like a pinafore. Thus, for the first time in his life, Dominie Sampson was perfectly content.

"HIS eye falling upon some entrancing passage, he would stand there transfixed, oblivious of the flight of time, till a serving-maid pulled his skirts to tell him dinner was waiting."


II. Dandie Dinmont

But the story now turns to the young man Brown, or, to give him his full title, Captain Vanbeest Brown, whom Colonel Mannering had left for dead on an Indian field. He did not die, but he had been compelled to undergo a long captivity among the bandits before he found his way back to his regiment. The new Colonel whom he found in Mannering's place had been kind to him, and he soon found himself in command of a troop of dragoons. He was at present on leave in England, and, as he was conscious that Mannering had no reason for his ill-will and apparent cruelty, Brown felt that he on his part had no reason for standing on ceremony with such a man. He loved Julia Mannering, and, to say the least of it, she did not discourage him. So it was he who had played the Hindoo air upon the lake -- he with whom Julia had talked at her window, even as Mervyn had related in his letter to his friend Colonel Mannering.

When the Colonel and his daughter went away to Scotland, Captain Brown, having no relatives in the country, resolved to follow them. He set out on foot, having for sole companion a little terrier named Wasp. On the way he had to pass a long and weary waste of heath and morass. One house alone broke the monotonous expanse. It was little better than a shed, but was sheltered by an ash tree, and a clay-built shed alongside served for a rude stable. A stout pony stood tethered in front of the door, busy with a feed of oats. Stillness brooded all around. It was a poor place, but Captain Brown had wandered too far and seen too much to care about appearances. He stooped his head and entered at the low door. In a few minutes he found himself attacking a round of beef and washing it down with home-brewed ale in company with the owner of the pony tethered outside, a certain Mr. Dandie Dinmont, a store-farmer on his way home from a Cumberland fair. At first only pleasant nods passed between them as they drank to each other in silence.

Presently Brown noticed, seated in the great chimney, a very tall old woman clad in a red cloak and a slouched bonnet, having all the appearance of a gipsy or tinker. She smoked silently at her clay pipe, while the doubtful-looking landlady went about her affairs.

Brown's terrier Wasp was the means of his striking up an acquaintance with the sturdy farmer opposite, who, hearing that he had never seen a blackcock, invited him forthwith to Charlies-hope, the name of his farm, where he promised him he should both see blackcock, shoot blackcock, and eat blackcock. Dandie Dinmont was going on to tell Brown of his wanderings, when the old crone in the red cloak by the side of the fire suddenly broke silence by asking if he had been recently in Galloway, and if he knew Ellangowan.

"Ellangowan!" cried the farmer, "I ken it weel! Auld Laird Bertram died but a fortnight ago, and the estate and everything had to be sold for want of an heir male."

The old gipsy (who, of course, was no other than Meg Merrilies) sprang at once to her feet.

"And who dared buy the estate, when the bonny knave-bairn that heirs it may any day come back to claim his ain?"

"It was, I believe," said Dandie Dinmont, "one of these writer bodies that buy up everything, -- Gilbert Glossin by name!"

"Ay, Gibbie Glossin," said the old witch-wife, "mony a time I hae carried him in my creels. But maybe ye'll hae heard o' Derncleugh, about a mile frae Ellangowan?"

"And a wild-looking den it is," said the farmer; "nothing but old ruined walls."

"It was a blithe bit once," said the gipsy, as if talking to herself; "did ye notice if there was a willow tree half blown down, that hangs over the bit burnie? Mony is the time hae I sat there and knitted my stockin'."

"The deil's in the wife," cried Dandie; "let me away! Here's saxpence for ye to buy half-a-mutchkin, instead o' claverin' o' auld-world tales."

The gipsy took the money from the farmer, and tendered in return this advice: "When Tib Mumps brings ye out the stirrup-cup, and asks ye whether ye will gang ower Willie's brae or by the Conscowthartmoss, be sure to choose the road ye dinna tell her."

The farmer laughed and promised. But to Brown he said that after all he would rather that Tib Mumps kenned where he was going than yon gipsy queen, so he would e'en hold on his way.

Captain Brown soon followed on foot, but at the door he found himself stopped by Meg Merrilies, who, with much earnestness, asked his name and from whence he came.

"My name is Brown," he answered, a little impatiently; "I come from the East Indies."

"HE had not gone very far, and was still in the heart of the morass, when he saw his late companion of the ale-house engaged in deadly combat with a couple of rascals, one of them armed with a cutlass, and the other with a bludgeon."

The old gipsy appeared disappointed by his answer, and Brown put a shilling into her hand as he took his leave. However, he had not gone very far, and was still in the heart of the morass, when he saw his late companion of the ale-house engaged in deadly combat with a couple of rascals, one of them armed with a cutlass, and the other with a bludgeon. Brown's terrier Wasp ran forward, barking furiously, but before Brown could come to his assistance the ruffians had got Dandie Dinmont down, and the man with the bludgeon bestowed some merciless blows upon his head. Then with a shout they turned their attention to Brown, crying that "the first one was content." But Brown was a staunch antagonist, and they soon found that they had met more than their match. Whereupon the leader bade him follow his nose over the heath, for that they had nothing to say to him.

But, since to do this was to abandon Dandie Dinmont to their mercy, Brown refused point-blank. Affairs were at this pass when Dandie, staggering to his feet, his loaded whip in his hand, managed to come to the assistance of his rescuer, whereupon the two men took to their heels and ran as hard as they could over the moor.

Then the farmer, who knew their ways, bade Brown mount behind him on his horse Dumple, for he warned him that in five minutes "the whole clanjamphrey" would be down upon them. And even as he spoke five or six men made their appearance, running toward them over the moss. But Dumple was staunch, and by dint of following the safest roads, and being left to pick his own way in the difficult places, Dandie's pony soon left the villains behind him. Then, following the old Roman road, they reached Dinmont's farm of Charlies-hope, across the border, not long after nightfall.

A furious barking from innumerable terriers and dogs of all breeds was their welcome. And soon Brown found himself within four hospitable walls, where not only were his own wants satisfied, but the wounds of the master of the house were bound up by his buxom wife.

At kindly Charlies-hope, Brown remained several days, while Dandie Dinmont showed him the best sport to be had upon the border. Together they hunted the fox after the manner of the country -- that is, treating Reynard as a thief and a robber, with whom no conditions are to be observed. Together they went to the night fishing, where Brown heard the leisters or steel tridents ringing on the stones at the bottom of the water, as the fishers struck at the salmon in the light of the blazing torches kindled to attract the fish. Otter-hunting and badger-baiting filled in the time, so that Brown had never been so well amused in his life. But he begged from his host that the badger, which had made so gallant a defence, should be allowed henceforth to go scot-free. Dandie promised with willingness, happy to oblige his guest, though quite unable to understand why any one should "care about a brock." When Brown told this hearty family that he must leave them, he was compelled to promise, over and over again, that he would soon return. The chorus of Dandie's tow-headed youngsters burst into one unanimous howl.

"Come back again, Captain," cried one sturdy little chap, "and Jennie shall be your wife."

Jennie, a girl of eleven, promptly ran and hid herself behind her mother.

"Captain, come back," said a little fat roll-about girl of six, holding up her mouth to be kissed; "come back and I'll be your wife my ainsel'!"

It was hard to leave so hospitable a home to go where, to say the least of it, one was not wanted. Especially was it so when the sturdy farmer, grasping Brown's hand, said with a certain shamefacedness, "There's a pickle siller that I do not ken what to do wi', after Ailie has gotten her new goon and the bairns their winter duds. But I was thinking, that whiles you army gentlemen can buy yoursel's up a step. If ye wad tak the siller, a bit scrape o' a pen wad be as guid to me. Ye could take your ain time about paying it back. And -- and it would be a great convenience to me."

Brown was much moved, but he could only thank his kind host heartily and promise that in case of need he would not forget to draw upon his purse. So they parted, Brown leaving his little terrier Wasp to share bed and board with the eldest of the Dinmont boys, who right willingly undertook the task as a kind of security for his master's return.

Dinmont conveyed his guest some distance, and afterward, from the first Dumfries-shire town which they entered, Brown took a carriage to carry him part of the way in the direction of Woodbourne, where Julia Mannering was at present residing.


III. In The Lion's Mouth

Night and mist stopped him after many miles of journeying. The postboy had lost his way, and could offer no suggestions. Brown descended to see if by chance, in this wild place, they were near any farm-house at which he could ask the way. Standing tiptoe upon a bank, it seemed as if he could see in the distance a light feebly glimmering.

Brown proceeded toward it, but soon found himself stumbling among ruins of cottages, the side walls of which were lying in shapeless heaps, half covered with snow, while the gables still stood up gaunt and black against the sky. He ascended a bank, steep and difficult, and found himself in front of a small square tower, from the chinks of which a light showed dimly. Listening cautiously, he heard a noise as of stifled groaning.

Brown approached softly, and looked through a long arrow-slit upon a dismal scene. Smoke filled a wretched apartment. On a couch a man lay, apparently dying, while beside him, wrapped in a long cloak, a woman sat with bent head, crooning to herself and occasionally moistening the sufferer's lips with some liquid.

"It will not do," Brown heard her say at last "he cannot pass away with the crime on his soul. It tethers him here. I must open the door."

As she did so she saw Brown standing without. He, on his part, recognised in the woman the gipsy wife whom he had seen on the Waste of Cumberland, when he and Dandie Dinmont had had their fight with the robbers.

"Did I not tell you neither to mix nor mingle?" said the woman; "but come in. Here is your only safety!"

Even as she spoke, the head of the wounded man fell back. He was dead, and, before Brown could think of seeking safety in flight, they heard in the distance the sound of voices approaching.

"They are coming!" whispered the gipsy; "if they find you here, you are a dead man. Quick -- you cannot escape. Lie down, and, whatever you see or hear, do not stir, as you value your life."

Brown had no alternative but to obey. So the old gipsy wife covered him over with old sacks as he lay in the corner upon a couch of straw.

Then Meg went about the dismal offices of preparing the dead man for burial, but Brown could see that she was constantly pausing to listen to the sounds which every moment grew louder without. At last a gang of fierce-looking desperadoes poured tumultuously in, their leader abusing the old woman for leaving the door open.

But Meg Merrilies had her answer ready.

"Did you ever hear of a door being barred when a man was in the death-agony?" she cried. "Think ye the spirit could win away through all these bolts and bars?"

"Is he dead, then?" asked one of the ruffians, glancing in the direction of the bed.

"Ay, dead enough," growled another; "but here is the wherewithal to give him a rousing lykewake!" And going to the corner he drew out a large jar of brandy, while Meg busied herself in preparing pipes and tobacco.

Brown in his corner found his mind a little eased when he saw how eagerly she went about her task.

"She does not mean to betray me, then!" he said to himself. Though for all that, he could see no gleam of womanly tenderness on her face, nor imagine any reason she should not give him up to her associates.

That they were a gang of murderers was soon evident from their talk. The man, now wrapped in the dark sea-cloak, whose dead face looked down on their revels, was referred to as one who had often gloried in the murder of Frank Kennedy. But some of the others held that the deed was not wisely done, because after that the people of the country would not do business with the smugglers.

"It did up the trade for one while!" said one; "the people turned rusty!"

Then there were evident threats uttered against some one whose name Brown did not hear.

"I think," said the leader of the ruffians, "that we will have to be down upon the fellow one of these nights, and let him have it well!"

After a while the carousing bandits called for what they called "Black Peter." It was time (they said) "to flick it open."

To Brown's surprise and indignation, Black Peter proved to be nothing else than his own portmanteau, which gave him reasons for some very dark thoughts as to the fate of his postboy. He watched the rascals force his bag open and coolly divide all that was in it among them. Yet he dared not utter a word, well aware that had he done so, the next moment a knife would have been at his throat.

At last, to his great relief, Brown saw them make their preparations for departure. He was left alone with the dead man and the old woman.

Meg Merrilies waited till the first sun of the winter's morn had come, lest one of the revellers of the night should take it into his head to turn back. Then she led Brown by a difficult and precipitous path, till she could point out to him, on the other side of some dense plantations, the road to Kippletringan.

"And here," said she, mysteriously putting a large leathern purse into his hand, "is what will in some degree repay the many alms your house has given me and mine!"

She was gone before he could reply, and when Brown opened the purse, he was astonished to find in it gold to the amount of nearly one hundred pounds, besides many valuable jewels. The gipsy had endowed him with a fortune.


Interlude Of Locality

"And all this happened here?" repeated Sweetheart, incredulously, pointing up at the dark purple mountains of Screel and Ben Gairn.

"Well," I answered, "Scott's Solway is the Dumfries Solway, not the Galloway Solway. Portanferry exists not far from Glencaple on the eastern bank of Nith, and the castle of Ellangowan is as like as possible to Caerlaverock."

"But he says Galloway!" objected Sweetheart, who has a pretty persistence of her own. "And I wanted Ellangowan to be in Galloway. What with Carlyle having been born there, the Dumfries folk have quite enough to be proud of!"

"Yes, Scott says Ellangowan is in Galloway," said I, "but nevertheless to any one who knows the country, it remains obstinately in Dumfries-shire. His swamps and morasses are those of Lochar. The frith is the Dumfries-shire Solway, the castle a Dumfries-shire castle, and what Scott put in of Galloway tradition was sent him by his friend the Castle Douglas exciseman."

"Oh!" said Sweetheart, a little ruefully, "but are you sure?"

"Certain," I answered, "if you consider time and distance from the border -- say from Charlies-hope, you will see that Brown could not possibly have reached the heart of Galloway. Besides, Scott was far too wise a man to write about what he did not know. So he wove in Train's Galloway legends, but he put the people into his own well-kenned dresses, and set them to act their parts under familiar skies. Hence it is, that though the taste of Scott was never stronger than in Guy Mannering, the flavour of Galloway is somehow not in the mouth!"

"What does it matter where it all happened?" cried Hugh John; "it is a rattling good tale, anyway, and if the Man-who-Wrote-It imagined that it all happened in Galloway, surely we can!"

This being both sensible and unanswerable, the party scattered to improvise old castles of Ellangowan, and to squabble for what was to them the only wholly desirable part, that of Dirk Hatteraick. The combat between the smuggler and the exciseman was executed with particular zeal and spirit, Sir Toady Lion prancing and curvetting, as Frank Kennedy, on an invisible steed, with Maid Margaret before him on the saddle. So active was the fight indeed, that the bold bad smuggler, Dirk, assailed as to the upper part of his body by Sir Toady, and with the Heir tugging at his legs, found himself presently worsted and precipitated over the cliff in place of Frank Kennedy. This ending considerably disarranged the story, so that it was with no little trouble that the pair of strutting victors were induced to "play by the book," and to accept (severally) death and captivity in the hold of the smuggling lugger.

On the other hand, after I had read the Twenty-seventh and Twenty-eighth Chapters of Guy Mannering to them in the original, it was remarkable with what accuracy of detail Sweetheart wrapped a plaid about her and played the witch, Meg Merrilies, singing wild dirges over an imaginary dead body, while Hugh John hid among the straw till Sir Toady and Maid Margaret rushed in with incredible hubbub and sat down to carouse like a real gang of the most desperate characters.

Seated on a barrel of gunpowder, Sir Toady declared that he smelt traitors in the camp, whereupon he held a (paper) knife aloft in the air, and cried, "If any deceive us or betray the gang, we will destroy them -- thus!"

"Yes," chimed in the rosebud mouth of Maid Margaret, "and us will chop them into teeny-weeny little bits wif a sausage minchine, and feed them to our b-r-r-lood-hounds!"

"Little monsters!" cried Sweetheart, for the moment forgetting her proper character of witch-wife. Nevertheless, all in the Kairn of Derncleugh were happy, save Hugh John, who declared that Scott's heroes were always getting put under soft cushions or up the chimney. "You can't really distinguish yourself," he insisted, "in such situations!" And he referred once more to the luck of a certain Mr. James Hawkins, ship's boy, late of "Treasure Island."

"It's the nobodies that have all the fun -- real heroes don't count!" he continued ruefully, as he dusted himself from the bits of straw.

"Wait," said I; "you have not heard the third tale from Guy Mannering. Then there will be lots for you to do!"

"High time!" he answered with awful irony.



The Third Tale From "Guy Mannering"


The Return Of Dirk Hatteraick

ONE event deeply stirred all Solway-side in the year of Colonel Mannering's arrival at Woodbourne -- the smugglers had returned in force, and proved themselves ripe for any desperate act. Their stronghold was as of old, the Isle of Man, from which they could descend in a few hours upon the Solway coasts. Stricter laws and more severe penalties had only rendered them fiercer than of old, and in case of need, they did not hesitate in the least to shed blood.

As of yore also, their leader was the savage Dirk Hatteraick, under whom served a Lieutenant named Brown. One of their first exploits was a daring attack upon the house of Woodbourne, where dwelt Colonel Mannering with his daughter and Lucy Bertram.

It happened thus. Mannering, in company with young Charles Hazlewood, was setting out for a loch some miles away to look at the skaters. Hazlewood had quite often come to visit the house of Woodbourne since Lucy Bertram went to live there. Suddenly a few men, each leading a laden horse, burst through the bushes, and, pressing straight across the lawn, made for the front door. Mannering hastened to demand what they wanted. They were revenue officers, they said, and as they knew that Colonel Mannering had served in the East, they called upon him in the King's name to protect them and their captures.

To this Mannering instantly agreed. No time was to be lost. The smugglers were hot in pursuit, strongly reinforced. Immediately the goods were piled in the hall. The windows were blocked up with cushions, pillows, and (what caused the Dominie many a groan) great folios out of the library, bound in wood, covered with leather, and studded with brazen bosses like a Highland targe.

While these preparations were being made within the house of Woodbourne the steady earth-shaking beat of a body of horsemen was heard approaching, and in a few minutes a body of thirty mounted men rushed out upon the lawn, brandishing weapons and uttering savage yells. Most of them had their heads tied up in coloured handkerchiefs, while many wore masks by way of disguising themselves.

Finding the mansion in an unexpected state of defence, they halted a moment, as if to take counsel together. But finally one of them, his face all blackened with soot, dismounted and came forward, waving a white cloth in his hand.

Colonel Mannering immediately threw up a window, and asked the smuggler what he wanted.

"We want our goods, of which we have been robbed by these sharks," cried the man with the blackened face, "and we mean to have them. If you give them up, we will go away quietly without harming any one, but if you refuse, then we will burn the house and have the life-blood of every soul under your roof."

This he swore with many horrible and cruel oaths.

"If you do not instantly ride off my lawn," answered Colonel Mannering, "I will fire upon you without any further warning!"

The Ambassador returned to his troop, and no sooner had he told them the Colonel's answer than they rushed forward to the attack with horrid yells. Three volleys were fired, shattering the window-glass in all directions, but, thanks to the Colonel's preparations, the slugs and bullets rattled harmlessly against his defences. Many of the smugglers now dismounted and advanced with axe and crow-bar to force the front door. It was time for those within to take action.

"Let only Charles Hazlewood and myself shoot!" said the Colonel, "Hazlewood, do you mark the Ambassador. I will take the commander of the rascals -- the man on the grey horse, whom they call their Lieutenant!"

Both men fell as the shots rang out. Astonished by this reception, the smugglers retreated, carrying with them their wounded. It was one of these whom Captain Brown saw die in the little ruined keep at Derncleugh the night when he was overtaken in the darkness -- indeed, that very namesake of his own, Brown, the mate of Hatteraick's vessel.

There were many who thought that after this Captain Mannering ought to remove his family out of danger. But that gentleman confined himself to taking greater precautions at locking-up time, and insisting that when the ladies went out walking, a gun should be carried by an attendant for their protection.

One day Julia Mannering and Lucy Bertram had gone out with young Charles Hazlewood to visit a small lake much frequented by skaters and curlers, while a servant followed behind with a gun.

It chanced that Lucy, who never kept Hazlewood's arm when she could avoid it, had dropped behind as they were passing along a narrow path through a pine plantation. Julia Mannering was therefore alone at Charles Hazlewood's side when Brown suddenly appeared from among the trees, right in their path. He was roughly dressed, and young Hazlewood, taking him for one of the smugglers, and mistaking the meaning of Julia's cry of surprise at seeing her lover, snatched the gun from the servant, and haughtily ordered Brown to stand back so as not to alarm the lady. Brown, piqued at finding Julia on the arm of a stranger, replied as haughtily that he did not require to take lessons from Hazlewood how to behave to any lady. Instantly Charles Hazlewood pointed the gun at his breast. Upon which Brown sprang upon him, and in the struggle the gun went off by accident, and Hazlewood fell to the ground wounded. Brown, anxious not to bring Julia Mannering into the affair, at once sprang over the hedge and disappeared.

"HE was roughly dressed, and young Hazlewood, taking him for one of the smugglers, and mistaking the meaning of Julia's cry of surprise at seeing her lover, snatched the gun from the servant, and haughtily ordered Brown to stand back so as not to alarm the lady."

Hazlewood's wound was, happily, not serious, and being an honest open young fellow, he was the first to own himself in the wrong. Nothing of importance would have come of the affair, but for the officiousness of Glossin, the new Laird of Ellangowan, who saw in it a way of ingratiating himself with the two powerful families of Mannering and Hazlewood.

Glossin began by questioning the landlady of the hotel where Brown had been staying. Then he tried to draw out the postboy. From them he gathered little, save the fact that a young man named Brown had been staying at the Gordon Arms at Kippletringan. On the day of the accident to Charles Hazlewood, Brown had taken the postboy with him to show him the skating and curling on the pond in the neighbourhood of which the supposed attack had taken place. Jock Jabos, the postboy, however, denied that "the stoutest man in Scotland could take a gun frae him and shoot him wi' it, though he was but a feckless little body, fit only for the outside o' a saddle or the fore-end of a post-chaise. Na, nae living man wad venture on the like o' that!"

So Glossin, in order the better to carry out his plans, pretended to believe that Brown was the Lieutenant of the gang which had assaulted the house of Woodbourne.

Much more to the point was the information which was waiting for Glossin on his return to his house of Ellangowan. Mac-Guffog, the county thief-taker, and two of his people were there. With them they had brought a prisoner, whom they had first beguiled into drink, and then easily handcuffed while asleep. Glossin was delighted. He was under a great hope that this might prove to be Brown himself. Instead, he recognised an old acquaintance -- no other than Dirk Hatteraick, the smuggler. In the interview which followed, Dirk told Glossin some facts which made him tremble. His possession of Ellangowan was threatened. The true heir, the young lad Harry Bertram, lost on the night of the murder of Frank Kennedy, had not perished as had been supposed. He had been brought up by the principal partner of the Dutch firm to which he had been bound apprentice, sent to the East Indies under the name of Vanbeest Brown, and he was at that very moment upon the coast of Solway -- it might be very near to Ellangowan itself.

Glossin saw his hopes wither before his eyes. If the heir should find out his rights, then the fruits of his villany, the estate of Ellangowan itself, must return to its true owner. The lawyer secretly gave Dirk Hatteraick a small file with which to rid himself of his irons, and then bade his captors confine him in the strong-room of the ancient castle.

"The stanchions are falling to pieces with rust," he whispered to Dirk, "the distance to the ground is not twelve feet, and the snow lies thick. After that, you must steal my boat which lies below in the cove, and wait till I come to you in the cave of the Wood of Warroch!"

So saying, he called the thief-takers in, and made his arrangements. Glossin could not sleep that night. Eagerly he watched the window of the old castle. He heard the iron bars fall outward upon the rocks with a clinking sound, and feared that all was lost. The light in the window was obscured, and presently he saw a black object drop upon the snow. Then the little boat put out from the harbour, the wind caught the sail, and she bore away in the direction of Warroch Point.

On the morrow, however, he overwhelmed Mac-Guffog with the full force of his anger for his carelessness in allowing his prisoner to escape. Then he sent his men off in different directions, as fast as they could, to retake Hatteraick -- in all directions, that is, except the true one.

Having thus disposed of the thief-takers, he set out for Warroch Head alone. But the marks of his feet in the snow startled him. Any officer, coming upon that trail, would run it up like a bloodhound. So he changed his path, descending the cliff, and making his way cautiously along the sea-beach where the snow did not lie. He passed the great boulder which had fallen with Frank Kennedy. It was now all overgrown with mussels and seaweed. The mouth of the cave opened black and dismal before him. Glossin drew breath before entering such a haunt of iniquity, and recharged his pistols. He was, however, somewhat heartened by the thought that Dirk Hatteraick had nothing to gain by his death. Finally he took courage to push forward, and immediately the voice of Hatteraick came hoarse from the back of the cave.

"Donner and hagel! Be'st du?" he growled.

"Are you in the dark?" said Glossin, soothingly.

"Dark? Der deyvel, ay!" retorted Hatteraick, "where should I get a glim? I am near frozen also! Snow-water and hagel -- I could only keep myself warm by tramping up and down this vault and thinking on the merry rouses we used to have here!"

Glossin made a light, and having set down the little lantern which he carried, he gathered together some barrel-staves and driftwood. The flame showed Hatteraick's fierce and bronzed visage as he warmed his sinewy hands at the blaze. He sat with his face thrust forward and actually in the smoke itself, so great had been his agony of cold. When he was a little warmed up, Glossin gave him some cold meat and a flask of strong spirits. Hatteraick eagerly seized upon these, exclaiming, after a long draught, "Ah, that is good -- that warms the liver!"

After the liquor and the food had put the smuggler into a somewhat better temper, the two associates settled themselves to discuss the project which had brought Glossin to the Cave of the Warroch Point.

Up to the present, Glossin had believed that the Vanbeest Brown who had wounded young Hazlewood was the mate of the smuggling lugger. But now, hearing that this Brown had been shot on the night of the Woodbourne attack, all at once a light broke upon him. The assailant could be no other than the rightful heir of Ellangowan, Harry Bertram.

"If he is on this coast," he meditated, half to himself, "I can have him arrested as the leader of the attack upon Woodbourne, and also for an assault upon Charles Hazlewood!"

"But," said Dirk Hatteraick, grimly, "he will be loose again upon you, as soon as he can show himself to carry other colours!"

"True, friend Hatteraick," said Glossin; "still, till that is proved, I can imprison him in the custom-house of Portanferry, where your goods are also stowed. You and your crew can attack the custom-house, regain your cargo, and -- "

"Send the heir of Ellangowan to Jericho -- or the bottom of the sea!" cried Hatteraick, with fierce bitterness.

"Nay, I advise no violence," said Glossin, softly, looking at the ground.

"Nein -- nein," growled the smuggler; "you only leave that to me. Sturm-wetter, I know you of old! Well, well, if I thought the trade would not suffer, I would soon rid you of this younker -- as soon, that is, as you send me word that he is under lock and key!"

*    *    *    *    *

It so happened that at the very moment when Colonel Mannering and Dominie Sampson had gone to Edinburgh to see after an inheritance, Brown, or rather young Bertram (to give his real name), had succeeded in crossing the Solway in a sailing-boat, and was safe in Cumberland.

Mannering's mission was one of kindliness to his guest, Lucy Bertram. Her aunt, old Miss Bertram of Singleside, had formerly made Lucy her heiress, and the Colonel hoped that she might have continued of this excellent mind. By Mr. Mac-Morlan's advice he engaged a whimsical but able Scottish lawyer to go with him to the opening of the will -- at which ceremony, among other connections of the deceased, Dandie Dinmont was also present. But all were disappointed. For Miss Bertram had put her whole property in trust on behalf of the lost heir of Ellangowan, young Harry Bertram, whom (said the will) she had good reason for believing to be still alive.

The object of all these plots and plans, good and evil intentions, was, however, safe in Cumberland. And had he been content to stay where he was, safe he would have remained. But as soon as young Bertram arrived upon the English coast he had written to Julia Mannering to explain his conduct in the affair with Hazlewood, to the Colonel of his regiment to ask him for the means of establishing his identity as a Captain in one of his Majesty's dragoon regiments, to his agent to send him a sum of money, and in the meantime to Dandie Dinmont for a small temporary loan till he could hear from his man-of-affairs.

So he had nothing to do but wait. However, a sharp reply from Julia Mannering stung him to the quick. In this she first of all informed him that the Colonel would be from home for some days, then reproached him for the hastiness of his conduct, and concluded by saying that he was not to think of returning to Scotland.

This last was, of course, what Bertram at once proceeded to do, as perhaps the young lady both hoped and anticipated.

So once more the heir of Ellangowan was set ashore beneath the old castle which had been built by his forefathers. He had worked his passage manfully, and it was with regret that the sailors put him ashore in the bay directly beneath the Auld Place of Ellangowan. Some remembrance came across him, drifting fitfully over his mind, that somehow he was familiar with these ruins. When he had entered and looked about him, this became almost a certainty. It chanced that lawyer Glossin had entered the castle at about the same time, coming, as he said aloud, to see "what could be made of it as a quarry of good hewn stone," and adding that it would be better to pull it down at any rate, than to preserve it as a mere haunt of smugglers and evil-doers.

"And would you destroy this fine old ruin?" said Bertram, who had overheard the last part of Glossin's remarks. The lawyer was struck dumb, so exactly were the tone and attitude those of Harry Bertram's father in his best days. Indeed, coming suddenly face to face with the young man there within the ancient castle of Ellangowan, it seemed to Glossin as if Godfrey Bertram had indeed risen from the dead to denounce and punish his treachery.

But the lawyer soon recovered himself. The scheme he had worked out together with Dirk Hatteraick matured in his mind, and this seemed as good a time as any for carrying it out. So he waited only for the coming of two of his thief-takers to lay hands on Bertram, and to send word to the father of Charles Hazlewood that he held the would-be murderer of his son at his disposition.

Now Sir Robert Hazlewood was a formal old dunderhead, who was of opinion that his family, and all connected with it, were the only really important things in the universe. Still when the prisoner was brought before him, he was a good deal startled by Bertram's quiet assurance, and, in spite of Glossin's sneers, could not help being influenced by the information that Colonel Guy Mannering could speak to the fact of his being both an officer and a gentleman. But Glossin pointed out that Mannering was in Edinburgh, and that they could not let a possible malefactor go merely because he said that he was known to an absent man. It was, therefore, arranged that, pending the arrival of the Colonel, Harry Bertram (or Captain Vanbeest Brown) should be confined in the custom-house at Portanferry, where there was a guard of soldiers for the purpose of guarding the goods taken from the smugglers.

Happy that his schemes were prospering so well, Glossin went off to arrange with Dirk Hatteraick for the attack, and also as to the removal of the soldiers, in such a way that no suspicion might fall upon that honourable gentleman, Mr. Gilbert Glossin, Justice of the Peace and present owner of Ellangowan.

*    *    *    *    *

Meanwhile, however, the emissaries of Meg Merrilies were not idle. They brought her the earliest information that the heir of Ellangowan was in the custom-house at Portanferry, and in imminent danger of his life. Far on the hills of Liddesdale one Gibbs Faa, a gipsy huntsman, warned Dandie Dinmont that if he wished his friend well, he had better take horse and ride straight for Portanferry -- where, if he found Brown in confinement, he was to stay by him night and day. For if he did not, he would only regret it once -- and that would be for his whole life.

Glossin's plan was to work on the fears of the stupid pompous Sir Robert Hazlewood, so that he would summon all the soldiers for the defence of Hazlewood House, in the belief that it was to be assaulted by the gipsies and smugglers. But Meg Merrilies herself sent young Charles Hazlewood to order the soldiers back, in which mission he would have succeeded but for the dull persistence of his father. However, Mr. Mac-Morlan, as Sheriff-Substitute of the county, was able to do that in spite of Sir Robert's protest which the good sense of his son had been powerless to effect. The soldiers left Hazlewood House, and took the direct road back to Portanferry in spite of Sir Robert's threats and remonstrances.

Lastly Colonel Mannering, but recently returned from Edinburgh, was warned by a missive which Dominie Sampson had brought from Meg herself. So that on one particular night all the forces of order, as well as those of disorder, were directing themselves toward the custom-house of Portanferry, where in a close and ignoble apartment Harry Bertram and his worthy friend, Dandie Dinmont, were sleeping. It was Bertram who wakened first. There was a strong smell of burning in the room. From the window he could see a crowded boat-load of men landing at the little harbour, and in the yard below a huge mastiff was raging on his chain.

"Go down and let loose the dog!" the wife of Mac-Guffog called to her husband; "I tell you they are breaking in the door of the liquor store!"

But the good man appeared to be more anxious about his prisoners. He went from cell to cell, making sure that all was safe, while his wife, affirming that he had not the heart of a chicken, descended herself into the courtyard.

In the meantime, Bertram and Dandie watched from their barred window the savage figures of the smugglers triumphantly loading their boats with their recovered goods, while the whole custom-house flamed to the heavens, sending sparks and blazing fragments upon the roof of the adjoining prison.

Soon at the outer gate was heard the thunder of sledge-hammers and crows. It was being forced by the smugglers. Mac-Guffog and his wife had already fled, but the underlings delivered the keys, and the prisoners were soon rejoicing in their liberty. In the confusion, four or five of the principal actors entered the cell of Bertram.

"Der deyvil," exclaimed the leader, "here's our mark!"

Two of them accordingly seized Bertram and hurried him along. One of them, however, whispered in his ear to make no resistance for the present -- also bidding Dinmont over his shoulder to follow his friend quietly and help when the time came. Bertram found himself dragged along passages, through the courtyard, and finally out into the narrow street, where, in the crowd and confusion, the smugglers became somewhat separated from each other. The sound of cavalry approaching rapidly made itself heard.

"Hagel and wetter!" cried the leader, no other than Hatteraick himself, "what is that? Keep together -- look to the prisoner!"

But, for all that, the two who held Bertram were left last of the party. The crowd began to break, rushing this way and that. Shots were fired, and above the press the broadswords of the dragoons were seen to glitter, flashing over the heads of the rioters.

"Now," whispered the man who had before advised Bertram to be quiet, "shake off that fellow and follow me."

Bertram easily did so, and his left-hand captor, attempting to draw a pistol, was instantly knocked senseless by the huge fist of Dandie Dinmont.

"Now, follow quick!" said the first, diving at the word into a dirty and narrow lane. There was no pursuit. Mr. Mac-Morlan and the soldiers had appeared in the nick of time. The smugglers had enough to do to provide for their own safety.

At the end of the lane they found a post-chaise with four horses.

"Are you here, in God's name?" cried their guide.

"Ay, troth am I," said Jock Jabos; "and I wish I were ony gate else!"

The guide opened the carriage door.

"Get in," he said to Bertram, "and remember your promise to the gipsy wife!"

Through the windows of the coach Dinmont and he could see the village of Portanferry, and indeed the whole landscape, brilliantly lighted by a tall column of light. The flames had caught the stores of spirits kept in the custom-house. But soon the carriage turned sharply through dark woods at the top speed of the horses, and, after a long journey, finally drew up in front of a mansion, in the windows of which lights still burned, in spite of the lateness of the hour.

*    *    *    *    *

The listening children remained breathless as I paused. I had meant this to be the end of my tale, but I saw at once that no excuse would be held valid for such a shameful dereliction of duty.

"Go on -- go on," they cried; "where was the house and what happened?"

"I know!" said Sweetheart; "it was the house of Julia Mannering, and her lover -- "

"Oh, bother her lover," cried Hugh John, impatiently; "we don't want to hear about how they lived happy ever after. Tell us about the gipsy, Meg Merrilies -- "

"And about Dirk Hatteraick!" said Sir Toady Lion, getting his word in. "I just love Dirk!"

"And how many people he killed wif his big knife, and if he was burnt up alive in the fire!" For Maid Margaret also delights in the most gory details, though she would not willingly tread upon a worm.

"Yes, go on, tell us all -- everything that happened!" said Sweetheart.

"But do skip the lovering parts," cried the boys in chorus.

So within these statutes of limitation I had perforce to recommence, without further preface, telling the fourth and last tale from Guy Mannering.



The Fourth Tale From "Guy Mannering"


The Fight In The Cave

IMMEDIATELY upon receiving the message of Meg Merrilies, brought by Dominie Sampson, Colonel Mannering had sent a carriage to the place designated. Bertram and his companion Dandie, having by the help of the gipsies, Meg's companions, made good their escape from the burning custom-house, took their places in it and were whirled through the darkness, they knew not whither. But it was at the door of the house of Woodbourne that they found themselves. Mr. Pleydell, the lawyer, had also arrived from Edinburgh, so that all were presently met together in the drawing-room, and it is difficult to say which of the party appeared the most surprised.

In Captain Brown (or Harry Bertram, to call him by his own proper name), Colonel Mannering saw the man whom he had believed slain by his hand in India. Julia met her lover in her father's house, and apparently there by his invitation. Dominie Sampson stood half aghast to recognise the lost heir of Ellangowan. Bertram himself feared the effect which his sudden appearance might have on Julia, while honest Dandie wished his thick-soled boots and rough-spun Liddesdale plaid anywhere else than in a room filled with ladies and gentlemen.

Only the lawyer, Mr. Pleydell, was wholly master of the situation, and bustled about, putting everybody at their ease. He saw himself in the thick of a great mysterious lawsuit which he alone could unravel, and he proceeded on the spot to cross-examine Bertram as to what he remembered of his life before he went to Holland.

Bertram remembered, he said, quite clearly, a good-looking gentleman whom he had called father, a delicate lady who must have been his mother, but more distinctly than either he recalled a tall man in worn black who had taught him his lessons and whom he loved for his kindness.

At these words Dominie Sampson could contain himself no longer. He rose hastily from his chair, and with clasped hands and trembling limbs cried out, "Harry Bertram -- look at me! Was not I the man?"

Bertram started up as if a sudden light had dawned upon him.

"Yes," he cried, "that is my name -- Bertram -- Harry Bertram! And those are the voice and figure of my kind old master!"

The Dominie threw himself into his arms, his whole frame shaking with emotion, and at last, his feelings overcoming him, he lifted up his voice and wept. Even Colonel Mannering had need of his handkerchief. Pleydell made wry faces and rubbed hard at his glasses, while Dandie Dinmont, after two strange blubbering explosions, fairly gave way and cried out, "Deil's in the man! He's garred me do what I haena done since my auld mither died!"

After this, the examination went on more staidly. Bertram said that he remembered very well the walk he had taken with the Dominie and somebody lifting him up on horseback -- then, more indistinctly, a scuffle in which he and his guide had been pulled from the saddle. Vaguely and gradually the memory came back of how he had been lifted into the arms of a very tall woman who protected him from harm. Again he was a poor half-starved cabin-boy in the Holland trade. Quickly, however, gaining the good-will of the leading partner of the firm to which the vessel belonged, he had been thoroughly well educated in Holland, before being sent to seek his fortune in India. He passed over his career there, but told in detail the accidental way in which young Hazlewood had been wounded, and ended by a request that he should now be told who the questioner might be who took such an interest in his affairs.

"Why, for myself, sir," answered the counsellor, "I am Paulus Pleydell, an advocate at the Scottish bar. And as for you, it is not easy for the moment to say who you are. But I trust in a short time to hail you by the title of Henry Bertram, Esquire, representative of one of the oldest families in Scotland, and heir of entail to the estates of Ellangowan."

On the morrow the plotting at Woodbourne still went on merrily, around the person of the newly found heir. The counsellor-at-law arranged his plan of campaign. The Dominie, having left Harry Bertram at half-text and words of two syllables when he was carried off in Warroch Wood, prepared to take up his education at that exact point.

"Of a surety, little Harry," he said, "we will presently resume our studies. We will begin from the foundation. Yes, I will reform your education upward from the true knowledge of English grammar, even to that of the Hebrew or Chaldaic tongue!"

In the meantime, Colonel Mannering, having first had an interview with the counsellor in his room, gently drew from Julia that it was no other than Bertram who had spoken with her under her window at Mervyn Hall; also that, though she had remained silent, she had perfectly recognised him before the scuffle took place with young Hazlewood at the pond. For these concealments from her father, Mannering as gently forgave her, and received in return a promise that, in future, she would hide nothing from him which it concerned him to know.

The first step of the conspirators was to obtain a legal release for Bertram from Sir Robert Hazlewood, who granted it most unwillingly, having (it was evident) been secretly primed by Glossin as to what he should say and do. But it was secured at last, upon Colonel Mannering's pledging his word of honour for his appearance. And while the business was being settled, Harry Bertram, with the two ladies, wandered out to a knoll above the ancient castle of Ellangowan to look once again upon the home of his ancestors.

They were standing here, looking on the crumbling walls, when suddenly, as if emerging from the earth, Meg Merrilies ascended from the hollow way beneath, and stood before them.

"I sought ye at the house," she said, "but ye are right and I was wrong. It is here we should meet -- here, on the very spot where my eyes last saw your father. And now, remember your promise and follow me!"

In spite of the unwillingness of Lucy and Julia to allow him to depart with such a companion, Bertram and Dandie (for Meg invited Dinmont also to follow her) hastened to obey the gipsy's summons. There was something weird in the steady swiftness of her gait as she strode right forward across the moor, taking no heed either of obstacle or of well-trodden path. She seemed like some strange withered enchantress drawing men after her by her witchcrafts. But Julia and Lucy were somewhat comforted by the thought that if the gipsy had meditated any evil against Bertram, she would not have asked so doughty a fighter as Dandie Dinmont to accompany him.

They therefore made the best of their way home, and while they were telling the adventure to the Colonel, young Hazlewood, who happened to be at Woodbourne, courageously offered to follow after, to see that no harm came to Dandie and his former antagonist.

Meg Merrilies led them through the wood of Warroch, along the same path by which Harry had been carried on the night of the exciseman's murder.

Turning for a moment, she asked Bertram if he remembered the way.

"Not very clearly!" he answered.

"Ay," she said, "here was the very spot where Frank Kennedy was pulled from his horse. I was hiding behind the bour-tree bush at the moment. Sair, sair he strove and sair he cried for mercy. But he was in the hands of them that never kenned the word."

Continuing her way, she led them downward to the sea by a secret and rugged path, cut in the face of the cliff, and hidden among brushwood. There on the shore lay the stone under which the body of Frank Kennedy had been found crushed. A little farther on was the cave itself in which the murderers had concealed themselves. The gipsy pointed mysteriously.

"He is there," she said, in a low voice, "the man who alone can establish your right -- Jansen Hatteraick, the tyrant of your youth, and the murderer of Frank Kennedy. Follow me -- I have put the fire between you. He will not see you as you enter, but when I utter the words, 'The Hour and the Man' -- then do you rush in and seize him. But be prepared. It will be a hard battle, for Hatteraick is a very devil!"

"Dandie, you must stand by me now!" said Bertram to his comrade.

"That ye need never doubt," returned the Borderer; "but a' the same it's an awesome thing to leave the blessed sun and free air, and gang and be killed like a fox in his hole. But I'll never baulk ye -- it'll be a hard-bitten terrier that will worry Dandie!"

So forward they went, creeping cautiously on all fours after the gipsy woman. When they were about halfway in, a hand was laid on Dandie Dinmont's heel, and it was all the stout farmer could do to keep from crying out -- which, in the defenceless position in which they were placed, might well have cost them all their lives.

However, Dandie freed his ankle with a kick, and instantly a voice behind him whispered, "It is a friend -- Charles Hazlewood!"

As soon as they had gained the higher part of the cave, Meg Merrilies began rustling about among the dried branches, murmuring and singing, to cover the noise made by the entrance of the three men who followed her. From the deep dark where they stood, they could see Dirk Hatteraick at the farther end of the cave, behind a fire which he was continually building up by throwing into it bits of dried sticks. Hatteraick was of powerful build, and his features were beyond description savage and rugged. A cutlass hung by his side, and into his belt he had thrust, ready to his hand at a moment's notice, two pairs of pistols. Truly the capture of Dirk Hatteraick was no light adventure, and Bertram, having been warned by Dandie in a cautious whisper of Hazlewood's arrival, thought within himself that they would be none the worse of the third who had come so opportunely to their assistance.

"Here, beldam -- deyvil's kind," cried Hatteraick in his harshest voice, "have you brought me the brandy and news of my people?"

"Here is the flask for you," answered Meg, passing it to him; "but as for your crew, they are all cut down and scattered by the redcoats!"

"Storm and wetter, ye hag," he cried, "ye bring ill news. This coast is fatal to me! And what of Glossin?"

"Ye missed your stroke there," she said; "ye have nothing to expect from him!"

"Hagel," cried the ruffian, "if only I had him by the throat! He has led me to perdition -- men lost, boat lost, credit lost. I dare never show my face in Flushing again!"

"You will never need!" croaked the gipsy.

Meg's sombre prophecy startled Hatteraick. He looked up suddenly.

"What is that you say, witch? And what are you doing there?" he cried. Meg dropped a firebrand steeped in spirit upon some loose flax. Instantly a tall column of brilliant wavering light filled the cave.

"Ye will never need to go to Flushing," she said, "because 'The Hour's come and the Man!'"

At the signal, Bertram and Dandie Dinmont, springing over the brushwood, rushed upon Hatteraick. Hazlewood, not knowing the plan of assault, was a moment later. The ruffian instantly understood that he had been betrayed, and the first brunt of his anger fell upon Meg Merrilies, at whose breast he fired a pistol point-blank. She fell with a shriek which was partly the sudden pain of the wound, and partly a shout of triumphant laughter.

"I kenned it would end that way -- and it is e'en this way that it should end!"

Bertram had caught his foot on some slippery weed as he advanced, and the chance stumble saved his life. For otherwise Hatteraick's second bullet, aimed coolly and steadily, would certainly have crashed through his skull. Before he could draw a third, Dandie Dinmont was upon him. Yet such was the giant smuggler's strength and desperation, that he actually dragged Dandie through the burning flax, before Bertram and Hazlewood could come to the farmer's assistance. Then in a moment more Hatteraick was disarmed and bound, though to master him took all the strength of three strong well-grown men.

After he had been once bound securely, Hatteraick made no further attempt to escape. He lay perfectly still while Bertram, leaving Dandie to guard his prisoner, went to look to Meg Merrilies. The soldier, familiar with gunshot wounds, knew at once that her case was hopeless.

But he did what he could to bind up the old gipsy's wound, while Dandie, his hand laid heavily on Hatteraick's breast, watched pistol in hand the entrance of the cave. Hazlewood, whose horse had been tied outside, mounted to ride for assistance, and in a few moments silence fell on the scene of so fierce a combat, broken only by the low moans of the wounded gipsy.

It was no more than three-quarters of an hour that Bertram and Dandie Dinmont had to keep their watch. But to them it seemed as if ages had passed before Hazlewood returned and they were clear of the fatal cavern. Hatteraick allowed himself to be removed without either assisting or hindering those who had charge of him. But when his captors would have had him rest against the huge boulder which had been thrown down along with the murdered exciseman, Hatteraick shrank back with a shout:

"Hagel -- not there," he cried, "you would not have me sit there!"

On the arrival of a doctor, he could only confirm Bertram's opinion that Meg Merrilies was indeed wounded to the death. But she had enough strength left to call the assembled people to witness that Bertram was indeed young Harry Bertram the lost heir of Ellangowan.

"All who have ever seen his father or grandfather, bear witness if he is not their living image!" she cried.

Then with her failing breath she told the tale of the murder, and how she had pleaded for the child's life. She dared Dirk Hatteraick to deny the truth of what she was saying. But the villain only kept his grim silence. Then suddenly the enthusiasm broke forth at the chance testimony of the driver of a return coach to Kippletringan, who exclaimed at sight of Bertram, "As sure as there's breath in man, there's auld Ellangowan risen from the dead!" The shouts of the people, many of whom had lived all their lives on his father's land, came gratefully to the ear of the dying woman.

"Dinna ye hear?" she cried, "dinna ye hear? He's owned -- he's owned! I am a sinfu' woman! It was my curse that brought the ill, but it has been my blessing that has ta'en it off! Stand oot o' the light that I may see him yince mair. But no -- it may not be! The darkness is in my ain e'en. It's a' ended now:

"Pass breath, Come death!"

And sinking back on her bed of straw, Meg Merrilies died without a groan.

*    *    *    *    *

Mr. Pleydell having, as Sheriff of the county, formerly conducted the inquiry into Frank Kennedy's death, was asked by the other magistrates to preside at this. The meeting was held in the court-house of Kippletringan, and many of the chief people in the neighbourhood hastened to the little town to be present at the examination of Hatteraick. Pleydell, among the evidence formerly collected, had by him the sizes and markings of the footmarks found round the place of Frank Kennedy's death-struggle. These had, of course, been safely preserved, ever since the failure of justice on that occasion. One set evidently belonged to a long and heavy foot, and fitted the boots of Brown, the mate of Hatteraick's vessel, the same who had been killed at the attack on Woodbourne. The stouter and thicker moulds fitted those of the prisoner himself.

At this Hatteraick cried out suddenly, "Der deyvil, how could there be footmarks at all on the ground when it was as hard as the heart of a Memel log?"

Instantly Pleydell noted the smuggler's slip.

"In the evening," he said, "I grant you the ground was hard -- not, however, in the morning. But, Captain Hatteraick, will you kindly tell me where you were on the day which you remember so exactly?"

Hatteraick, seeing his mistake, again relapsed into silence, and at that moment Glossin bustled in to take his place on the bench with his brother magistrates. He was, however, very coldly received indeed, though he did his best to curry favour with each in succession. Even Hatteraick only scowled at him, when he suggested that "the poor man, being only up for examination, need not be so heavily ironed."

"The poor man has escaped once before," said Mr. Mac-Morlan, drily. But something worse was in store for Glossin than the cold shoulder from his fellow-justices. In his search through the documents found upon Hatteraick, Pleydell had come upon three slips of paper, being bills which had been drawn and signed by Hatteraick on the very day of the Kennedy murder, ordering large sums of money to be paid to Glossin. The bills had been duly honoured. Mr. Pleydell turned at once upon Glossin.

"That confirms the story which has been told by a second eye-witness of the murder, one Gabriel, or Gibbs Faa, a nephew of Meg Merrilies, that you were an accessory after the fact, in so far as, though you did not take part in the slaughter of Kennedy, you concealed the guilty persons on account of their giving you this sum of money."

In a few minutes Glossin found himself deserted by all, and he was even ordered to be confined in the prison of Kippletringan, in a room immediately underneath the cell occupied by Hatteraick. The smuggler, being under the accusation of murder and having once already escaped, was put for safety in the dungeon, called the "condemned cell," and there chained to a great bar of iron, upon which a thick ring ran from one side of the room to the other.

Left to his unpleasant reflections, Glossin began to count up the chances in his favour. Meg Merrilies was dead. Gabriel Faa, besides being a gipsy, was a vagrant and a deserter. The other witnesses -- he did not greatly fear them! If only Dirk Hatteraick could be induced to be steady, and to put another meaning upon the sums of money which had been paid to him on the day of Kennedy's murder!

He must see Hatteraick -- that very night he must see him! He slipped two guineas into Mac-Guffog's hand (who since the burning of Portanferry prison had been made under-turnkey at Kippletringan), and by the thief-taker's connivance he was to be admitted that very night at locking-up time into the cell of Dirk Hatteraick.

"But you will have to remain there all night," said the man. "I have to take the keys of all the cells directly to the captain of the prison!"

So on his stocking-soles Glossin stole up after his guide, and was presently locked in with the savage and desperate smuggler. At first Hatteraick would neither speak to Glossin nor listen to a word concerning his plans.

"Plans," he cried at last, in a burst of fury, "you and your plans! You have planned me out of ship, cargo, and life. I dreamed this moment that Meg Merrilies dragged you here by the hair, and put her long clasp-knife into my hand. Ah, you don't know what she said! Sturm-wetter, it will be your wisdom not to tempt me!"

"Why, Hatteraick," said Glossin, "have you turned driveller? Rise and speak with me!"

"Hagel, nein -- let me alone!"

"Get up, at least! Up with you for an obstinate Dutch brute!" said Glossin, all at once losing his temper and kicking him with his heavy boot.

"Donner and blitzen," cried Hatteraick, leaping up and grappling with him, "you shall have it then!"

Glossin resisted as best he could, but his utmost strength was as nothing in the mighty grasp of the angry savage. He fell under Hatteraick, the back of his neck coming with a fearful crash upon the iron bar.

In the morning, true to his promise, Mac-Guffog called Glossin to come out of Hatteraick's cell.

"Call louder!" answered a voice from within, grimly.

"Mr. Glossin, come away," repeated Mac-Guffog; "for Heaven's sake come away!"

"He'll hardly do that without help!" said Hatteraick.

"What are you standing chattering there for, Mac-Guffog?" cried the captain of the prison, coming up with a lantern. They found Glossin's body doubled across the iron bar. He was stone dead. Hatteraick's grip had choked the life out of him as he lay.

The murderer, having thus done justice on his accomplice, asked neither favour nor mercy for himself, save only that he might have paper whereon to write to his firm in Holland.

"I was always faithful to owners," he said, when they reproached him with his crimes. "I always accounted for cargo to the last stiver! As for that carrion," he added (pointing to Glossin), "I have only sent him to the devil a little ahead of me!"

They gave him what he asked for -- pens, ink, and paper. And on their return, in a couple of hours, they found his body dangling from the wall. The smuggler had hanged himself by a cord taken from his own truckle-bed.

And though Mac-Guffog lost his place, on the suspicion of having introduced Glossin into Hatteraick's cell, there were many who believed that it was the Evil One himself who had brought the rogue and the ruffian together in order that they might save the hangman the trouble of doing his office upon them.

*    *    *    *    *

The end can be told in a word. Harry Bertram was duly and legally returned as heir of Ellangowan. His father's debts were soon paid, and the Colonel, in giving him his daughter, gave him also the means of rebuilding the ancient castle of the Ellangowan race. Sir Robert Hazlewood had no objections to Lucy Bertram as a daughter-in-law, so soon as he knew that she brought with her as a dowry the whole estate of Singleside, which her brother insisted on her taking in accordance with her aunt's first intention. And lastly, in the new castle, there was one chamber bigger than all the others, called the Library, and just off it a little one, in which dwelt the happiest of men upon the earth. This chamber was called on the plans "Mr. Sampson's Apartment."

*    *    *    *    *

The End Of The Fourth And Last Tale From "Guy Mannering."

*    *    *    *    *

Interlude Of Consultation

A unanimous sigh greeted the close of Guy Mannering. It was the narrator's reward -- the same which the orator hears, when, in a pause of speech, the strained attention relaxes, and the people, slowly bent forward like a field of corn across which the wind blows, settle back into their places.

"A jolly ending -- and the cave part was ripping!" summed up Hugh John, nodding his head in grave approval of Sir Walter, "but why can't he always write like that?"

"Couldn't keep it up," suggested Sir Toady Lion; "books can't all be caves, you know."

"Well, anyhow, I'm not going to play any more heroes," said Hugh John, emphatically. "I bags Hatteraick -- when we get out to the Den!"

The young man intimated by these cabalistic words that the part of Hatteraick was to be his in any future play-acting.

"Which being interpreted," said Sweetheart, with spirit, "means that I am to be Gilbert Faa the gipsy, and Glossin, and all these nasty sort of people. Now I don't mind Meg Merrilies a bit. And being shot like that -- that's always something. But I warn you, Hugh John, that if you were Hatteraick ten times over, you couldn't get me down over that iron bar!"

"No, that you couldn't," said Sir Toady Lion, seeing a far-off chance for himself; "why, Sweetheart could just batter your head against the wall! And then when Mac-Guffog came in the morning with his lantern, he'd find that old Hatteraick hadn't any need to go and hang himself! But don't you two squabble over it; I will do Hatteraick myself!"

"A very likely thing!" sneered Hugh John. "You heard me say 'Bags Hatteraick,' Toady Lion! Every one heard me -- you can't go back on that. You know you can't!"

This was unanswerable. It was felt that to palter with such sacred formulas would be to renounce the most sacred obligations and to unsettle the very foundations of society.

Whereupon I hastened to keep his Majesty's peace by proposing a compromise.

"The girls surely don't want to play the villains' parts," I began.

"Oh, but just don't they!" ejaculated Maid Margaret, with the eyes of a child-saint momentarily disappointed of Paradise. "Why does a cat not eat butter for breakfast every morning? Because it jolly well can't get it."

"Well, at any rate," said I, severely, "girls oughtn't to want to play the villains' parts."

"No," said Sweetheart, with still, concentrated irony, "they ought always to do just what boys tell them to, of course -- never think of wanting anything that boys want, and always be thankful for boys' leavings! U-m-m! I know!"

"You should wait till you hear what I meant to say, Sweetheart," I went on, with as much dignity as I could muster. "There are plenty of characters you will like to be, in every one of the books, but I think it would be fair always to draw lots for the first choice!"

"Yes -- yes -- oh, yes!" came the chorus, from three of the party. But Hugh John, strong in the indefeasible rights of man, only repeated, "I said 'Bags Hatteraick!'"

"Well, then," I said, "for this time Hatteraick is yours, but for the future it will be fairer to draw lots for first choice."

"All right," growled Hugh John; "then I suppose I'll have to put up with a lot more heroes! Milksops, I call them!"

"Which book shall we have next?" said Sweetheart, who was beginning to be rather ashamed of her heat. "I don't believe that you could tell us Rob Roy!"

"Well, I can try," said I, modestly. For so it behooves a modern parent to behave in the presence of his children.

"She," said Hugh John, pointing directly at his sister, "she read nearly half the book aloud, and we never came to Rob at all. That's why she asks for Rob Roy."

"But there's all about Alan Breck in the preface -- ripping, it is!" interpolated Sir Toady, who had been doing some original research, "tell us about him."

But Alan Breck was quite another story, and I said so at once. Rob Roy they had asked for. Rob Roy they should have. And then I would stand or fall by their judgment.



Red Cap Tales

Told From

Rob Roy



The First Tale From "Rob Roy"


Frank The Highwayman

FRANK OSBALDISTONE had come back from France to quarrel with his father. A merchant he would not be. He hated the three-legged stool, and he used the counting-house quills to write verses with.

His four years in Bordeaux had spoiled him for strict business, without teaching him anything else practical enough to please his father, who, when he found that his son persisted in declining the stool in the dark counting-room in Crane Alley, packed him off to the care of his brother, Sir Hildebrand Osbaldistone of Osbaldistone Hall in Northumberland, there to repent of his disobedience.

"I will have no idlers about me," he said, "I will not ask even my own son twice to be my friend and my partner. One of my nephews shall take the place in the firm which you have declined."

And old Mr. Osbaldistone, of the firm of Osbaldistone and Tresham, merchants in London town, being above all things a man of his word, Master Frank took to the North Road accordingly, an exile from his home and disinherited of his patrimony.

At first he was gloomy enough. He was leaving behind him wealth, ease, society. As he looked back from the heights of Highgate, the bells of the city steeples rang out their "Turn again, Whittington!" And to tell the truth, Frank Osbaldistone felt half inclined to obey. But the thought of his father's grave scorn held him to his purpose, and soon the delights of travel and the quickly changing scene chased the sadness from his heart. Indeed, as was natural to a young man, a good horse under his thigh and fifty guineas in his pocket helped amazingly to put him in the best humour with himself.

The company Frank met with on the North Road was commonplace and dull. But one poor man, a sort of army officer in a gold-laced hat, whose martial courage was more than doubtful, amused Frank Osbaldistone by clinging desperately to a small but apparently very heavy portmanteau, which he carried on the pillion before him, never parting from it for a moment. This man's talk was all of well-dressed highwaymen, whose conversation and manners induced the unwary to join company with them. Then in some shady dell whistling up their men, the unlucky traveller found himself despoiled -- of his goods certainly, perhaps also of his life.

It delighted Frank's boyish humour beyond measure to play upon the fears of this gallant King's officer -- which he proceeded to do by asking him first whether his bag were heavy or not, then by hinting that he would like to be informed as to his route, and finally by offering to take the bag on his own pillion and race him with the added weight to the nearest village.

This last audacious proposal almost took the man's breath away, and from that moment he was convinced that Frank was none other than the "Golden Farmer" himself in disguise.

At Darlington, the landlord of their inn introduced a Scotch cattle dealer, a certain Mr. Campbell, to share their meal. He was a stern-faced, dark-complexioned man, with a martial countenance and an air of instinctive command which took possession of the company at once. The lawyer, the doctor, the clergyman, even Frank himself, found themselves listening with deference to the words of this plainly dressed, unobtrusive, Scottish drover. As for the man with the weighty bag, he fairly hung upon his words. And especially so when the landlord informed the company that Mr. Campbell had with his own hand beaten off seven highwaymen.

"Thou art deceived, friend Jonathan," said the Scot, "they were but two, and as beggarly loons as man could wish to meet withal!"

"Upon my word, sir," cried Morris, for that was the name of the man with the portmanteau, edging himself nearer to Mr. Campbell, "really and actually did you beat two highwaymen with your own hand?"

"In troth I did, sir," said Campbell, "and I think it nae great thing to mak' a sang about."

"Upon my word, sir," said Morris, eagerly, "I go northward, sir -- I should be happy to have the pleasure of your company on my journey."

And, in spite of short answers, he continued to press his proposal upon the unwilling Scot, till Campbell had very unceremoniously to extricate himself from his grip, telling him that he was travelling upon his own private business, and that he could not unite himself to any stranger on the public highway.

The next day Frank approached Osbaldistone Hall, which stood under the great rounded range of the Cheviot Hills. He could already see it standing, stark and grey, among its ancestral oaks, when down the ravine streamed a band of huntsmen in full chase, the fox going wearily before, evidently near the end of his tether. Among the rout and nearer to Frank than the others, owing to some roughness of the ground, rode a young lady in a man's coat and hat -- which, with her vest and skirt, made the first riding-habit Frank had ever seen.

The girl's cheeks were bright with the exercise. Her singular beauty was the more remarkable, chanced upon in so savage a scene. And when, after hearing the "Whoop -- dead!" which told of poor Reynard's decease, she paused to tie up her loosened locks, Master Frank stared most undisguisedly and even impolitely.

One of the young huntsmen, clad in red and green, rode towards her, waving the brush in his hand as if in triumph over the girl.

"I see," she replied, "I see. But make no noise about it. If Phoebe here (patting the neck of her mare) had not got among the cliffs, you would have had little cause for boasting."

Then the two of them looked at Frank and spoke together in a low tone. The young man seemed sheepishly to decline some proposal which the girl made to him.

"Then if you won't, Thornie," she said at last, "I must."

And turning to Frank she asked him if he had seen anything of a friend of theirs, one Mr. Francis Osbaldistone, who for some days past had been expected at the Hall.

Frank instantly and gladly claimed kindred.

"Then," said the girl, smiling, "as this young man's politeness seems to have fallen asleep, I must e'en be master of the ceremonies, however improper it may be. So I beg to present to you young Squire Thorncliff Osbaldistone, your cousin, and Die Vernon, your accomplished cousin's poor kinswoman."

The "accomplished cousin" finally decided to shake hands with mingled awkwardness and an assumption of sulky indifference. This being done, he immediately announced his intention of going to help the huntsmen couple up the hounds, and so he took himself off.

"There he goes," said the young lady, following him with disdainful eyes, "the prince of grooms and cock-fighters and blackguard horse-racers. But truly there is not one of them to mend another!"

She turned sharply upon Frank.

"Have you read Markham?" she demanded.

Poor Frank had never even heard of that author. The girl held up her hands in horror.

"Never to have heard of Markham -- the Koran of this savage tribe -- the most celebrated author on farriery!" she cried. "Then I fear you are equally a stranger to the more modern names of Gibson and Bartlett?"

"I am, indeed, Miss Vernon," answered Frank, meekly.

"And do you not blush to own it?" she cried. "Why, we will disown the alliance. Then I suppose you can neither give a ball, nor a mash, nor a horn?"

"I confess," said Frank, "I trust all these matters to my groom."

"Incredible carelessness!" she continued. "What was your father thinking of? And you cannot shoe a horse, or cut his mane and tail. Or worm a dog, or crop his ears, or cut his dew-claws; or reclaim a hawk or give him casting-stones, or direct his diet when he is sealed! Or -- "

Frank could only once for all profess his utter ignorance of all such accomplishments.

"Then in the name of Heaven, Mr. Frank Osbaldistone, what can you do?"

"Very little to the purpose, I am afraid, Miss Vernon," answered Frank; "only this -- when my groom has dressed my horse I can ride him, and when my hawk is in the field, I can fly him."

"Can you do this?" said Die Vernon, setting her horse to a rude gate composed of pieces of wood from the forest, and clearing it at a bound. In a moment Frank was at her side.

"There are hopes for you yet," she said. "I was afraid that you were a very degenerate Osbaldistone. But what brings you to Cub Hall? I suppose you could have stayed away if you had liked?"

"The Cubs of the Hall may be as you describe them," said Frank, looking at his companion, "but I am convinced there is one exception that will make amends for all their deficiencies."

"Oh, you mean Rashleigh!" said Die Vernon.

"Indeed, I do not," said Frank, who had not been four years in France for nothing, "I never even heard of Rashleigh. I mean some one very much nearer me."

"I suppose I should pretend not to understand you," she answered, "but that is not my way. If I were not in the saddle, I would make you a courtesy. But seriously, I deserve your exception, for besides Rashleigh and the old priest, I am the only conversable being about Osbaldistone Hall."

"And who, for Heaven's sake, is Rashleigh?"

"Your youngest cousin, about your own age, but not so -- so well-looking. Full of natural sense -- learned, as being bred to the church, but in no hurry to take orders -- and in addition by all odds the cleverest man in a country where such are scarce."

They rode back to the Hall, but as it was some time before Frank could get any one to attend to his own horse and Diana's mare, which she had left in his charge, he had time to look about him and take in the old castle and its rough, wasteful prodigality of service. By and by, however, there arrived Sir Hildebrand, who, among his sons, seemed, by comparison at least, both intelligent and a gentleman. He gave Frank a rough but hearty welcome to his mansion.

"Art welcome, lad!" he said. "I would have seen thee before but had to attend to the kennelling of the hounds. So thy father has thought on the old Hall and old Sir Hildebrand at last! Well, better late than never! Here are thy cousins -- Percie, Thornie, John, Dick, and Wilfred. But where's Rashleigh? Ay, here's Rashleigh! Take thy long body aside, Thornie, and let's see thy brother a bit. And here's my little Die, my sister's daughter, the prettiest girl on our dales, be the next who she may. And so now let's to the sirloin!"

The five elder brethren of Osbaldistone Hall were all cast in one mould -- tall, well-formed, athletic men, but dull of feature and expression, and seemingly without any intellect whatever. Rashleigh, the youngest, was the exact opposite of his brethren. Short in stature, thick-set, and with a curious halt in his gait, there was something about his dark irregular features -- something evil, relentless, and cruel, which even the assumed gentleness of his words and the melody of his voice could not hide. His brothers were mere oafs in learning, none of whom ever looked at printed paper save to make a fly-book of it. But Rashleigh was learned, and, when he pleased, of manners exquisitely refined.

It was, however, Miss Diana who really introduced Frank to his cousins, and the ceremony took place that day at dinner, while the young men were devoting themselves heartily to the meat which they piled up on their platters. The clatter of knives and forks covered her voice.

"Your cousins," she said, "taken all together, form a happy compound of the sot, the gamekeeper, the bully, the horse-jockey, and the fool. But as no two leaves off the same tree are quite exactly alike, so these ingredients are differently mingled in your kinsmen. Percie, the son and heir, has more of the sot than of the gamekeeper, bully, horse-jockey, or fool. My precious Thornie is more of the bully -- John, who sleeps whole weeks among the hills, has most of the gamekeeper. The jockey is powerful with Dickon, who rides two hundred miles by day and night, to be bought and sold himself at a race-meeting. And the fool so predominates over Wilfred's other characteristics that he may be termed a fool positive."

Though Frank pressed her, Die Vernon refused to add Sir Hildebrand to her gallery of family portraits.

"I owe him some kindnesses," she said, "or what at least were meant for such. And besides, I like him. You will be able to draw his picture yourself when you know him better."

Having once before been successful with a compliment, when talking to his beautiful companion, Frank now summoned his French breeding and tried a second. He had been silent for a minute, and Miss Vernon, turning her dark eyes on him, had said with her usual careless frankness, "You are thinking of me!"

"How is it possible," answered Master Frank, "that I should think of anything else, seated where I have the happiness to be."

But Diana only smiled with a kind of haughty scorn, and replied, "I must tell you at once, Mr. Osbaldistone, that your pretty sayings are wholly lost on me. Keep them for the other maids whom you will meet here in the north. There are plenty who will thank you for them. As for me, I happen to know their value. Come, be sensible! Why, because she is dressed in silk and gauze, should you think that you are compelled to unload your stale compliments on every unfortunate girl? Try to forget my sex. Call me Tom Vernon. Speak to me as to a friend and companion, and you have no idea how much I shall like you."

Frank's expression of amazement at these words egged on Diana to further feats of daring.

"But do not misjudge me," she said, "as I see you are likely to do. You are inclined to think me a strange bold girl, half coquette, half romp, desirous, perhaps, of storming you into admiration. You never were more mistaken. I would show as much favour to your father, as readily make him my confidant, if he were here -- and if I thought he were capable of understanding me. The truth is, I must speak of these things to some one or die."

Frank changed the subject. "Will you not add Rashleigh to the family gallery?" he said.

"No, no," she said hastily, "it is never safe to speak of Rashleigh -- no, not even when, as you now think, he has left the table. Do not be too sure even of that -- and when you speak of Rashleigh Osbaldistone, get up to the top of Otterscope Hill, stand on the very peak, and speak in whispers. And, after all, do not be too sure that a bird of the air may not carry the matter. Rashleigh was my tutor for four years. We are mutually tired of each other, and we shall heartily rejoice to be separated!"

Nevertheless Rashleigh it was who had been selected in full family conclave to take Frank's empty stool in the counting-house of Osbaldistone, Tresham and Company in Crane Alley. Indeed, there was no choice. His brothers were incapable even of the multiplication table. Besides, they wished him away, with the feelings of mice who hear that the family cat is going off to fill another situation. Even his father, who stood no little in awe of his clever son, breathed more freely at the thought of Osbaldistone Hall without Rashleigh.

It was not long before Mr. Frank Osbaldistone had a taste of his cousin Rashleigh's quality. The very next morning his uncle and cousins looked at him curiously when he came down early. Sir Hildebrand even quoted a rhyme for his benefit,

"He that gallops his horse on Blackstone Edge, May chance to catch a fall."

It was a fox-hunting morning, and during a long run Frank sustained his character as a good and daring rider, to the admiration of Diana and Sir Hildebrand, and to the secret disappointment of his other kind kinsfolk, who had prophesied that he would certainly "be off at the first burst," chiefly for the reason that he had a queer, outlandish binding round his hat.

It was plain that Diana wanted to speak with him apart, but the close attendance of Cousin Thornie for some time made this impossible. That loutish youth's persistence finally fretted the girl, and having been accustomed all her life to ride the straightest way to her desire, she bade him be off to see that the earths above Woolverton Mill were duly stopped.

After some objections Thornie was got safely out of the road, and Diana led the way to a little hill whence there was a fine view in every direction. She pointed, as Frank thought, somewhat significantly to the north.

"Yonder whitish speck is Hawkesmore Crag in Scotland," she said, "the distance is hardly eighteen miles, as the crow flies. Your horse will carry you there in two hours -- and I will lend you my mare if you think her less blown."

"But," said Frank, quite mystified, "I have so little wish to be in Scotland, that if my horse's head were in Scotland, I would not give his tail the trouble of following. What should I do in Scotland, Miss Vernon?"

"Why, provide for your safety -- do you understand me now, Mr. Frank?"

"Less than ever, Miss Vernon," he answered. "I have not the most distant conception of what you mean."

"Why, then," said Diana, "to be plain, there is an information lodged with our nearest Justice of the Peace, Squire Inglewood, that you were concerned in a robbery of government papers and money sent to pay the troops in Scotland. A man with whom you travelled, and whom you certainly frightened, has lodged such a complaint against you. His name is Morris."

"Morris has been robbed?"

"Ay," said Diana, "and he swears you are the man who robbed him."

"Then Sir Hildebrand believes it?" cried Frank.

"He does," answered Diana, "and to tell the truth, so did I until this moment."

"Upon my word, I am obliged to you and my uncle for your opinion of me."

"Oh, it is nothing to be ashamed of," she said, smiling, "no mere highway robbery. The man was a government messenger. We are all Jacobites about here, and no man would have thought the worse of you for bidding him stand and deliver. Why, my uncle had a message from Squire Inglewood himself, that he had better provide for your safety by smuggling you over the border into Scotland."

"Tell me," said Frank, somewhat impatiently, "where does this Squire Inglewood live? I will go and answer the charge instantly and in person."

"Well said -- I will go with you," said Diana, promptly, "it was never the Vernon way to desert a friend in time of need."

Frank tried to dissuade her from this, but he could not combat the girl's resolution. So they set off together for Inglewood Hall. As they entered the courtyard, they met Rashleigh just coming out.

Miss Vernon instantly challenged him, before he got time to make up a story.

"Rashleigh," she said, "you have heard of Mr. Frank's affair, and you have been over to the Justice talking about it."

But Rashleigh was equally ready.

"Certainly," he answered, "I have been endeavouring to render my cousin what service I could. But at the same time I am sorry to meet him here."

"As a friend and kinsman, Mr. Osbaldistone," said Frank, "you should have been sorry to meet me anywhere else but where my character is at stake, and where it is my intention to clear it."

However, it was evidently not Miss Vernon's purpose to quarrel with Rashleigh at that time. She led him apart, and began talking to him -- at first quietly, then with obvious anger. From her manner she was charging him with knowing who had really committed the robbery, and pressing upon him in some way to make plain his cousin's innocence. He resisted long, but at length gave way.

"Very well, then," he said, "you are a tyrant, Diana. Still, it shall be as you desire. But you know that you ought not to be here. You must return with me at once!"

"I will do no such thing," said the girl; "not a foot will I go back till such time as I see Frank well out of the hands of the Philistines. He has been bidding me to go back all the time, himself. But I know better. Also, I know you, my cousin Rashleigh, and my being here will give you a stronger motive to be speedy in performing your promise."

Rashleigh departed in great anger at her obstinacy, and Frank and Die together sought the den of the Justice, to which they were guided by a high voice chanting the fag-end of an old bottle-song:

"Oh, in Skipton-in-Craven Is never a haven But many a day foul weather, And he that would say A pretty girl nay I wish for his cravat a tether."

"Hey day," said Die Vernon, "the genial Justice must have dined already -- I did not think it had been so late."

As Diana had supposed, the Justice had dined. But though both his clerk Jobson and Frank's accuser Morris were with him, he showed himself as pleased to see Diana as he was evidently disinclined for all further legal business.

"Ah, ha, Die Vernon," he cried, starting up with great alacrity, "the heath-bell of Cheviot and the blossom of the border, come to see how the old bachelor keeps house? Art welcome, girl, as the flowers in May!"

Miss Vernon told him that on this occasion she could not stay. She had had a long ride that morning, and she must return at once. But if he were a good kind Justice, he would immediately despatch young Frank's business and let them go.

This the "good Justice" was very willing to do, but Clerk Jobson, alert in his office, pressed that the law should have its course, while Frank himself demanded no better than that the mystery should be cleared up once and for all.

Whereupon the man who had been robbed repeated his statement. He had, it seemed, been first of all terrified by Frank's antics. And then on the open moor, when he had found himself stopped, and relieved of his portmanteau by two masked men, he had distinctly heard the name "Osbaldistone" applied by one of his assailants in speaking to the other. He furthermore certified that all the Osbaldistones had been Papists and Jacobites from the time of William the Conquerer. From which it was clear that Frank was the guilty man!

Frank replied that it was true that, like a foolish, gamesome youth, he had certainly practised somewhat on the fears of the man Morris, but that he had never seen him since he parted from him at Darlington, and that, far from being a Papist and a Jacobite, he could easily prove that he had been brought up in the strictest school of Presbyterianism and in full obedience to the government of King George.

Clerk Jobson, however, was sharp enough to turn Frank's admissions against him, and said that since he had voluntarily assumed the behaviour of a robber or malefactor, he had by that very act brought himself within the penalties of the law.

But at this moment a letter was handed to the Clerk, which informed him that a certain old Gaffer Rutledge was at the point of death, and that he, Clerk Jobson, must go immediately to his house in order to settle all his worldly affairs.

The clerk, after offering to make out the warrant of commitment before setting out, at last, and with great reluctance, rode away. Then the Justice, who evidently still fully believed in Frank's guilt, counselled him as a friend to let bygones be bygones, and to give Mr. Morris back his portmanteau. Frank had hardly time to be indignant at this when a servant announced -- "A stranger to wait upon the Justice!"

"A stranger!" echoed the Justice, in very bad temper; "not upon business, or I'll -- " But his protestation was cut short by the entrance of the stranger himself, and by the stern deep voice of Mr. Campbell, who immediately produced his usual effect upon Squire Inglewood.

"My business is peculiar," said the Scot, "and I ask your Honour to give it your most instant consideration."

Then Mr. Campbell turned on Morris such a look of ferocity that it made that valiant gentleman shake visibly from head to foot.

"I believe you cannot have forgotten what passed between us at our last meeting," he said, "and you can bear me witness to the Justice that I am a man of fortune and honour. You will be some time resident in my vicinity, and you know it will be in my power to do as much for you. Speak out, man, and do not sit there chattering your jaws like a pair of castanets."

At last an answer was extracted from the trembling Mr. Morris, but with as much difficulty as if it had been a tooth.

"Sir -- sir -- ," he stammered, "yes -- I do believe you to be a man of fortune and of honour -- I do believe it!"

"Then," said Campbell, "you will bear me witness that I was in your company when the valise was stolen, but did not think fit to interfere, the affair being none of mine. Further you will tell the Justice that no man is better qualified than I to bear testimony in this case."

"No man better qualified, certainly," assented Morris, with a heavy sigh. In order to prove his character, Mr. Campbell put into the hands of Justice Inglewood a certificate given under the seal and in the handwriting of the great Duke of Argyle himself. The Justice, who had stood by the Duke in 1714, was duly impressed, and told the Scot that his additional testimonial was perfectly satisfactory.

"And now," he added, "what have you to say about this robbery?"

"Briefly this," said Mr. Campbell, "the robber for whom Mr. Morris took Mr. Osbaldistone was both a shorter and a thicker man. More than that, I saw under the false face he wore, when it slipped aside, that his features were altogether different!"

Between terror and the determined attitude of Campbell, Morris was soon forced to withdraw his information against Frank, and the Justice, glad to be rid of so troublesome a case, instantly threw the papers into the fire.

"You are now at perfect liberty, Mr. Osbaldistone," said Squire Inglewood, "and you, Mr. Morris, are set quite at your ease."

In spite of this Mr. Morris did not seem exactly comfortable, especially as Mr. Campbell expressed his intention of accompanying him to the next highway, telling him that he would be as safe in his company as in his father's kailyard.

"Zounds, sir," he said as they went out, "that a chield with such a black beard should have no more heart than a hen-partridge. Come on wi' ye, like a frank fellow, once and for all!"

The voices died away, the clatter of horses' hoofs was heard, and after a few kindly words from the Justice, Diana and Frank set out on their way home. On the road they met Clerk Jobson returning in great haste and in a most villanous temper. The will-making, even the illness of Gaffer Rutledge, had proved to be a "bam," that is to say, a hoax. The clerk's language became so impertinent towards Miss Vernon, that, if she had not prevented him, Frank would certainly have broken the rascal's head.

The revel was in full swing at Osbaldistone Hall when they returned. So for the sake of peace Diana ordered some dinner to be brought to them in the library. This was a large neglected room, walled about with great books, into which hardly any of the Osbaldistones ever came, and which accordingly Diana had appropriated as her peculiar sanctum.

To this chamber Rashleigh Osbaldistone penetrated after dinner had been removed. He came to explain the events of the day, but except that he had met Campbell by chance, and that, having learned that he had been an eye-witness to the robbery, he had sent him on to Squire Inglewood's, there was not much more that he seemed inclined to reveal.

Afterwards, however, in his own room, Rashleigh became more communicative. He desired to know what kind of man Frank's father was, with whom in future he was to be placed. And in return for this information he told Frank what he wished to know as to Diana Vernon. She was, said Rashleigh, to marry Thorncliff, according to a family compact of long standing. But he intimated in addition that she would greatly have preferred himself, and that, indeed, he had withdrawn from the care of her studies on account of the too evident affection she had begun to show towards one, who, as a son of the church, was destined never to marry.

This information rankled in Frank's mind, and all the next day he was sullen and even brutal in his manner towards Miss Vernon. But she did not grow angry, and merely left him to fill up the measure of his folly -- which he presently did by an affray with Rashleigh and his other cousins over the wine-cups in the evening, in which swords were drawn and blows given.

The next morning, however, Miss Vernon called him to account.

"Upon my word, Mr. Francis Osbaldistone," she said, seating herself in one of the great chairs in the library, like a judge upon the bench, "your character improves upon us. Last night's performance was a masterpiece. You contrived to exhibit in the course of one evening all the various qualifications of your several cousins -- the gentle and generous temper of Rashleigh, the temperance of Percie, the cool courage of Thorncliff, John's skill in dog-breaking, Dickon's aptitude for betting -- all these were exhibited by the same Mr. Francis, and with a choice of time and place worthy of the taste and sagacity of Wilfred."

Frank expressed his shame and sorrow as best he could. He had been troubled, he said, by some information that he had received.

Instantly Miss Vernon took him up.

"And now," she said, "please tell me instantly what it was that Rashleigh said of me -- I have a right to know and know I will!"

It was some time before Frank could bring himself to tell Diana what her cousin had really hinted concerning herself, and when she heard that he had affirmed her wish to marry him in preference to Thorncliff, she shuddered from head to foot.

"No," she cried, all her soul instantly on fire, "any lot rather than that -- the sot, the gambler, the bully, the jockey, the insensate fool were a thousand times preferable to Rashleigh! But the convent, the jail -- the grave -- shall be welcome before them all!"


Interlude Of Discussion

At the abrupt close of the story the children looked not a little surprised, nor did they manifest their usual eagerness to rush out of doors and instantly to reduce the tale to action.

The first difficulty was as to who the real highwayman could be.

"Did Frank really take the man's bag with the money and things?" ventured Maid Margaret, a little timidly. She knew that she would be promptly contradicted.

"No, of course not," shouted Hugh John, "it was the Scotch drover, Campbell, -- for how else could he know so well about it? Of course it was -- I knew it from the first."

Meantime Sweetheart had been musing deeply.

"Do you know," she said gently, "I am most of all sorry for Die Vernon. I don't think that I want to play in this story. It is too real. I think Die Vernon lived."

"Why -- didn't they all live?" said Maid Margaret, plaintively. For the world of books was still quite alive for her. She had not lost the most precious of all the senses. Dream-gold was as good as Queen's-head-gold fresh out of the mint for her. Happy Maid Margaret!

"I am sure Die Vernon was real," Sweetheart went on; "last night when you were all out cycle-riding and I was waiting for my Latin lesson, I read a bit of the book -- a chapter that father has not told us. And it made me sorry for Die. She wished that she had been born a man, so that she might say and do the same things as others. She was alone in the world, she said. She needed protection, yet if she said or did anything naturally, every one thought what a bold, forward girl she was! I have felt that too!"

"Rubbish!" said Hugh John, in high remorseless scorn, "you are not 'alone in the world!' No, not much. And if we say or do anything to you, you jolly well whack us over the head. Why, the last time I called you -- "

"That will do, Hugh John," interrupted Sweetheart, in very Die Vernonish voice.

"Well, when I called you -- 'Thinggummy' -- you know -- you hit me with a stick and the mark lasted three days!"

"And served you right!" said Sweetheart, calmly.

"Well, I'm not saying it didn't, am I?" retorted honest Hugh John, "but anyway you needn't go about doing wooly-woo -- 

"'My nest it is harried, My children all gone!'"

"Oh, you are a boy and can't understand -- or won't!" said Sweetheart, with a sigh, "I needn't have expected it. But Diana Vernon did make me cry, especially the bit about her being a Catholic -- stop -- I will find it!"

And she foraged among the books on the shelf for the big Abbotsford edition of Rob Roy, the one with the fine old-fashioned pictures.

"Here it is," she said with her finger on the place.

"'I belong to an oppressed sect and antiquated religion (she read), and instead of getting credit for my devotion, as is due to all other good girls, my kind friend Justice Inglewood might send me to the house of correction for it. . . . I am by nature of a frank and unreserved disposition, -- a plain, true-hearted girl, who would willingly act honestly and openly by all the world, and yet fate has entangled me in such a series of nets and toils and entanglements, that I dare not speak a word for fear of consequences, not to myself but to others.'"

Sweetheart sighed again and repeated thoughtfully, "I am sorry for Die Vernon!"

"Humph," said Hugh John, with dogged masculine logic, "girls are always making up troubles, I think. I don't see what she has to 'whimp' about -- everybody did just as she said at that Hall -- more than I would do for any silly girl, I bet! Just you try it on, only once, Miss Sweetheart, that's all! She has all she can eat and can order it herself -- lots of horses and riding -- a gun -- cricky, I only wish I had her chances! Think of it -- just oblige me by thinking of it -- secret passages to come and go by, night and day, right plumb in the wall under your nose, mysterious priests, Jesuits, Jacobites, and things. Why, it's nearly as good as Crusoe's Island, I declare."

Sweetheart looked at Hugh John with the far-away gentle compassion which always drove that matter-of-fact warrior wild.

"All girls are the same," he asserted insultingly, "they always get thinking they are going to die right off, if only their little finger aches!"

"You'll be sorry!" said Sweetheart, warningly.

"Oh, will I?" said Hugh John, truculently, "isn't what I say true, Toady Lion?"

But Toady Lion was sitting upon a buffet, in the character of Morris upon his portmanteau. He was shaking and chattering with such exaggerated terror that Maid Margaret, wrapped in a dust-sheet for a disguise and armed with the kitchen poker, could not rob him for very laughter. So neither of them paid any heed.

"You'll be sorry for speaking like that about Die Vernon," Sweetheart went on; "I've looked and I know. She was a true heroine. And she is worth a whole pack of your heroes any day."

"And, indeed, that's not saying much!" said Hugh John, who also had his sorrows. "But at any rate that was no proper place to break off a story. And I'll tell father so. Let's tease to have some more. It's a wet day, and we can't do anything else!"

"Oh, yes -- let's!" said Sweetheart. "Stop all that, Toady Lion, and you, Maid Margaret. We are going to ask for the second tale from Rob Roy!"

"Well," grumbled Hugh John, "I hope that there will be more about Rob Roy in it this time. It's not too soon."

And Sweetheart only continued to regard him with the same quiet but irritating smile, and nodded her head as who would say, "Those who live the longest see the most!"



The Second Tale From "Rob Roy"


I. In The Toils Of Rashleigh

BUT it became more and more evident that Frank's time at Osbaldistone Hall was growing short. A certain travelling merchant, a friend and countryman of Andrew Fairservice, the Osbaldistone gardener, brought news from London of how Frank's character had been attacked there in the matter of Morris, and that in the high court of Parliament itself.

Moreover, Frank felt that he could not much longer remain in the same house with Miss Vernon. His love for her daily increased. Yet she told him plainly that she could and would only be a friend to him. He must ask her no questions, however deep the mysteries which encircled her might seem. One day he found a man's glove lying on the library table. On another occasion, after Rashleigh's departure for London, he distinguished two shadows on the windows of the library while he was patrolling the garden after dark.

Last of all Frank received a letter through some secret channel of Diana's written by his father's partner, Mr. Tresham. This informed him that his father had been for some time in Holland on business of the firm, and that Rashleigh had gone north to Scotland some time ago, with a large amount of money to take up bills granted by his father to merchants in that country. Since his setting out, nothing whatever had been heard of Rashleigh, and Owen had gone north to find him. Frank was urgently prayed to proceed to Glasgow for the same purpose as soon as possible. For if Rashleigh were not found, it was likely that the great house of Osbaldistone and Tresham might have to suspend payment.

At this news Frank was stricken to the heart. He saw now how his foolishness had ruined his father, because it was through his obstinacy that Rashleigh had gained admission to his father's confidence. Mr. Osbaldistone, he knew, would never survive the disgrace of bankruptcy. He must, therefore, instantly depart. And Diana willingly sped him on his way, giving him a letter which he was only to open if all other means of paying his father's debts had failed.

Frank resolved to quit Osbaldistone Hall by night secretly, leaving only a letter of thanks for his uncle, and informing him that immediate and urgent business called him to Glasgow. He found a willing guide ready to his hand in the gardener Andrew Fairservice, who, as he said, had long been awaiting such an opportunity of quitting his employment.

But this same Andrew came near to involving Frank in a fresh breach of the law. For, as Squire Thorncliff owed him ten pounds which he refused to pay, Andrew had mounted himself on Squire Thornie's good beast. And it was not until the animal was safely arrested by the law in the first Scotch town across the border, and Frank had written the whole story to Sir Hildebrand, that he felt easy in his mind as to the irregular act of his attendant.

They arrived at Glasgow, then a small but ancient town, on the eve of the Sabbath day. It was impossible for Frank to discover Owen that night, and it proved to be no more easy the following morning.

For when he proposed to his landlady to go to the dwelling-house of Mr. MacVittie, or to the counting-house of that firm, in search of Owen, she held up her hands in horror.

"There will not be a soul in either place," she cried; "they are all serious men and will only be found where all good Christians ought to be on the Lord's Day Morning, and that's in the Barony Laigh (Low) Kirk!"

So thither accordingly Frank betook himself, accompanied, of course, by his faithful follower, Andrew Fairservice. They found the Laigh Kirk to be a gloomy underground crypt into which light was but sparingly admitted by a few Gothic windows. In the centre the pews were already full to overflowing with worshippers, and Andrew and Frank had to take their places in the ring of those who stood in the outer dark among the gloomy ranges of pillars which stretched away into complete obscurity.

Frank listened to the sermon for some time with what attention he could muster. But the thought of his father's loss and his own share in it recurred often to his mind. Suddenly he was roused from his revery by a whisper from the darkness behind, "Listen," a voice said, low but very distinct, in his ear, "do not look back. You are in danger in this place. So am I. Meet me to-night at the Brig, at twelve o'clock precisely. Keep at home till the gloaming and avoid observation!"

Frank tried to find out who could be so well acquainted with his journey as to give him this rendezvous. But all that he could see, vanishing into the darkness of the vaulted arches, was a figure, wrapped in a long cloak which revealed nothing whatever of its wearer. Instinctively Frank attempted to pursue, but he had not gone many yards, when he fell over a tombstone with such a clatter that it caused the preacher to stop and order the officers to take into custody the author of the unseemly disturbance.

There was nothing for it, therefore, but to wait with as much patience as he could muster for the time appointed. He did, however, see Mr. MacVittie, his father's correspondent, when as Andrew said the "kirk scaled." But he did not take that worthy's advice to speak to the merchant. The hard features of the man had in them something disagreeable and even menacing which vaguely recalled Rashleigh Osbaldistone. And Frank, remembering the warnings of his unknown friend, resolved to refrain from making his presence in Glasgow known, at least for the present, to that notable merchant Mr. MacVittie.

This Sunday was the longest day of Frank Osbaldistone's life. It seemed as if the hours would never go past. Twilight came at last, however, and he issued forth to walk up and down in the public park, among the avenues of trees, till the time of his appointment should arrive.

As he marched to and fro, keeping as much as possible out of sight of the passers-by, he heard the voice of Andrew Fairservice in close and somewhat loud conversation with a man in a long cloak and a slouched hat. Andrew was retailing the character of his master to the stranger, and though Frank Osbaldistone promised to himself to break Andrew's pate for his insolence on the first suitable occasion, he could not but acknowledge the fidelity of the likeness which Andrew painted.

"Ay, ay, Mr. Hammorgaw," Andrew was saying, "the lad is a good lad. He is not altogether void of sense. He has a gloaming sight of what is reasonable, but he is crack-brained and cockle-headed about his nipperty-tipperty poetry nonsense. A bare crag wi' a burn jawing over it is unto him as a garden garnished with flowering knots and choice pot-herbs. And he would rather claver with a daft quean they call Diana Vernon, than hear what might do him good all the days of his life from you or me, or any other sober and sponsible person. Reason, sir, he cannot endure. He is all for the vanities and the volubilities. And he even once told me, poor blinded creature, that the Psalms of David were excellent poetry. As if the holy Psalmist thought of rattling rhymes in blether, like his own silly clinkum-clankum that he calls verse! Gude help him! Two lines of Davie Lindsay wad ding a' that he ever clerkit!"

At last, after a weary waiting, the bell of the church of St. Mungo tolled the hour of midnight. The echoes had not ceased upon the air when a figure approached across the bridge, coming from the southern side. The man was strong, thick-set, and wore a horseman's cloak wrapped about him. But he passed without speaking, and held on his way to the farther end of the bridge. There he turned, and meeting Frank full in face, bade him follow him and he would know his reasons for thus warning him.

Frank first demanded to know who he was, and what were his purposes with him.

"I am a man," was the reply, "and my purpose is friendly to you."

More than that he would not say. Frank could follow him or not, just as he chose. Only if he did not, he would rue it all his life.

Furthermore, he stung the young man, perhaps intentionally, with the taunt of being afraid. Frank cast back his words in his teeth. He was young, active, armed, of a good conscience. Why then had he need to be afraid?

"But," said the stranger, "if you are not afraid of what I can do to you, do you not fear the consequences of being found in the company of one whose very name whispered in this lonely street would make the stones themselves rise up to apprehend him -- on whose head half the men in Glasgow would build their fortune as on a found treasure, had they the luck to grip him by the collar -- the sound of whose apprehension were as welcome at the Cross of Edinburgh as ever the news of a field stricken and won in Flanders?"

"And who, then, are you?" cried Frank, "whose name should create so deep a terror?"

"No enemy of yours, since I am taking you to a place where, if I were recognised, cold iron for my heels and hemp for my throat would be my brief dooming."

Instinctively Frank laid his hand on his sword.

"What," said the stranger, "on an unarmed man and your friend?"

"I am ignorant if you be either the one or the other!" said Frank, "and indeed your language and manner lead me to doubt both."

"Manfully spoken," said the unknown; "well, I will be frank and free with you -- I am conveying you to prison!"

"To prison," cried Frank, "and by what warrant -- for what offence? You shall have my life sooner than my liberty. I defy you! I will not follow you a step farther!"

The unknown drew himself up haughtily.

"I am not taking you there as a prisoner," he said. "I am neither messenger nor sheriff's officer. Your liberty is little risked by the visit. Mine is in some peril. But I care not for the risk. For I love a free young blood, that kens no protector but the cross of his sword."

So saying he tapped at a low wicket, and was answered sharply from within, as by one awakened suddenly from a dream.

"Fat's tat? Wha's that, I wad say? And what the deil want ye at this hour o' the e'en? Clean again rules -- clean again rules -- as they call them!"

The speaker seemed by the yawning drone of the last words again to be composing himself to slumber.

Then the stranger, who had hitherto guided Frank, spoke in a loud whisper, "Dougal man! hae ye forgotten Ha nun Gregarach?"

Instantly there was a bustle inside.

"Deil a bit, deil a bit!" said the voice within, briskly.

Bolts were drawn, whispers passed in Gaelic, and presently Frank and his companion stood both of them in the vestibule of the tolbooth or public prison of Glasgow. It was a small but strong guard-room, from which passages led away to the right and left, and staircases ascended to the cells of the prisoners. Iron fetters fitly adorned the walls. Muskets, pistols, and partizans stood about, ready alike for defence or offence. Still more strange was the jailer who greeted them.

This man was a wild, shock-headed savage with a brush of red hair, but he knelt and almost worshipped Frank's guide. He could not take his eyes off him.

"Oich -- oich," grunted Dougal, for that was the turnkey's name, "to see ye here! What would happen to ye if the bailies should come to get witting of it?"

The guide, still wrapped in his cloak, placed his finger on his lip.

"Fear nothing, Dougal," he said, "your hands shall never draw a bolt on me."

"That shall they no," said Dougal, emphatically, "she wishes them hacked off by the elbows first. And when are ye gaun yonder again? When you return, you will not forget to tell your poor cousin -- only seven times removed."

"I will let you know, Dougal," said the man, "as soon as my plans are settled."

"And by my sooth," cried Dougal, "when you do, I will fling my keys at the provost's head, and never gie them anither turn -- see if I winna!"

But Frank's guide, who had listened to all this rhapsody very much with the air of a prince accustomed to royal service and thinking little of it, interrupted Dougal with some words in Gaelic.

Whereupon the turnkey, taking a lantern, led the young man up the winding stair and introduced him to a cell, where, lying on a bed, he recognised -- no other than Owen, the head clerk of his father's house.

At first the good Owen could only bemoan the hardness of fate, thinking that Frank also had met with the same treatment as himself, by being sent to prison. He had, it seemed, as in duty bound, gone at once to Messrs. MacVittie, MacFin, and Company and exposed to them his case, stating the difficulty in which the house were placed by Rashleigh's disappearance. Hitherto they had been most smooth and silver-tongued, but at the first word of difficulty as to payment, they had clapped poor Owen into prison on the charge of meditating flight out of the country.

He had, he continued, sent a note to Bailie Nicol Jarvie, the other correspondent of the house in Glasgow. But, as he said, "If the civil house in the Gallowgate used him thus, what was to be expected from the cross-grained old crab-stock in the Salt Market?"

It had fallen out even as he had expected. Bailie Nicol Jarvie had not so much as answered his letter, though it had been put into his hand as he was on his way to church that morning.

Hardly were the words out of Owen's mouth, when from below came the voice of Dougal the turnkey, evidently urging Frank's guide to conceal himself.

"Gang upstairs and hide behind the Sassenach gentleman's bed. Ay, ay -- coming -- coming!"

The Highlander hastily entered Owen's cell, and, stripping off his heavy coat, stood at bay, evidently gathering himself for a leap at the officers, should it indeed prove to be the provost, magistrates, and guard of the city of Glasgow, as Dougal believed. It was obvious that he meant to spring right at any who might be seeking to apprehend him. But instead of a guard with fixed bayonets, it was only a good-looking young woman in kilted petticoats holding a lantern in her hand, who ushered in a magistrate, stout, bob-wigged, bustling, and breathless. At the sight of his face Frank's conductor instantly drew back and resumed the muffling cloak which hid the lower part of his features.

The chief captain of the jail now showed himself at the door, having descended hastily to wait on the great man. But the Bailie's anger was huge against all and sundry.

"A bonny thing, Captain Stanchells," he cried, "that I, a magistrate of the city, should have been kept half an hour knocking as hard for entrance into the tolbooth as the poor creatures within knock to get out! And what, pray, is the meaning of this -- strangers in the jail after lock-up time? I will look after this, Stanchells, depend upon it. Keep the door locked. By and by I will speak with these gentlemen. But first, I must have a talk with an old acquaintance here. Mr. Owen, Mr. Owen, how's all with you, man?"

"Well in body, I thank you, Mr. Jarvie," said poor Owen, "but sore afflicted in spirit."

"Ay, ay -- no doubt -- no doubt," said the Bailie, briskly, "but we are all subject to a downcome, and it comes hard on those that have held their heads high. But I have not come out at twelve o'clock of a Sabbath night to cast up to an unfortunate man his backslidings. That was never Bailie Nicol Jarvie's way, nor yet was it his father the deacon's before him. Why, man, even in the Kirk I was thinking on your letter. And after supper I sat yawning wide enough to swallow St. Enoch's Kirk, till twelve of the clock struck. Then I took a bit look at my ledger just to see how matters stood between us. Syne I called up Mattie and bade her light the lamp and convoy me down to the tolbooth. I have entry here at any hour of the night and day, and so had my father before me, God bless him!"


II. Rob Roy At Last

During this harangue Frank's mysterious guide had been gradually edging toward the door, and showing signs of slipping away. But even when looking carefully over Mr. Owen's papers, the keen eyes of the magistrate detected the movement.

"Shut the door, Stanchells, and keep it locked!" he cried.

The Highlander took three or four steps across the room, muttered an execration in Gaelic, and then with an air of careless defiance set himself down on a table and proceeded to whistle a stave with all possible assurance.

The Bailie soon arranged Mr. Owen's affairs. He would become his bail himself, and promised to secure his liberation early next morning. Then he took the lantern from his servant Mattie, and, holding it up, proceeded to examine the stern, set countenance of Frank's guide. That stout-hearted Celt did not move a muscle under the inspection, but with his arms folded carelessly, his heel beating time to the lilt of his whistled strathspey, he came very near to deceiving the acuteness of his investigator.



"Eh -- ah -- no -- it cannot be. It is! Eh, ye born deevil, ye robber -- ye catheran! Can this be you?"

"E'en as ye see me, Bailie!" was the short response.

"Ye cheat-the-gallows, ye reiving villain -- what think you is the value of your head now!" cried the Bailie.

"Umph! Fairly weighed and Dutch measure," came the answer, "it might weigh down one provost's, four bailies', a town-clerk's, six deacons', besides stent-masters' -- !"

"Tell over your sins," interrupted Mr. Nicol Jarvie, "and prepare ye, for if I speak the word -- "

"But ye will not speak the word," said the Highlander, coolly.

"HE took the lantern from his servant Mattie, and, holding it up, proceeded to examine the stern, set countenance of Frank's guide. That stout-hearted Celt did not move a muscle under the inspection, but with his arms folded carelessly, his heel beating time to the lilt of his whistled strathspey, he came very near to deceiving the acuteness of his investigator."

"And why should I not?" said the Bailie, "answer me that -- why should I not?"

"For three sufficient reasons, Bailie Jarvie," he retorted, "first, for auld langsyne. Second, for the sake of the auld wife ayont the fire at Stuckavrallachan, that made some mixture of our bloods -- to my shame be it spoken that I should have a cousin a weaver. And lastly, Bailie, because if I saw a sign of your betraying me, I would plaster the wall there with your brains, long before any hand of man could rescue you!"

"Ye are a bold, desperate villain, sir," retorted the undaunted Bailie, "and ye ken that I ken ye to be so -- but that were it only my own risk, I would not hesitate a moment."

"I ken well," said the other, "ye have gentle blood in your veins, and I would be loath to hurt my own kinsman. But I go out of here free as I came in, or the very walls of Glasgow tolbooth shall tell the tale these ten years to come!"

"Well, well," said Mr. Jarvie, "after all, blood is thicker than water. Kinsfolk should not see faults to which strangers are blind. And, as you say, it would be sore news to the auld wife below the Ben, that you, ye Hieland limmer, had knockit out my brains, or that I had got you strung up in a halter. But, among other things, where is the good thousand pound Scots that I lent you, and when am I to be seeing it?"

"Where is it?" said the unknown, grimly, "why, where last year's snow is, I trow!"

"And that's on the tap o' Schehallion, ye Hieland dog," said Mr. Jarvie, "and I look for payment from ye where ye stand."

"Ay," said the Highlander, unmoved, "but I carry neither snow nor silver in my sporran. Ye will get it, Bailie -- just when the King enjoys his ain again, as the auld sang says!"

Then the magistrate turned to Frank.

"And who may this be?" he demanded, "some reiver ye hae listed, Rob? He looks as if he had a bold heart for the highway, and a neck that was made express for the hangman's rope!"

"This," said Owen, horrified at the Bailie's easy prediction as to the fate of his young master, "this is Mr. Francis Osbaldistone, only son of the head of our house -- "

"Ay, I have heard of him," said the Bailie, still more contemptuously, "he that ran away and turned play-actor, through pure dislike to the work an honest man should live by!"

"Indeed," said the Highlander, "I had some respect for the callant even before I kenned what was in him. But now I honour him for his contempt of weavers and spinners, and sic-like mechanical persons."

"Ye are mad, Rob," said the Bailie, "mad as a March hare -- though wherefore a hare should be madder in the month of March than at Martinmas is more than I can well say. But this young birkie here, that ye are hounding the fastest way to the gallows -- tell me, will all his stage-plays and his poetries, or your broad oaths and drawn dirks tell him where Rashleigh Osbaldistone is? Or Macbeth and all his kernes and galloglasses, and your own to boot, procure him the five thousand pounds to answer the bills that must fall due ten days hence -- were they all sold by auction at Glasgow Cross -- basket hilts, Andrea Ferraras, leathern targets, brogues, brechan, and sporrans?"

"Ten days!" said Frank, instinctively drawing Diana Vernon's letter out of his pocket. The time had elapsed, and he was now free to open it.

A thin sealed enclosure fell out, and the wandering airs of the prison wafted it to Bailie Jarvie's feet. He lifted it and at once handed it to the Highlander, who, after glancing at the address, proceeded calmly to open it.

Frank tried vainly to interpose.

"You must first satisfy me that the letter is intended for you, before I can allow you to read it," he said.

"Make yourself easy, Mr. Osbaldistone," answered the Highlander, looking directly at him for the first time, "remember Justice Inglewood, Clerk Jobson, Mr. Morris -- above all, remember your very humble servant, Robert Campbell, and the beautiful Diana Vernon."

The vague resemblance which had been haunting Frank ever since he had heard this man's voice was now at once made plain. The cloak being dropped and the man's face turned full upon him, he saw that it was indeed the same Highland drover who had borne unexpected testimony in his favour when he was in danger of his life in the house of Mr. Justice Inglewood.

"It is a difficult cast she has given me to play," said the Highlander, looking at Die Vernon's letter, "but I daresay I shall be able to serve you. Only you must come and visit me in my own country. I cannot hope to aid you on the paving stones of Glasgow. And you, Bailie, if you will come up with this young gentleman as far as the Clachan of Aberfoil, I will pay you the thousand pounds Scots that I owe you."

"Such a journey ill becomes my place," said the Bailie, doubtfully, "but if I did come, would you really and soothfully pay me the siller?"

"I swear to you," said the Highlander, "by him that sleeps beneath the grey stane at Inch Cailleach!

"But," he continued, "I must be budging. For the air of the Glasgow tolbooth is no that over salutary to a Highland constitution."

"Ohon," said the Bailie, "that I should be art and part in an escape from justice -- it will be a disgrace to me all the days of my life! Aweel, we have all our backslidings to answer for. Stanchells, open the door!"

The head jailor stared at the two visitors who had gotten into Mr. Owen's cell without his leave, but he was reassured by the Bailie's careless "Friends of mine, Stanchells, friends of mine!"

The party descended to the lower vestibule, and there called more than once for Dougal, but without effect.

Whereupon Campbell observed, with a quiet smile, that "if Dougal was the lad he kenned him, he would scarce wait to be thanked for his share of that night's work, but would now be full trot for the pass of Ballamaha -- "

"And am I myself," cried the angry Bailie, "to be locked up in the tolbooth all night? Send for fore-hammers, sledge-hammers, pincers! Send for Deacon Yettlin, the smith. And as for that Hieland blackguard, he shall hang as high as Haman -- "

"When ye catch him," said Campbell, gravely, "but wait, surely the jail door is not locked!"

And so it turned out.

"He has some glimmerings of sense, that Dougal creature," added the Highlander; "he kenned that an open door might have served me at a pinch!"

So saying he sprang into the darkness, and soon the street resounded to low signal whistles, uttered and instantly replied to.

"Hear to the Hieland deevils," said Mr. Jarvie; "they think themselves already on the skirts of Ben Lomond! But what's this?"

There was a clash of iron at his feet, and stooping to the causeway cobbles, the Bailie lifted the keys of the jail which Dougal had carried away in his flight.

"Indeed," he said, "and that's just as well. For they cost the burgh siller, and there might have been some talk in the council about the loss of them, that I would little like to have heard. It would not be the first time they had cast up my kin to me, if Bailie Grahame and some others should get wind of this night's work."

The next morning at the Bailie's hospitable table, Frank Osbaldistone met Mr. Owen -- but altogether another Owen from him of the tolbooth -- neat, formal, and well brushed as ever, though still in the lowest of spirits about the misfortunes of the house.

They had not long begun when Frank, who could be brusque enough upon occasion, startled the Bailie by the question, "And pray, by the bye, Mr. Nicol Jarvie, who is this Mr. Robert Campbell whom I met last night?"

The question, abruptly put, seemed to knock the worthy Bailie all of a heap. He stammered and repeated it over and over, as if he had no answer ready.

"Wha's Mr. Robert Campbell? Ahem -- ahay -- ! Wha's Mr. Robert Campbell, quo' he?"

"Yes," repeated the young Englishman, "I mean who and what is he?"

"Why, he's -- ahay! He's -- ahem! Where did you meet Mr. Robert Campbell, as you call him yourself?"

"I met him by chance," Frank answered promptly, "some months ago, in the north of England."

"Then, Mr. Osbaldistone," said the Bailie, doggedly, "ye ken just as much about him as I do!"

"I should suppose not, Mr. Jarvie," said Frank, "since you are, it seems, both his relation and his friend!"

"There is doubtless some cousinship between us," said the Bailie, with reluctance, "but I have seen little of Rob since he left the cattle-dealing. He was hardly used by those who might have treated him better, poor fellow."

More than this for the moment Frank could not extract from Mr. Jarvie, and indeed his father's affairs were naturally the first consideration. As Frank could not help with their business matters and arrangements, the Bailie dismissed him without ceremony, telling him that he might go up to the College Yards, where he would find some that could speak Greek and Latin, but that he must be back at one o'clock "preceesely" to partake of the Bailie's family leg of mutton and additional tup's head.

It was while Frank Osbaldistone was pacing to and fro in the College Yards, that, from behind a hedge, he saw three men talking together. At first he could hardly believe his eyes. For one of them, the very sight of whom caused a disagreeable thrill to pass through his body, was none other than Rashleigh himself, while the other two were Morris and Mr. MacVittie, -- the very three men who could do him the most harm in the world.

At the end of the avenue MacVittie and Morris left the gardens, while Rashleigh returned alone, apparently pacing the walk in deep meditation. Frank suddenly appeared before him, and challenged him to give up the deeds and titles he had stolen from his father.

Rashleigh, whom no surprise could stir out of his cool native audacity, answered that it would be better for his cousin to go and amuse himself in his world of poetical imagination, and to leave the business of life to men who understood and could conduct it.

Words grew hotter and hotter between the two young men, till Rashleigh, stung by a reference to Diana Vernon, bade Frank follow him to a secluded place where he would be able to chastise him for his boyish insolence.

Accordingly Frank followed him, keeping a keen watch on his adversary lest he should attempt any treachery. And it was well that he did so. For Rashleigh's sword was at his breast before he had time to draw, or even to lay down his cloak, and he only saved his life by springing a pace or two backward in all haste.

In the matter of fence, Frank found Rashleigh quite his match -- his own superior skill being counterbalanced by Rashleigh's longer and more manageable sword and by his great personal strength and ferocity. He fought, indeed, more like a fiend than a man. Every thrust was meant to kill, and the combat had all the appearance of being to the death.

At last Frank stumbled accidentally, and Rashleigh's sword passed through his coat and out at the back, just grazing his side, whereupon Frank, seizing the hilt of his antagonist's sword, shortened his grip and was on the point of running him through the body. But the death-grapple was put an end to in the nick of time, by the intervention of Campbell, who suddenly appeared out of the bushes and threw himself between them. Rashleigh demanded fiercely of the Highlander how he dared to interfere where his honour was concerned.



But Campbell, with a whistle of his broadsword about his head, reminded him that so far as "daring" went, he was ready to make mincemeat of the pair of them. But though this cooled Rashleigh's temper at once, it was far from appeasing Frank, who swore that he would keep hold of his cousin till he had given up all he had stolen from his father.

"THE death-grapple was put an end to in the nick of time by the intervention of Campbell, who suddenly appeared out of the bushes and threw himself between them. Rashleigh demanded fiercely of the Highlander how he dared to interfere where his honour was concerned."

"You hear!" said Rashleigh to Campbell; "he rushes upon his fate. On his own head be it!"

But the Highlander would not permit the young man to be ill treated, only for standing up for his own father. He took hold of Frank, however, and by a gigantic effort he caused him to release Rashleigh's coat which he had seized in his anger.

"Let go his collar, Mr. Francis," he commanded. "What he says is true. Ye are more in danger of the magistrate in this place than what he is. Take the bent, Mr. Rashleigh. Make one pair of legs worth two pair of hands. You have done that before now."

Rashleigh, with a last threat of future revenge, took up his sword, wiped it, put it back in its sheath, and disappeared in the bushes.

In spite of his struggles the Highlander held Frank till it was vain for him to pursue Rashleigh, and then Campbell had some advice to give him.

"Let him alone," he said. "I tell you, man, he has the old trap set for you. And here I cannot give you the same help that I did in the house of Justice Inglewood. Now go your ways home, like a good bairn. Keep out of the sight of Rashleigh, and Morris, and that MacVittie animal. Mind the Clachan of Aberfoil, and by the word of a gentleman I will not see you wronged."

On his way back Frank had his slight wound dressed by a surgeon and apothecary in the neighbourhood, who refused to believe his explanation about the button of his adversary's foil slipping.

"There never was button on the foil that made this!" he said. "Ah, young blood -- young blood! But fear not -- we surgeons are a secret generation!"

And so dismissed, Frank soon found his way back to Mr. Jarvie's family leg of mutton and tup's head, only a few minutes after the appointed stroke of one.

*    *    *    *    *


III. The Bailie Fights With Fire

When Frank Osbaldistone, the Bailie, and Andrew Fairservice, set forward toward the Highlands, their way lay for the first stage over barren wastes, with the blue line of the Grampian Hills continually before their eyes.

Andrew had as usual tried to cheat his master by getting rid of his own pony and buying another on Frank's account. But the Bailie soon caused Andrew to recover his old horse on the penalty of being at once haled off to prison.

Night came on before the little party of three arrived at the inn of the Clachan of Aberfoil, having previously crossed the infant Forth by an ancient bridge, high and narrow.

The inn was a mere hovel, but the windows were cheerfully lighted up. There was a sound of revelry within that promised good cheer to hungry men, and the party were on the point of entering, when Andrew Fairservice showed them a peeled wand which was set across the half-open door.

"That means," he said, "that some of their great men are birling at the wine within, and will little like to be disturbed."

It proved to be even so. The landlady was most anxious to keep them out. They could get rest and shelter, she promised them, within seven Scottish miles -- that is to say, within at least double that number of English ones. Her house was taken up, and the gentlemen in possession would ill like to be intruded on by strangers. Better gang farther than fare worse.

But Frank, being an Englishman and hungry for his dinner, was ready to do battle against all odds in order to get it.

The interior of the inn of Aberfoil was low and dark. The smoke of the fire hung and eddied under the gloomy roof about five feet from the ground. But underneath all was kept clear by the currents of air that rushed about the house when the wind blew through the wicker door and the miserable walls of stone plastered with mud.

Three men were sitting at an oak table near the fire. Two of these were in Highland dress, the first small and dark, with a quick and irritable expression of countenance. He wore the "trews" of tartan, which in itself showed him a man of consideration. The other Highlander was a tall, strong man, with the national freckled face and high cheekbones. The tartan he wore had more of red in it than that of the other. The third was in Lowland dress, a bold, stout-looking man, in a showily laced riding-dress and a huge cocked hat. His sword and a pair of pistols lay on the table before him.

All three were drinking huge draughts of the Highland drink called "Usquebagh," and they spoke loudly and eagerly one to the other, now in Gaelic, now in English. A third Highlander, wrapped in his plaid and with his face hidden, lay on the floor, apparently asleep.

The three gentlemen were at first unconscious of the invasion. They continued their loud conversation, and it was not until Frank Osbaldistone called the landlady that they paused and looked at them, apparently stricken dumb by his audacity.

"You make yourself at home," said the lesser Celt, in very good English, which however he spoke with an air of haughty disdain.

"I usually do, sir," said Frank, "when I come into a house of public entertainment."

"And did she not see," demanded the taller man, "by the white wand at the door, that gentlemans had taken up the public house on their ain business?"

"I do not pretend to understand the customs of this country," said Frank, with firmness, "but I have yet to learn how any three persons are entitled to exclude all other travellers from the only place of shelter and refreshment for miles around."

The Bailie here offered a stoup of brandy as an appropriate means of establishing a good understanding, but the three natives proceeded to snuff the air and work themselves up into a passion with the evident intention of ending the quarrel by a fray.

"We are three to three," said the lesser Highlander, glancing his eyes at the intruding party. "If ye be pretty men, draw!"

And so saying, he drew his own broadsword and advanced upon Frank. The young Englishman, knowing the superiority of his rapier to the claymore, especially in the confined space, was in no fear as to the issue of the combat. But when the gigantic Highlander advanced upon the worthy magistrate of Glasgow, after trying in vain once or twice to draw his father's shabble, as he called it, from its sheath, -- a weapon which had last seen the light at Bothwell Bridge, -- the Bailie seized as a substitute the red-hot coulter of a plough, which had been sticking in the fire. At the very first pass he set the Highlander's plaid on fire, and thereafter compelled him to keep a respectful distance. Andrew Fairservice had, of course, vanished at the very first symptoms of a storm, but the Lowlander, disappointed of an antagonist, drew honourably off and took no share in the fight. Nevertheless the Bailie, built for more peaceful pursuits, was quickly getting the worst of it, when from the floor started up the sleeping Highlander, crying, "Hersel' has eaten the town bread at the Cross of Glasgow, and by her troth, she will fight for Bailie Jarvie at the Clachan of Aberfoil!"

And seconding words with blows, he fell upon his tall countryman. As both were armed with targes made of wood and studded with brass, the combat was more remarkable for noise and clatter than for serious damage. And it was not long before the Lowlander cried out, taking upon himself the office of peacemaker: "Hold your hands, gentlemen -- enough done, enough done! The strangers have shown themselves men of honour, and have given reasonable satisfaction."

There was no wish to continue the fray, save perhaps on the part of the Bailie's antagonist, who demanded to know who was going to pay for the hole burnt in his bonnie plaid, through which, he declared, any one might put a kail-pot.

But the Bailie, pleased with himself for having shown spirit, declared that the Highlander should have a new plaid, especially woven, of his own clan-colours. And he added that if he could find the worthy lad who had taken his quarrel upon himself, he would bestow upon him a gill of aqua-vite.

But the Highlander who had been so ready on the Bailie's behalf was now nowhere to be found. The supper was brought in presently, as if the landlady had only been waiting for the end of the fray in order to serve the repast.

The Bailie had from the first recognised the Lowlander as one to whom the deacon his father had lent money, and with whose family there were many ties of cordiality and confidence. So while the friendly converse was thus proceeding indoors, Frank went out to find Andrew Fairservice, and on his way the landlady gave him a folded scrap of paper, saying that she was glad to be rid of it -- what with Saxons, soldiers, and robbers -- life was not worth living on the Highland line!

By the light of a torch Frank read as follows, "For the honoured hands of Mr. F. O., a Saxon young gentleman -- These!"

The letter proved to be from Campbell, and informed Frank that as there were night hawks abroad, he must hold no communication with any one lest it should lead to future trouble. The person who gave him the letter might be trusted, but that in the meantime it would be well to avoid a meeting with "R. M. C."

Frank was much disappointed at this deferring of the hope of aiding his father, by recovering the papers and titles which Rashleigh had stolen. But still there was no help for it. And so, after dragging Andrew out of the corner of the shed, where he was hidden behind a barrel of feathers, he returned to the inn.

Here he found the Bailie high in dispute with his quondam friend, the Lowlander Galbraith. The quarrel concerned the Duke of Argyle and the Clan Campbell, but most of all a certain freebooter of the name of Rob Roy, who, as it now appeared, they were all assembled to pursue and make an end of.

North and east the passes were being held. The westland clans were out. Southward Major Galbraith was in command of a body of Lennox horse, and to a certainty Rob Roy would swing in a rope by the morrow's morn.

Scarcely were the words spoken when the ordered tramp of infantry on the march was heard, and an officer, followed by two or three files of soldiers, entered the apartment. It gave Frank a thrill of pleasure to remark his English accent, after the Scotch which he had been listening to ever since he left Osbaldistone Hall.

But he liked somewhat less what he was next to hear. The English officer had received instructions to place under arrest two persons, one young and the other elderly, travelling together. It seemed to him that Frank and the Bailie answered fairly well to this description.

In spite of the protests and threats of the honourable magistrate, he ordered them both to follow him in his advance into the Highland country, upon which he was immediately to set out.

The letter which Frank had received from the landlady of the inn, being found upon him, was held to be evidence that he had been in treasonable correspondence with Rob Roy, whose usual initials, indeed, were at the bottom of the note. Next the shock-headed Highlander who had taken the Bailie's quarrel upon him, having been captured, was brought before the officer, and commanded, on pain of being instantly hanged, to lead them to the place where he had left the Mac-Gregor. After long persuasion, some of it of the roughest sort, poor Dougal consented for five guineas to act as guide to the party of soldiers under Captain Thornton -- for such was the name of the English officer.

This sinful compliance of Dougal's angered the Bailie so much that he cried to the soldiers to take Dougal away, because now he deserved hanging for his treachery more than ever.

This drew the retort from the Corporal who was acting as hangman, that if it were the Bailie who was going to be hanged, he would be in no such desperate hurry!

But Dougal promised to be faithful, and in a few minutes the English officer had paid the reckonings of the three gentlemen whom Frank had found drinking at the inn of Aberfoil. The hot and smoky atmosphere of the miserable inn was exchanged for the wide hill breezes. But on their passage through the villages the hatred of the natives, mostly women and children, for the "red soldiers" broke forth into shrill cursing. Andrew Fairservice, who alone of the three understood Gaelic, grew pale with terror at the threats which were lavished upon them.

"And the worst of all is," he said, trembling, "that the owercome o' their sang is that we are to gang up the glen and see what we are to get."


IV. The Drowning Of The Spy

Whereupon the Bailie took it on himself to warn Captain Thornton that the Highlanders, especially under a leader so daring as Rob Roy, were in the habit of attacking their enemies in narrow passes where regular troops had no chance against them. But the officer was not to be turned aside. He had his orders and he meant to carry them out. Rob Roy was certainly trapped, he said. All the upper passes were in the hands of the Highlanders of the western clans. Garschattachin had closed in on the south with the Lennox Horse. The latest tidings of the freebooter were in accordance with the information so reluctantly given by Dougal, and were to the effect that Rob Roy had sent away the larger part of his clan, and was seeking escape alone, or with very few in his company, trusting most likely to his superior knowledge of the passes.

Meanwhile Dougal their guide answered with a natural impatience to all complaints that he was leading them by difficult or dangerous roads.

"If," he said, with an appearance of reason, "gentlemans were seeking the Red Gregarach, they must expect some wee danger. And if they likit grand roads, they should hae bided at Glasgow."

The party was continuing to follow the narrow path by the lake, till they came to a halt at a place where the path left the water and climbed upward by several zigzags to the top of a rock, on which the advance guard reported that they had seen the bonnets of the Highlanders as well as the shining barrels of their long muskets.

The officer now ordered the Corporal with three files to dislodge the enemy from this stronghold. The soldiers accordingly moved forward while Captain Thornton, with the rest of his party, followed in support. But immediate attack was prevented by the appearance of a woman on the top of the rock.

"Stand!" she cried in commanding tones, "and tell me what you seek in Mac-Gregor's country."

She was tall and imposing in figure. Her features had once been handsome, but were now wasted with grief and passion. She wore a man's plaid and belt, a man's bonnet was on her head, and she held a naked sword in her hand.

"That's Helen Mac-Gregor, Rob's wife," said the Bailie, in a whisper of alarm; "there will be broken heads before long!"

"What seek ye here?" she demanded again of Captain Thornton, who had advanced to reconnoitre.

"We seek the outlaw Rob Roy Mac-Gregor Campbell," said the officer; "we make no war upon women. Therefore offer no opposition to the King's troops and assure yourself of civil treatment."

"I am no stranger to your tender mercies," the woman said, "you have left me neither name nor fame -- neither house nor hold, blanket nor bedding, cattle to feed us, nor flocks to clothe us! Ye have taken from us all -- all! The very name of our ancestors ye have taken away, and now ye come for our lives!"

"I seek no man's life," said the officer. "I only execute my orders. Forward there -- march!"

"Hurrah, boys -- for Rob Roy's head and a purse of gold!" cried the Corporal, taking the word from his officer.

He quickened his pace to a run, followed by his six men. But as they reached the first loop of the ascent of the cliff, there came the flash of a dozen muskets from both sides of the pass. The Corporal, shot through the body, still struggled to reach the summit. He clung to the rock, but after a desperate effort his grasp relaxed. He slipped from the bare face of the cliff into the deep lake, where he perished. Of the soldiers three fell with him, while the others retired as best they could upon their main body.

"Grenadiers, to the front!" cried the steady voice of Captain Thornton, "open your pouches -- handle your grenades -- blow up your matches -- fall on!"

The whole party advanced with a shout, headed by Captain Thornton, the grenadiers preparing to throw their grenades among the bushes, and the rank and file ready to support them in a close and combined assault.

Dougal, finding himself forgotten in the scuffle, had wisely crept into the thicket which overhung the road, and was already mounting the cliff with the agility of a wild-cat. Frank hastily followed his example. For the spattering fire, directed on the advancing party of soldiers, the loud reports of muskets, and the explosion of the grenades, made the path no comfortable place for those without arms. The Bailie, however, had only been able to scramble about twenty feet above the path when, his foot slipping, he would certainly have fallen into the lake had not the branch of a ragged thorn caught his riding-coat and supported him in mid-air, where he hung very like a sign in front of a hostelry. Andrew Fairservice had made somewhat better speed, but even he had only succeeded in reaching a ledge from which he could neither ascend nor yet come down. On this narrow promontory he footed it up and down, much like a hen on a hot girdle, and roared for mercy in Gaelic and English alternately, accordingly as he thought the victory inclined toward the soldiers or went in favour of the outlaws.

But on this occasion it was the Highlanders who were destined to win. They fought altogether under cover, and, from the number of musket flashes they held also a great superiority in point of numbers. At all events Frank soon saw the English officer stripped of his hat and arms, and his men, with sullen and dejected countenances, delivering up their muskets to the victorious foe.

The Bailie was, however, rescued by "the Dougal cratur," as the magistrate called him, who cut off the tails of his coat and lowered him to the ground. Then, when at last he was somewhat appeased, on account of Frank's seeming desertion, he counselled that they should be in no hurry to approach Mac-Gregor's wife, who would certainly be most dangerous in the moment of victory.

Andrew Fairservice had already been espied on his airy perch, from which the Highlanders soon made him descend, by threatening him with their guns and even firing a stray shot or two over his head, so that presently he fell to the earth among them. The outlaws stood ready to receive him, and ere he could gain his legs, they had, with the most admirable celerity, stripped him of periwig, hat, coat, doublet, stockings, and shoes. In other circumstances this might have been amusing for Frank to watch. For though Andrew fell to the earth a well-clothed and decent burgher -- he arose a forked, uncased, bald-pated, and beggarly-looking scarecrow.

And indeed Frank and the Bailie would soon have shared the same fate, had not Dougal appeared on the scene in the nick of time, and compelled the plunderers to restore their spoil. So to Helen Mac-Gregor they were taken, Dougal fighting and screaming all the way, evidently determined to keep his captives to himself, or at least to prevent others from claiming them.

With many but (considering the time and occasion) somewhat ill-chosen words of familiarity, the Bailie claimed kindred with Rob Roy's wife. But in this he did himself more harm than good, for his ill-timed jocularity grated on Helen Mac-Gregor's ear, in her present mood of exaltation, and she promptly commanded that the Sassenachs should one and all be bound and thrown into the deeps of the lake.

But here Dougal threw himself between the angry woman and her prisoners with such vehemence that he was able to stave off, at least for a time, the execution of the supreme sentence. These men were, he said, friends of the Chief and had come up on his assurance to meet him at the Clachan of Aberfoil.

But at that very moment the wild strains of the pibroch were heard approaching, and a strong body of Highlanders in the prime of life arrived on the scene. It now appeared that those who had fought and beaten the troops were either beardless boys or old men scarcely able to hold a musket. But there was no joy of victory on the faces of the newcomers. The pipes breathed a heart-breaking lament.

Rob Roy was taken!

"Taken," repeated Helen Mac-Gregor, "taken! -- And do you live to say so? Did I nurse you for this, coward dogs -- that you should see your father prisoner, and come back to tell it?"

The sons of Rob Roy, the elder James, tall and handsome, the younger Robin Oig, ruddy and dark, both hung their heads. And after the first burst of her indignation was over, the elder explained how Rob Roy had been summoned to bide tryst with -- (here Frank Osbaldistone missed the name, but it sounded like his own). Having, however, some suspicion of treachery, Rob Roy had ordered the messenger to be detained, and had gone forth attended by only Angus Breck and little Rory. Within half an hour Angus Breck came back with the tidings that the Chief had been captured by a party of the Lennox militia under Galbraith of Garschattachin, who were in waiting for him.

Helen Mac-Gregor had now two purposes to carry out. First, she sent messengers in every direction to gather assistance for an immediate attack on the Lowlanders, in order to effect the rescue of her husband. Second, she ordered the spy, whose false message had sent her husband to his doom, to be brought before her. For him there was no pity.

When he was haled, pale and trembling before the enraged wife of the Mac-Gregor, what was Frank's astonishment to discover that he was none other than Morris, the very same man who had accused him of the robbery of his portmanteau at Squire Inglewood's, and whom he had last seen in the Glasgow College Yards, walking and talking with Rashleigh Osbaldistone.

A brief command to her followers -- and the wretched man was bound. A heavy stone was tied about his neck in a plaid, and he was hurled instantly into the depths of the lake, where he perished, amid the loud shouts of vindictive triumph which went up from the clan.


Interlude Of Expostulation

"Oh, do go on," said Sweetheart, actually pushing the narrator's arm, as if to shake more of the tale out of him. "What a perfectly horrid place to stop at! Tell us what happened after."

"Nothing more happened to Morris, I can promise you that!" I replied.

"That's not nice of you," said Sweetheart. "I am quite sorry for the poor man -- in spite of all he had done!"

"Well, I'm not," said Sir Toady Lion, truculently, "he deserved it all, and more. He has done nothing but tell lies and betray people all through the story -- right from the very beginning."

"Besides, he was afraid!" said Hugh John, with whom this was the sin without forgiveness.

"Well," said Sweetheart, "so am I afraid often -- of mice, and rats, and horrid creeping things."

"Huh," said Sir Toady, crinkling up his nose, "you are a girl -- of course you are afraid!"

"And I know," retorted Sweetheart, "two noble, brave, gallant, fearless, undaunted BOYS, who daren't go up to the garret in the dark -- there!"

"That's not fair," said Hugh John; "that was only once, after father had been telling us about the Hand-from-under-the-Bed that pulled the bedclothes off! Anybody would have been frightened at that. You, yourself -- "

"Oh, but I don't pretend," cried Sweetheart; "I don't need to. I am only a girl. But for all that, I went up and lit the candle in a bedroom belonging to two boys, who dared not even go up the stair holding each other by the hand!"

"If you say that, I'll hit you," said Sir Toady.

"Will you!" said Sweetheart, clearing for action; "we'll see about that. It's only mice I am afraid of -- not cowardly boys!"

I hastened to still the rising storm, and in order to bring the conversation back to the subject of Rob Roy, I asked Hugh John if this were not more to his taste in the matter of heroes.

"Oh, Rob Roy's all right," he said; "that is, when once you get to him. But Frank Osbaldistone is just like the rest -- always being tied up, or taken round where he doesn't want to go. Besides, he ran away at the battle!"

"Well," said I, "he had no arms, and besides it was not his quarrel. He couldn't fight either for the soldiers or for the Highlanders. At any rate, you can't deny that he did fight with Rashleigh in the College Yards of Glasgow!"

"Yes, and he got wounded. And then Rob Roy threatened to lick them both -- I don't count that much!" said the contemner of heroes. "But, at any rate, it was something. And he didn't go spooning about after girls -- that's good, anyway."

"Don't be too sure," said Sweetheart; "there's Die Vernon in the background."

"Well, of course, a fellow has to do some of it if he's a hero," said Hugh John, who has always high ideas of the proper thing; "it's in his part, you see, and he has to -- else he wouldn't be respected. But I think if ever I had to be a hero, I would dress up Sir Toady for the girl's part. Then if he monkeyed too much, why -- I could welt him well after. But (he added with a sigh), with a girl, you can't, of course."

"Well, anyway," said Sweetheart, thinking that possibly the tale-teller might feel aggrieved at these uncomplimentary remarks, "I think it is just a beautiful story, and I love the dear Bailie for being willing to go all that way with Frank, and get hung up in the tree by the coat-tails and all!"

"Rats!" said Hugh John, contemptuously, "think if he had known that, he would ever have left Glasgow -- not much!"

"Well, it was beautiful, I think," said Sweetheart, "but I am sorry that they drowned the poor man Morris, especially when he was so very frightened."

But the instant indignant outcry of the boys silenced her. Lochs twelve feet deep, it speedily appeared, ought to be provided by law everywhere over the kingdoms three, for the accommodation of such "sweeps" and "sneaks" and "cowards."

Then Mistress Margaret spoke up for the first time. She had been sitting with her eyes fixed dreamily on the sparkle of the logs in the library fireplace.

"What a blessing it is," she said, "that this is a rainy Saturday, and so we do not need to wait for more. Please go on with the story -- JUST where you left off."

And Maid Margaret's form of government being absolute monarchy, I did so, and the result was



The Third Tale From "Rob Roy"


I. In The Hands Of The Philistines

AFTER the victory of the Highlanders and the drowning of Morris the spy, it was for some little while touch-and-go whether the Bailie and Frank should be made to follow him to the bottom of the loch. But at last Frank was ordered to go as an ambassador to those who had captured Rob Roy, while the Bailie with Captain Thornton and all the other prisoners remained as hostages in the hands of the victorious Helen.

This was the message he was to carry to the Sassenach.

The whole district of the Lennox would be ravished if the Mac-Gregor were not set free within twelve hours. Farmhouses would be burned, stack-yard and byre made desolate. In every house there would be a crying of the death wail -- the coronach of sorrow. Furthermore, to begin with, Helen Mac-Gregor promised that if her request was not granted within the time specified, she would send them this Glasgow Bailie, with the Saxon Captain, and all the captive soldiers, bundled together in a plaid, and chopped into as many pieces as there were checks in the tartan!

When the angry Chieftainess paused in her denunciations, the cool level voice of the soldier struck in: "Give my compliments -- Captain Thornton's of the Royal's -- to the commanding officer, and tell him to do his duty and secure his prisoner, without wasting a thought on me. If I have been fool enough to let myself be led into this trap, I am at least wise enough to know how to die for it without disgracing the service. I am only sorry for my poor fellows," he added, "fallen into such butcherly hands!"

But the Bailie's message was far different in tone.

"Whisht, man, whisht," he cried, "are ye weary of your life? Ye'll gie my service, Bailie Nicol Jarvie's service -- a magistrate o' Glasgow, as his father was before him -- to the commanding officer, and tell him that there are here a wheen honest men in sore trouble, and like to come to mair. And tell him that the best thing he can do for the common good is just to let Rob come his ways up the glen, and nae mair about it! There has been some ill done already, but as it has lighted mostly on the exciseman Morris it will not be muckle worth making a stir about!"

So young Hamish Mac-Gregor led Frank Osbaldistone across the mountains to the place where his father's captors, the horsemen of the Lennox, had taken up their position on a rocky eminence, where they would be safe from any sudden attack of the mountaineers.

Before parting he made Frank promise not to reveal, either who had guided him thither, or where he had parted from his conductor. Happily Frank was not asked either of these questions. He and Andrew (who, in a tattered cloak and with a pair of brogues on his feet, looked like a Highland scarecrow) were soon perceived by the sentries and conducted to the presence of the commanding officer, evidently a man of rank, in a steel cuirass, crossed by the ribband of the Thistle, to whom the others seemed to pay great deference. This proved to be no other than his Grace the Duke of Montrose, who in person had come to conduct the operations against his enemy, Rob Roy.

Frank's message was instantly listened to, and very clearly and powerfully he pointed out what would occur if Rob Roy were not suffered to depart. But the Duke bade him return to those who sent him, and tell them that if they touched so much as a hair upon the heads of their hostages, he would make their glens remember it for a hundred years. As for Rob Roy, he must surely die!

But Frank Osbaldistone pointed out that to return with such a message would be to go to certain death, and pleaded for some reply which might save the lives of Captain Thornton, the Bailie, and the soldiers who were captive in Helen Mac-Gregor's hands upon the hostile shores of Loch Ard.

"Why, if you cannot go yourself, send your servant!" returned the Duke. At which Andrew burst forth. He had had, he said, enough and to spare of Highland hospitality.

"The deil be in my feet," quoth Andrew, "if I go the length of my toe on such an errand. Do the folk think I have a spare windpipe in my pocket, after John Highlandman has slit this one with his jocteleg? Or that I can dive down at one side of a Highland loch and come up at the other like a sheldrake? Na, na, every one for himself, and God for us all! Folk may just go on their own errands. Rob Roy is no concern of mine. He never came near my native parish of Dreepdaily to steal either pippin or pear from me or mine!"

The Duke seemed much affected by the hard case of the King's officer, but he replied that the state of the country must come first, and it was absolutely necessary that Rob Roy should die. He held to this resolution even when Galbraith of Garschattachin and others of his followers seemed inclined to put in a good word for Rob. He was about to examine the prisoner further, when a Highlander brought him a letter which seemed to cause the great man much annoyance. It announced that the Highland clans, on whom the Lowlanders had been relying, had made a separate peace with the enemy and had gone home.

As the night was now fast coming on, the Duke ordered Garschattachin to draw off his party in one direction, while he himself would escort the prisoner to a place called Duchray.

"Here's auld ordering and counter-ordering," growled Garschattachin between his teeth, "but bide a wee -- we may, ere long, play at Change Seats -- for the King's coming!"

The two divisions of cavalry began to move down the valley at a slow trot. One party, that commanded by Galbraith, turned to the right, where they were to spend the night in an old castle, while the other, taking along with them Frank Osbaldistone, escorted the prisoner to a place of safety. Rob Roy was mounted behind one of the strongest men present, one Ewan of Brigglands, to whom he was fastened by a horse-belt passed round both and buckled before the yeoman's breast. Frank was set on a troop-horse and placed immediately behind. They were as closely surrounded by soldiers as the road would permit, and there were always one or two troopers, pistol in hand, riding on either side of Rob Roy.

Nevertheless the dauntless outlaw was endeavouring all the time to persuade Ewan of Brigglands to give him a last chance for his life.

"Your father, Ewan," he said, so low that Frank had difficulty in catching the words, "would not thus have carried an old friend to the shambles, like a calf, for all the dukes in Christendom!"

To this Ewan returned no answer -- only shrugging his shoulders as a sign that what he was doing was by no choice of his own.

"And when the Mac-Gregors come down the glen," the voice of the tempter went on in Ewan's ear, "and ye see empty folds, a bloody hearthstone, and the fire flashing out between the rafters of your house, ye may be thinking then, Ewan, that were your friend Rob Roy to the fore, you might have had that safe, which it will make your heart sore to lose!"

They were at this time halted on the river-bank, waiting for the signal to bring over the Mac-Gregor. Rob made one last attempt.

"It's a sore thing," said Rob Roy, still closer in the ear of his conductor, "that Ewan of Brigglands, whom Rob Roy has helped with hand, sword, and purse, should mind a gloom from a great man more than a friend's life."

Ewan, sorely agitated, was silent.

Then came the Duke's loud call from the opposite bank, "Bring over the prisoner!"

Dashing forward precipitately, Ewan's horse, with the two men on his back, entered the water. A soldier kept back Frank from following. But in the waning light he could see the Duke getting his people into order across the river, when suddenly a splash and a cry warned him that Rob had prevailed on Ewan of Brigglands to give him one more chance for life.


II. The Escape

In a moment all was confusion. The Duke shouted and ordered. Men rode hither and thither in the fast-falling darkness, some really anxious to earn the hundred guineas which the Duke promised to the captor of his foe, but the most part trying rather by shouting and confusion to cover Rob's escape. At one time, indeed, he was hardly pressed, several shots coming very near him before he could lose himself in the darkness. He was compelled to come to the surface to breathe, but in some way he contrived to loosen his plaid, which, floating down the stream, took off the attention of his more inveterate pursuers while he himself swam into safety.

In the confusion Frank had been left alone upon the bank, and there he remained till he heard the baffled troopers returning, some with vows of vengeance upon himself.

"Where is the English stranger?" called one; "it was he who gave Rob the knife to cut the belt!"

"Cleave the pock-pudding to the chafts!" said another.

"Put a brace of balls into his brain-pan!" suggested yet another.

"Or three inches of cold iron into his briskit!"

So, in order to nullify these various amiable intentions, Frank Osbaldistone leaped from his horse, and plunged into a thicket of alder trees, where he was almost instantly safe from pursuit. It was now altogether dark, and, having nowhere else to go, Frank resolved to retrace his way back to the little inn at which he had passed the previous night. The moon rose ere he had proceeded very far, bringing with it a sharp frosty wind which made Frank glad to be moving rapidly over the heather. He was whistling, lost in thought, when two riders came behind him, ranging up silently on either side. The man on the right of Frank addressed him in an English tongue and accent strange enough to hear in these wilds.

"So ho, friend, whither so late?"

"To my supper and bed at Aberfoil!" replied Frank, curtly.

"Are the passes open?" the horseman went on, in the same commanding tone of voice.

"I do not know," said Frank; "but if you are an English stranger, I advise you to turn back till daybreak. There has been a skirmish, and the neighbourhood is not perfectly safe for travellers."

"The soldiers had the worst of it, had they not?"

"They had, indeed -- an officer's party was destroyed or made prisoners."

"Are you sure of that?" persisted the man on horseback.

"I was an unwilling spectator of the battle!" said Frank.

"Unwilling! Were not you engaged in it?"

"Certainly not," he answered, a little nettled at the man's tone. "I was held a prisoner by the King's officer!"

"On what suspicion? And who and what are you?"

"I really do not know, sir," said Frank, growing quickly angry, "why I should answer so many questions put to me by a stranger. I ask you no questions as to your business here, and you will oblige me by making no inquiries as to mine."

But a new voice struck in, in tones which made every nerve in the young man's body tingle.

"Mr. Francis Osbaldistone," it said, "should not whistle his favourite airs when he wishes to remain undiscovered."

And Diana Vernon, for it was she, wrapped in a horseman's cloak, whistled in playful mimicry the second part of the tune, which had been on Frank's lips as they came up with him.

"Great heavens, can it be you, Miss Vernon," cried Frank, when at last he found words, "in such a spot -- at such an hour -- in such a lawless country!"

While Frank was speaking, he was trying to gain a glimpse of her companion. The man was certainly not Rashleigh. For so much he was thankful, at least, nor could the stranger's courteous address proceed from any of the other Osbaldistone brothers. There was in it too much good breeding and knowledge of the world for that. But there was also something of impatience in the attitude of Diana's companion, which was not long in manifesting itself.

"Diana," he said, "give your cousin his property, and let us not spend time here."

Whereupon Miss Vernon took out a small case, and with a deeper and graver tone of feeling she said, "Dear cousin, you see I was born to be your better angel. Rashleigh has been compelled to give up his spoil, and had we reached Aberfoil last night, I would have found some messenger to give you these. But now I have to do the errand myself."

"Diana," said the horseman, "the evening grows late, and we are yet far from our home."

"Pray consider, sir," she said, lightly answering him, "how recently I have been under control. Besides, I have not yet given my cousin his packet -- or bidden him farewell -- farewell forever! Yes, Frank, forever. (She added the last words in a lower tone.) There is a gulf fixed between us! Where I go, you must not follow -- what we do, you must not share in -- farewell -- be happy!"

In the attitude in which she bent from her Highland pony, the girl's face, perhaps not altogether unintentionally, touched that of Frank Osbaldistone. She pressed his hand, and a tear that had gathered on Die Vernon's eyelash found its way to the young man's cheek.


That was all. It was but a moment, yet Frank Osbaldistone never forgot that moment. He stood dumb and amazed with the recovered treasure in his hand, mechanically counting the sparkles which flew from the horses' hoofs which carried away his lost Diana and her unknown companion.

*    *    *    *    *

Frank was still dreaming over his almost unbelievable encounter with Miss Vernon -- more concerned perhaps, be it said, about the fact that she had wept to part with him than about the recovery of his father's papers, when another traveller overtook him, this time on foot.

"A braw nicht, Mr. Osbaldistone," said a voice which there was no mistaking for that of the Mac-Gregor himself; "we have met at the mirk hour before now, I am thinking!"

Frank congratulated the Chieftain heartily on his recent wonderful escape from peril.

"Ay," said Rob Roy, coolly, "there is as much between the throat and the halter as between the cup and the lip. But tell me the news!"

"IN the attitude in which she bent from her Highland pony, the girl's face, perhaps not altogether unintentionally, touched that of Frank Osbaldistone. She pressed his hand, and a tear that had gathered on Die Vernon's eyelash found its way to the young man's cheek."

He laughed heartily at the exploits of the Bailie and the red-hot coulter in the inn of Aberfoil, and at the apprehension of Frank and his companion by the King's officer.

"As man lives by bread," he cried, "the buzzards have mistaken my friend the Bailie for his Excellency, and you for Diana Vernon -- oh, the most egregious night owlets!"

"Miss Vernon," said Frank, trying to gain what information he could, "does she still bear that name?"

But the wary Highlander easily evaded him.

"Ay, ay," he said, "she's under lawful authority now; and it's time, for she's a daft hempie. It's a pity that his Excellency is a thought elderly for her. The like of you or my son Hamish would have sorted better in point of years."

This blow, which destroyed all Frank's hopes, quite silenced him -- so much so that Rob Roy had to ask if he were ill or wearied with the long day's work, being, as he said, "doubtless unused to such things."

But in order to divert his attention Mac-Gregor asked him as to the skirmish, and what had happened afterwards. It was with genuine agony that Rob Roy listened to the tale which Frank had to tell -- though he modified, as far as he could, the treatment the Bailie and himself had met with from the Mac-Gregors.

"And the excise collector," said Rob Roy; "I wish he may not have been at the bottom of the ploy himself! I thought he looked very queer when I told him that he must remain as a hostage for my safe return. I wager he will not get off without ransom!"

"Morris," said Frank, with great solemnity, "has paid the last great ransom of all!"

"Eh -- what?" cried the Mac-Gregor, "what d'ye say? I trust it was in the skirmish that he was killed?"

"He was slain in cold blood, after the fight was over, Mr. Campbell!"

"Cold blood!" he muttered rapidly between his teeth, "how fell this? Speak out, man, and do not Mister or Campbell me -- my foot is on my native heath, and my name is Mac-Gregor!"

Without noticing the rudeness of his tone, Frank gave him a distinct account of the death of Morris. Rob Roy struck the butt of his gun with great vehemence on the ground, and broke out, "I vow to God, such a deed might make one forswear kin, clan, country, wife, and bairns! And yet the villain wrought long for it. He but drees the doom he intended for me. Hanging or drowning -- it is just the same. But I wish, for all that, they had put a ball or a dirk through the traitor's breast. It will cause talk -- the fashion of his death -- though all the world knows that Helen Mac-Gregor has deep wrongs to avenge."

Whereupon he quitted the subject altogether, and spoke of Frank Osbaldistone's affairs. He was glad to hear that he had received the stolen papers from Diana Vernon's own hands.

"I was sure you would get them," he said; "the letter you brought me contained his Excellency's pleasure to that effect, and it was for that purpose I asked ye to come up the glen in order that I might serve you. But his Excellency has come across Rashleigh first."

Rob Roy's words made much clear to the young man, yet some things remained mysterious. He remembered that Diana Vernon had left the library and immediately returned with the letter which was afterwards claimed by Rob Roy in the tolbooth of Glasgow. The person whom he now called his Excellency must therefore have been in Osbaldistone Hall at the same time as himself, and unknown to all except Diana and possibly to her cousin Rashleigh. Frank remembered the double shadows on the windows, and thought that he could now see the reason of those.

But Rob would give him no clew as to who or what his Excellency was.

"I am thinking," he said cautiously, "that if you do not know that already, it cannot be of much consequence for you to know at all. So I will e'en pass over that part of it. But this I will tell you. His Excellency was hidden by Diana Vernon in her own apartment at the Hall, as best reason was, all the time you were there. Only Sir Hildebrand and Rashleigh knew of it. You, of course, were out of the question, and as for the young squires, they had not enough wit among the five of them to call the cat from the cream!"

The two travellers, thus talking together, had approached within a quarter of a mile from the village, when an outpost of Highlanders, springing upon them, bade them stand and tell their business. The single word Gregarach, pronounced in the deep commanding tones of Frank's companion, sufficed to call forth an answering yell of joyous recognition. The men threw themselves down before the escaped Chief, clasping his knees, and, as it were, worshipping him with eyes and lips, much as poor Dougal had done in the Glasgow tolbooth.

The very hills resounded with the triumph. Old and young, both sexes and all ages, came running forth with shouts of jubilation, till it seemed as if a mountain torrent was hurrying to meet the travellers. Rob Roy took Frank by the hand, and he did not allow any to come near him till he had given them to understand that his companion was to be well and carefully treated.

So literally was this command acted upon, that for the time being Frank was not even allowed the use of his limbs. He was carried -- will he, nill he -- in triumph toward the inn of Mrs. MacAlpine. It was in Frank's heart that he might possibly meet there with Diana Vernon, but when he entered and looked around, the only known face in the smoky hovel was that of the Bailie, who, with a sort of reserved dignity, received the greetings of Rob Roy, his apologies for the indifferent accommodation which he could give him, and his well-meant inquiries after his health.

"I am well, kinsman," said the Bailie, "one cannot expect to carry the Salt Market of Glasgow at one's tail, as a snail does his shell. But I am blithe to see that ye have gotten out of the hands of your unfriends!"

The Bailie, however, cheered by Highland refreshment, presently unbent and had many things to say. He would also have spoken concerning Helen Mac-Gregor. But Rob stopped him.

"Say nothing of my wife," he said sternly; "of me, ye are welcome to speak your full pleasure."

Next the Bailie offered to bind Rob's two sons as apprentices to the weaving trade, which well-meant proposition produced from the outlaw the characteristic anathema, mostly (and happily) conceived in Gaelic, "Ceade millia diaoul! My sons weavers! Millia molligheart! But I would rather see every loom in Glasgow, beam, traddles, and shuttles, burnt in the deil's ain fire sooner!"

However Rob Roy honestly paid the Bailie his thousand merks, principal and interest, in good French gold. And Frank quite won the outlaw's heart by the suggestion that the foreign influence of the house of Osbaldistone and Tresham could easily push the fortune of Hamish and Robin in the service of the King of France or in that of his Majesty of Spain. Rob could not for the present accept, he said. There was other work to be done at home. But all the same he thanked him for the offer, with, as it seemed, some considerable emotion. Already Frank was learning the truth that a hard man is always more moved by what one may do for his children, than with what one does for himself.

Lastly he sent "the Dougal cratur," dressed in Andrew Fairservice's ancient garments, to see them safe upon their way. He had a boat in waiting for them on Loch Lomond side, and there on the pebbles the Bailie and his cousin bade each other farewell. They parted with much mutual regard, and even affection -- the Bailie at the last saying to Rob Roy that if ever he was in need of a hundred "or even twa hundred pounds sterling," he had only to send a line to the Salt Market. While the chief answered that if ever anybody should affront his kinsman, the Bailie had only to let him ken, and he would pull the ears out of his head if he were the best man in Glasgow!

With these assurances of high mutual consideration, the boat bore away for the southwest angle of the lake. Rob Roy was left alone on the shore, conspicuous by his long gun, waving tartans, and the single tall feather in his bonnet which denoted the chieftain.

The travellers arrived safely in Glasgow, when the Bailie went instantly home, vowing aloud that since he had once more gotten within sight of St. Mungo's steeple, it would be a long day and a short one before he ventured out of eye-shot of it again.

As for Frank, he made his way to his lodgings in order to seek out Owen. The door was opened by Andrew Fairservice, who set up a joyous shout, and promptly ushered the young man into the presence of the Head Clerk. But Mr. Owen was not alone. Mr. Osbaldistone the elder was there also, and in another moment Frank was folded in his father's arms.


III. The Death Of Rashleigh

*    *    *    *    *

Mr. Osbaldistone's first impulse seemed to be to preserve his dignity. But nature was too strong for him.

"My son -- my dear son!" he murmured.

The head of the firm of Osbaldistone and Tresham had returned from Holland sooner than was expected, and with the resources which he had gathered there, and being now in full credit, he had no difficulty in solving the financial problems which had weighed so heavily upon the house in his absence. He refused, however, every tender of apology from MacVittie and Company, settled the balance of their account, and announced to them that that page of their ledger, with all the advantages connected with it, was closed to them forever.

Soon after the home-coming of Frank Osbaldistone from the Highlands and his reconciliation with his father, the great Jacobite rebellion of 1715 broke out, in which the greater part of the Highlands burst into a flame, as well as much of the more northerly parts of England. Sir Hildebrand led out his sons to battle -- all, that is to say, with the exception of Rashleigh, who had changed his politics and become a spy on behalf of the government of King George.

But it was not the will of Fate that the name of Osbaldistone should make any figure in that short and inglorious campaign. Thorncliff was killed in a duel with one of his brother officers. The sot Percie died shortly after, according to the manner of his kind. Dickon broke his neck in spurring a blood mare beyond her paces. Wilfred the fool died fighting at Proud Preston on the day of the Barricades; and his gallantry was no less that he could never remember an hour together for which king he was doing battle.

John also behaved boldly and died of his wounds a few days after in the prison of Newgate, to the despair of old Sir Hildebrand, who did not long survive him. Indeed he willingly laid himself down to die, after having first disinherited Rashleigh as a traitor, and left his much encumbered estates to his nephew, Frank Osbaldistone.

Mr. Osbaldistone the elder now took an unexpected view of his son's prospects. He had cared nothing for his family in the past -- indeed, never since he had been expelled from Osbaldistone Hall to make way for his younger brother. But now he willingly spent his money in taking up the mortgages upon the Osbaldistone estates, and he urged upon Frank the necessity of going down at once to the Hall, lest Rashleigh should get before him in that possession which is nine points of the law.

So to Osbaldistone Hall went Frank once more, his heart not a little sore within him for the good days he had spent in it, and especially because of the thought that he would now find there no madcap Die Vernon to tease and torment him out of his life.

First of all, to make his title clear, Frank had been desired to visit the hospitable house of old Justice Inglewood, with whom Sir Hildebrand had deposited his will. As it chanced, it was in that good gentleman's power to give the young man some information which interested him more than the right of possession to many Osbaldistone Halls.

After dinner in the evening Frank and the Justice were sitting together, when all of a sudden Squire Inglewood called upon his companion to pledge a bumper to "dear Die Vernon, the rose of the wilderness, the heath-bell of Cheviot, that blossom transported to an infamous convent!"

"Is not Miss Vernon, then, married?" cried Frank, in great astonishment, "I thought his Excellency -- "

"Pooh -- pooh! His Excellency and his Lordship are all a humbug now, you know," said the Justice; "mere St. Germains titles -- Earl of Beauchamp and ambassador plenipotentiary from France, when the Duke Regent scarce knew that he lived, I daresay. But you must have seen old Sir Frederick Vernon at the hall, when he played the part of Father Vaughan?"

"Good Heavens," cried Frank, "then Father Vaughan was Miss Vernon's father?"

"To be sure he was," said the Justice, coolly; "there's no use keeping the secret now, for he must be out of the country by this time -- otherwise no doubt it would be my duty to apprehend him. Come, off with your bumper to my dear lost Die!"

So Frank fared forth to Osbaldistone Hall, uncertain whether to be glad or sorry at Squire Inglewood's news. Finally he decided to be glad -- or at least as glad as he could. For Diana, though equally lost to him, was at least not wedded to any one else.

Syddall, the old butler of Sir Hildebrand, seemed at first very unwilling to admit them, but Frank's persistence, together with Andrew Fairservice's insolence, made a way into the melancholy house. Frank ordered a fire to be lighted in the library. Syddall tried to persuade him to take up his quarters elsewhere, on the plea that the library had not been sat in for a long time, and that the chimney smoked.

To the old man's confusion, however, when they entered the room, a fire was blazing in the grate. He took up the tongs to hide his confusion, muttering, "It is burning clear now, but it smoked woundily in the morning!"

Next Frank ordered Andrew to procure him two stout fellows of the neighbourhood on whom he could rely, who would back the new proprietor, in case of Rashleigh attempting any attack during Frank's stay in the home of his fathers.

Andrew soon returned with a couple of his friends -- or, as he described them, "sober, decent men, weel founded in doctrinal points, and, above all, as bold as lions."

Syddall, however, shook his head at sight of them.

"I maybe cannot expect that your Honour should put confidence in what I say, but it is Heaven's truth for all that. Ambrose Wingfield is as honest a man as lives, but if there be a false knave in all the country, it is his brother Lancie. The whole country knows him to be a spy for Clerk Jobson on the poor gentlemen that have been in trouble. But he's a dissenter, and I suppose that's enough nowadays."

The evening darkened down, and trimming the wood fire in the old library Frank sat on, dreaming dreams in which a certain lady occupied a great place. He chanced to lift his eyes at a sound which seemed like a sigh, and lo! Diana Vernon stood before him. She was resting on the arm of a figure so like the portrait on the wall that involuntarily Frank raised his eyes to the frame to see whether it was not indeed empty.

But the figures were neither painted canvas nor yet such stuff as dreams are made of. Diana Vernon and her father -- for it was they -- stood before the young man in actual flesh and blood. Frank was so astonished that for a while he could not speak, and it was Sir Frederick who first broke the silence.

"We are your suppliants, Mr. Osbaldistone," he said; "we claim the refuge and protection of your roof, till we can pursue a journey where dungeons and death gape for me at every step!"

"Surely you cannot suppose -- " Frank found words with great difficulty -- "Miss Vernon cannot suppose that I am so ungrateful -- that I could betray any one -- much less you!"

"I know it," said Sir Frederick, "though I am conferring on you a confidence which I would have been glad to have imposed on any one else. But my fate, which has chased me through a life of perils, is now pressing me hard, and, indeed, leaving me no alternative."

At this moment the door opened, and the voice of Andrew Fairservice was heard without. "I am bringing in the candles -- ye can light them when ye like -- 'can do' is easy carried about with one!"

Frank had just time to rush to the door and thrust the officious rascal out, shutting the door upon him. Then, remembering the length of his servant's tongue, he made haste to follow him to the hall to prevent his gabbling of what he might have seen. Andrew's voice was loud as Frank opened the door.

"What is the matter with you, you fool?" he demanded; "you stare and look wild as if you had seen a ghost."

"No -- no -- nothing," stammered Andrew, "only your Honour was pleased to be hasty!"

Frank Osbaldistone immediately dismissed the two men whom Andrew had found for him, giving them a crown-piece to drink his health, and they withdrew, apparently contented and unsuspicious. They certainly could have no further talk with Andrew that night, and it did not seem possible that in the few moments which Andrew had spent in the kitchen before Frank's arrival, he could have had time to utter two words.

But sometimes only two words can do a great deal of harm. On this occasion they cost two lives.

"You now know my secret," said Diana Vernon; "you know how near and dear is the relative who has so long found shelter here. And it will not surprise you, that, knowing such a secret, Rashleigh should rule me with a rod of iron."

But in spite of all that had happened, Sir Frederick was a strict and narrow Catholic, and Frank found him more than ever determined to sacrifice his daughter to the life of the convent.

"She has endured trials," he said, "trials which might have dignified the history of a martyr. She has spent the day in darkness and the night in vigil, and never breathed a syllable of weakness or complaint. In a word, Mr. Osbaldistone, she is a worthy offering to that God to whom I dedicate her, as all that is left dear or precious to Frederick Vernon!"

Frank felt stunned and bewildered when at last they retired. But he had sufficient forethought to order a bed to be made up for him in the library, and dismissed Syddall and Andrew with orders not to disturb him till seven o'clock in the morning.

That night Frank lay long awake, and was at last dropping over to sleep when he was brought back to consciousness by a tremendous noise at the front door of Osbaldistone Hall. He hastened downstairs only in time to hear Andrew Fairservice bidding Syddall stand aside.

"We hae naething to fear if they come in King George's name," he was saying; "we hae spent baith bluid and gold for him."

In an agony of terror Frank could hear bolt after bolt withdrawn by the officious scoundrel, who continued to boast all the while of his master's loyalty to King George. He flew instantly to Diana's room. She was up and dressed.

"We are familiar with danger," she said with a sad smile. "I have the key of the little garden door. We will escape by it. Only keep them a few moments in play! And dear, dear Frank, again -- for the last time, farewell!"

By this time the men were on the stairway, and presently rapping on the library door.

"You robber dogs!" cried Frank, wilfully misunderstanding their purpose; "if you do not instantly quit the house, I will fire a blunderbuss upon you through the door!"

"Fire a fool's bauble," returned Andrew Fairservice; "it's Clerk Jobson with a legal warrant -- "

"To search for, take, and apprehend," said the voice of that abominable pettifogger, "the bodies of certain persons in my warrant named, charged of high treason under the 13th of King William, chapter third."

The violence on the door was renewed.

"I am rising, gentlemen," said Frank, trying to gain as much time as possible; "commit no violence -- give me leave to look at your warrant, and if it is formal and legal, I shall not oppose it."

"God save great George our King," cried Andrew Fairservice, "I telled ye that ye would find no Jacobites here!"

At last the door had to be opened, when Clerk Jobson and several assistants entered. The lawyer showed a warrant for the arrest of Diana Vernon, her father, -- and, to his surprise, of Frank himself.

Clerk Jobson, evidently well-informed, went directly to Diana's chamber.

"The hare has stolen away," he said brutally, "but her form is still warm. The greyhounds will have her by the haunches yet."

A scream from the garden announced that he had prophesied too truly. In five minutes more Rashleigh entered the library with Diana and her father, Sir Frederick, as his prisoners.

"The fox," he said, "knew his old earth, but he forgot it could be stopped by a careful huntsman. I had not forgot the garden gate, Sir Frederick -- or, if the title suits you better, my most noble Lord Beauchamp!"

"Rashleigh," said Sir Frederick, "thou art a most detestable villain!"

"I better deserved the name, my Lord," said Rashleigh, turning his eyes piously upward, "when under an able tutor I sought to introduce civil war into a peaceful country. But I have since done my best to atone for my errors."

Frank Osbaldistone could hold out no longer.

"If there is one thing on earth more hideous than another," he cried, "it is villainy masked by hypocrisy!"

"Ha, my gentle cousin," said Rashleigh, holding a candle toward Frank and surveying him from head to foot, "right welcome to Osbaldistone Hall. I can forgive your spleen. It is hard to lose an estate and a sweetheart in one night. For now we must take possession of this poor manor-house in the name of the lawful heir, Sir Rashleigh Osbaldistone!"

But though Rashleigh braved it out thus, he was clearly far from comfortable, and especially did he wince when Diana told him that what he had now done had been the work of an hour, but that it would furnish him with reflections for a lifetime.

"And of what nature these will be," she added, "I leave to your own conscience, which will not slumber forever!"

So presently the three prisoners were carried off. Syddall and Andrew were ordered to be turned out of the house, the latter complaining bitterly.

"I only said that surely my master was speaking to a ghost in the library -- and that villain Lancie -- thus to betray an auld friend that has sung aff the same Psalm-book wi' him for twenty years!"

However, Andrew had just got clear of the avenue when he fell among a drove of Highland cattle, the drivers of which questioned him tightly as to what had happened at the Hall. They then talked in whispers among themselves till the lumbering sound of a coach was heard coming down the road from the house. The Highlanders listened attentively. The escort consisted of Rashleigh and several peace-officers.

So soon as the carriage had passed the avenue gate, it was shut behind the cavalcade by a Highlandman, stationed there for the purpose. At the same time the carriage was impeded in its further progress by some felled trees which had been dragged across the road. The cattle also got in the way of the horses, and the escort began to drive them off with their whips.

"Who dares abuse our cattle," said a rough voice; "shoot him down, Angus!"

"A rescue -- a rescue!" shouted Rashleigh, instantly comprehending what had taken place, and, firing a pistol, he wounded the man who had spoken.

"Claymore!" cried the leader of the Highlanders, and an affray instantly engaged. The officers of the law, unused to such prompt bloodshed, offered little real resistance. They galloped off in different directions as fast as their beasts would carry them. Rashleigh, however, who had been dismounted, maintained on foot a desperate and single-handed conflict with the leader of the band. At last he dropped.

"Will you ask forgiveness for the sake of God, King James, and auld friendship?" demanded a voice which Frank knew well.

"No, never!" cried Rashleigh, fiercely.

"Then, traitor, die in your treason!" retorted Mac-Gregor, and plunged his sword into the prostrate antagonist.

Rob Roy then drew out the attorney Clerk Jobson from the carriage, more dead than alive, and threw him under the wheel.

"Mr. Osbaldistone," he said in Frank's ear, "you have nothing to fear. Your friends will soon be in safety. Farewell, and forget not the Mac-Gregor!"

*    *    *    *    *

"And that," I said, "is all!"

But I was instantly overwhelmed by the rush of a living wave.

"No, no," cried the children, throwing themselves upon me, "you must tell us what became of Rob Roy -- of the Bailie -- of Dougal!"

These demands came from the boys.

"And if Diana married Frank, or went to the convent?" interjected Sweetheart.

"Well," I said, "I can soon answer all these questions. Sir Frederick died soon after, but before his end he relieved his daughter from her promise to enter a convent. She married Mr. Frank Osbaldistone instead."

"And lived happy ever after?" added Maid Margaret, who was at the "fairy princess" stage of literature.

"Except when she got cross with him," commented Sir Toady, an uncompromising realist, with pessimistic views on womenkind.

"And Rob Roy held his ground among his native mountains until he died."

"Tell us about the Bailie," said Hugh John; "I liked the Bailie -- he's jolly!"

I told him that he was far from being alone in that opinion.

"The Bailie," I answered, "lived, as the Maid says, happily ever after, having very wisely married his servant Mattie. He carried on all the northern affairs of Osbaldistone and Tresham, now a greater commercial house than ever, and lived to be Lord Provost of the city of Glasgow."

"Let Glasgow flourish!" cried Sir Toady, spontaneously. And the audience concluded the fourth tale and last from Rob Roy with a very passable imitation of a Highland yell.


The End Of The Last Tale From "Rob Roy."



Red Cap Tales

Told From

The Antiquary



The First Tale From "The Antiquary"


THE children lay prone on the floor of the library in various positions of juvenile comfort, watching the firewood in the big wide grate sparkle and crackle, or the broad snowflakes "spat" against the window-panes, where they stuck awhile as if gummed, and then began reluctantly to trickle down. As Sir Toady Lion said, "It was certainly a nice day on which to stop IN!"

The choice of the book from which to tell the next Red Cap Tale had been a work of some difficulty. Hugh John had demanded Ivanhoe, chiefly because there was a chapter in it about shooting with the bow, the which he had read in his school reader when he ought to have been preparing his Latin. Sir Toady wanted The Fortunes of Nigel, because the title sounded adventurous. Sweetheart, who has been sometimes to the play, was insistent for The Bride of Lammermoor, while as to Maid Margaret, she was indifferent, so long as it was "nice and eecitin'."

But the tale-teller, being in the position of the Man-with-the-Purse (or in that of the House of Commons with regard to the granting of supplies), held to it that, in spite of its "growed-up" title, The Antiquary would be the most suitable. First, because we had agreed to go right through the Scottish stories; secondly, because The Antiquary was one of the first which Sir Walter wrote; and thirdly and lastly, because he, the tale-teller aforesaid, "felt like it."

At this, I saw Hugh John look at his brother with the quick glance of intelligence which children exchange when they encounter the Superior Force.

That unspoken message said clearly and neatly, "Pretty thing asking us to select the book, when he had it all settled from the start!"

Nevertheless, I made no remark, but with my eyes on the click of Sweetheart's knitting needles (for in the intervals of nursery wars Sweetheart grows a diligent housewife), I began in the restful silence of that snowy Saturday my first tale from The Antiquary.


I. The Mysterious Mr. Lovel

As though all the tin pots on a tinker's wagon had been jolted and jangled, the bells of St. Giles's steeple in Edinburgh town, had just told the hour of noon. It was the time for the Queensferry diligence (which is to say, omnibus) to set out for the passage of the Firth, if it were to catch the tide of that day, and connect with the boat which sets passengers from the capital upon the shores of Fife.

A young man had been waiting some time. An old one had just bustled up. "Deil's in it!" cried the latter, with a glance at the dial of the church clock, "I am late, after all!"

But the young man, saluting, informed him that, instead of being late, he was early -- so far, that is, as the coach was concerned. It had not yet appeared upon the stand. This information first relieved the mind of the old gentleman, and then, after a moment or two, began (no difficult matter) to arouse his anger.

"Good woman! good woman!" he cried down one of the area stairs, common in the old town of Edinburgh. Then he added in a lower tone, "Doited old hag! she's deaf as a post. I say, Mrs. Macleuchar!"

But Mrs. Macleuchar, the proprietress of the Queensferry diligence, was in no hurry to face the wrath of the public. She served her customer quietly in the shop below, ascended the stairs, and when at last on the level of the street, she looked about, wiped her spectacles as if a mote upon them might have caused her to overlook so minute an object as an omnibus, and exclaimed, "Did ever anybody see the like o' this?"

"Yes, you abominable woman," cried the traveller, "many have seen the like before, and all will yet see the like again, that have aught to do with your trolloping sex!"

And walking up and down the pavement in front of Mrs. Macleuchar's booth, he delivered a volley of abuse each time he came in front of it, much as a battleship fires a broadside as she passes a hostile fortress, till the good woman was quite overwhelmed.

"Oh! man! man!" she cried, "take back your three shillings and make me quit o' ye!"

"Not so fast -- not so fast," her enemy went on; "will three shillings take me to Queensferry according to your deceitful programme? Or will it pay my charges there, if, by your fault, I should be compelled to tarry there a day for want of tide? Will it even hire me a pinnace, for which the regular price is five shillings?"

But at that very moment the carriage lumbered up, and the two travellers were carried off, the elder of them still leaning out of the window and shouting reproaches at the erring Mrs. Macleuchar.

The slow pace of the broken-down horses, and the need to replace a shoe at a wayside smithy, still further delayed the progress of the vehicle, and when they arrived at Queensferry, the elder traveller, Mr. Jonathan Oldbuck by name, saw at once, by the expanse of wet sand and the number of the black glistening rocks visible along the shore, that the time of tide was long past.

But he was less angry than his young companion, Mr. Lovel, had been led to expect from the scolding he had bestowed upon Mrs. Macleuchar in the city. On the way the two had discovered a kindred taste for antique literature and the remains of the past, upon which last Mr. Jonathan Oldbuck was willing to discourse, as the saying is, till all was blue.

The Hawes Inn sat (and still sits) close by the wash of the tides which scour the Firth of Forth on its southern side. It was then an old-fashioned hostelry, overgrown on one side with ivy, and with the woods of Barnbogle growing close down behind it. The host was very willing to provide dinner and shelter for the two guests, and, indeed, there was a suspicion that Mr. Mackitchinson of the Hawes was in league with Mrs. Macleuchar of the Tron, and that this fact went far to explain the frequent late appearance of the coach with "the three yellow wheels and a black one" belonging to that lady, upon the High Street of Edinburgh.

At the Hawes Inn, therefore, the time of waiting before dinner was sufficient for young Mr. Lovel to step out and discover who his amusing and irascible companion of voyage might be. At South Queensferry every one knew Mr. Oldbuck of Monkbarns. Bred a lawyer, he had never practised, being ever more interested in the antiquities of his native country than in sitting in an office among legal documents and quill pens. The death of his brother had made him heir to all his father's property, and in due time he had settled comfortably down to country life and Roman inscriptions at the family seat of Monkbarns, near by to the town of Fairport, the very town to which Mr. Lovel was at that moment making his way.

Mr. Oldbuck, though equally anxious, was unable to discover anything about his travelling companion. He had, however, discussed the elder dramatists with him, and found him so strong in the subject, that his mind, always searching for the reasons of things, promptly set the young man down as an actor travelling to Fairport, to fulfil an engagement at the theatre there.

"Yes," he said to himself, "Lovel and Belville -- these are just the names which youngsters are apt to assume on such occasions -- on my life I am sorry for the lad!"

It was this thought which made Mr. Oldbuck, though naturally and of habit very careful of his sixpences, slip round to the back of the Hawes Inn and settle the bill with the landlord. It was this which made him propose to pay two-thirds of the post-chaise which was to carry them across to Fairport, when at last they set foot on the northern side of the Firth. Arrived at their destination, Mr. Oldbuck recommended Lovel to the care of a decent widow, and so left him with many friendly expressions, in order to proceed to his own house of Monkbarns.

But no Mr. Lovel appeared on the boards of the theatre at Fairport. On the contrary, not even the town gossips, who, having no business of their own to attend to, take charge of other people's, could find out anything about him. Furthermore they could say no evil. The Sheriff called upon him, but the stranger had evidently fully satisfied the man of law, for on his return home he sent him an invitation to dinner, which was, however, civilly declined. He paid his bills and meddled with no one. All which being reported, more or less faithfully, to the proprietor of Monkbarns, caused the young man to rise in his estimation, as one who had too much good sense to trouble himself with the "bodies" of Fairport.

It was five days before Lovel made his way out to the House of Monkbarns to pay his respects. The mansion had once on a time been the storehouse of the vanished Abbey. There the monks had stored the meal which the people dwelling on their lands brought to them instead of rent. Lovel found it a rambling, hither-and-thither old house, with tall hedges of yew all about it. These last were cut into arm-chairs, crowing cocks, and St. Georges in the act of slaying many dragons, all green and terrible. But one great yew had been left untouched by the shears, and under it Lovel found his late fellow-traveller sitting, spectacles on nose, reading the London Chronicle.

The old gentleman immediately rose to welcome his guest, and having taken him indoors, he guided him with some difficulty to the "den," as he called his study. Here Mr. Oldbuck found his niece in company with a serving-maid, both in the midst of a thick cloud of dust, endeavouring to reduce the place to some order and cleanliness.

The Antiquary instantly exploded, as is the manner of all book-lovers when their "things" are disarranged.

"How dare you, or Jenny either, presume to meddle with my private affairs? Go sew your sampler, you monkey, and do not let me find you here again as you value your ears -- "

"Why, uncle," said the girl, who still stood her ground, "your room was not fit to be seen, and I just came to see that Jenny laid everything down where she took it up."

In the midst of a second discharge of great guns the young lady made her escape, with a half-humorous courtesy to Lovel. It was, indeed, some time before the young man could see, through the dense clouds of dust (which, as the Antiquary said, had been ancient and peaceful enough only an hour ago) the chamber of Mr. Oldbuck, full of great books, littered with ancient maps, engravings, scraps of parchment, old armour, broadswords, and Highland targets.

In the midst of all crouched a huge black cat, glaring steadily with great yellow eyes out of the murky confusion, like the familiar spirit of this wizard's den.

So, after showing Lovel many of his most valuable antiquities, and in especial his treasured books, Mr. Oldbuck gladly led the way into the open air. He would take his visitor, he said, to the Kaim of Kinprunes. It was on his own land, he affirmed, and not very far away. Arrived at a little barren eminence, the Antiquary demanded of his friend what he saw.

"A very fine view!" said Lovel, promptly.

But this was not the response for which the proud owner was waiting. He went on to ask Lovel if he did not see anything remarkable on the surface of the ground.

"Why, yes," said Lovel, readily, "I do see something like a ditch, indistinctly marked."

At this, however, the Antiquary was most indignant.

"Indistinct!" he cried, "why, the indistinctness must be in your own eyes. It was clear even to that light-headed lassie, my niece, at the first glance. Here on this very Kaim of Kinprunes was fought out the final conflict between Agricola and the Caledonians! The record says -- let me remind you -- 'in sight of the Grampian Hills.' Yonder they are! In conspectu classis, -- 'in sight of the fleet,' -- and where will you find a finer bay than that on your right hand? From this very fortification, doubtless, Agrippa looked down on the immense army of Caledonians occupying the slopes of the opposite hill, the infantry rising rank over rank, the cavalry and charioteers scouring the more level space below. From this very pretorium -- "

But a voice from behind interrupted the Antiquary's poetic description, for his voice had mounted almost into a kind of ecstasy.

"Pretorian here -- Pretorian there -- I mind the bigging o't!"

Both at once turned round, Lovel surprised, and the Antiquary both surprised and angry. An old man in a huge slouched hat, a long white grizzled beard, weather-beaten features of the colour of brick-dust, a long blue gown with a pewter badge on the right arm, stood gazing at them. In short, it was Edie Ochiltree, the King's Blue-Gownsman, which is to say, privileged beggar.

"What is that ye say, Edie?" demanded Oldbuck, thinking that his ears must have deceived him.

"About this bit bower, Monkbarns," said the undaunted Edie, "I mind the biggin' (building) o' it!"

"The deil ye do!" said the Antiquary with scorn in his voice; "why, you old fool, it was here before ye were born, and will be here after ye are hanged."

"Hanged or drowned, alive or dead," said Edie, sticking to his guns, "I mind the biggin' o't!"

"You -- you -- you," stammered the Antiquary, between confusion and anger, "you strolling old vagabond, what ken ye about it?"

"Oh, I ken just this about it, Monkbarns," he answered, "and what profit have I in telling ye a lie? It was just some mason-lads and me, with maybe two or three herds, that set to work and built this bit thing here that ye call the pretorian, to be a shelter for us in a sore time of rain, at auld Aiken Drum's bridal. And look ye, Monkbarns, dig down, and ye will find a stone (if ye have not found it already) with the shape of a spoon and the letters A.D.L.L. on it -- that is to say Aiken Drum's Lang Ladle."

The Antiquary blushed crimson with anger and mortification. For indoors he had just been showing that identical stone to Lovel as his chiefest treasure, and had interpreted the ladle as a Roman sacrificing vessel, and the letters upon it as a grave Latin inscription, carved by Agrippa himself to celebrate his victory.

Lovel was inclined to be amused by the old beggar's demolishing of all the Antiquary's learned theories, but he was speedily brought to himself by Edie Ochiltree's next words.

"That young gentleman, too, I can see, thinks little o' an auld carle like me, yet I'll wager I could tell him where he was last night in the gloaming, only maybe he would not like to have it spoken of in company!"

It was now Lovel's turn to blush, which he did with the vivid crimson of two-and-twenty.

"Never mind the old rogue," said Mr. Oldbuck, "and don't think that I think any the worse of you for your profession. They are only prejudiced fools and coxcombs who do that."

For, in spite of Lovel's interest in ancient history, it still remained in the Antiquary's mind that his young friend must be an actor by profession.

But to this Lovel paid no attention. He was engaged in making sure of Edie's silence by the simple method of passing a crown-piece out of his own pocket into the Blue-Gown's hand; while Monkbarns, equally willing to bridle his tongue as to the building of the pretorian, was sending him down to the mansion house for something to eat and a bottle of ale thereto.

*    *    *    *    *


II. The Night Of Storm

The Antiquary continued to hear good reports of his young friend, and, as it struck him that the lad must be lonely in such a place as Fairport, he resolved to ask Lovel to dinner, in order to show him the best society in the neighbourhood -- that is to say, his friend, Sir Arthur Wardour of Knockwinnock, and his daughter Isabella.

Sir Arthur was something of an antiquary also, but far less learned and serious than Mr. Oldbuck. Living so near each other the two quarrelled often about the Pictish Kings of Scotland, the character of Queen Mary, and even other matters more modern -- such as the lending of various sums of money. For Sir Arthur always wanted to borrow, whereas the Antiquary did not always want to lend. Sir Arthur was entirely careless as to paying back, while Mr. Oldbuck stood firmly rooted upon the rights of principal and interest. But on the whole they were good friends enough, and the Baronet accordingly accepted, in a letter written by his daughter, the invitation to Monkbarns.

Lovel arrived punctually on the afternoon appointed, for, in the Antiquary's day, dinners took place at four o'clock! It was a brooding, thundery day, sultry and threatening -- the 17th of July, according to the calendar.

Mr. Oldbuck had time to introduce his "most discreet sister Griselda" as he called her, who came arrayed in all the finery of half a century before, and wearing a mysterious erection on her head, something between a wedding-cake and the Tower of Babel in a picture Bible, while his niece, Miss MacIntyre, a pretty young woman with something of bright wit about her, which came undoubtedly from her uncle's family, was arrayed more in the fashion of the day.

Sir Arthur, with his daughter on his arm, presently arrived, and respects, compliments, and introductions were interchanged. The dinner was made up chiefly of Scottish national dainties, and everything went well, save that the solan goose, a fragrant bird at all times, proved so underdone that Mr. Oldbuck threatened to fling it at the head of the housekeeper.

As soon as the ladies left the dining room, Sir Arthur and the Antiquary plunged into their controversies, with a bottle of good port wine between them, while Lovel set himself to listen with much amusement.

The language of the Picts, the building of the earliest Edinburgh Castle, with other subjects, on none of which they agreed, made the two wiseacres grow hotter and hotter, till at last the wrath of the man of pedigree was roused by a chance statement of the Antiquary's that the Baronet's famous ancestor, Gamelyn de Guardover, who had signed the Ragman Roll, showed thereby a mean example of submitting to Edward of England.

"It is enough, sir," said Sir Arthur, starting up fiercely. "I shall hereafter take care how I honour with my company one who shows himself so ungrateful for my condescension."

"In that you will do as you find most agreeable, Sir Arthur," returned the Antiquary. "I hope that, as I was not aware of the full extent of the obligation you had done me by visiting my poor house, I may be excused for not having carried my gratitude to the extent of servility."

"Mighty well -- mighty well, Mr. Oldbuck -- I wish you a good evening, Mr. -- ah -- ah -- Shovel -- I wish you a very good evening."

And so saying Sir Arthur flounced out, and with long strides traversed the labyrinth of passages, seeking for the drawing-room of Monkbarns.

"Did you ever see such a tup-headed old ass?" said the Antiquary, "but I must not let him burst in on the ladies in this mad way either."

So Mr. Oldbuck ran after his adversary, who was in great danger of tumbling down the back stairs and breaking his shins over various collections of learned and domestic rubbish piled in dark corners.

"Stay a minute, Sir Arthur," said the Antiquary, at last capturing him by the arm; "don't be quite so hasty, my good old friend! I was a little rude to you about Sir Gamelyn -- why, he is an old acquaintance of mine -- kept company with Wallace and Bruce, and only subscribed the Ragman Roll with the just intention of circumventing the Southern -- 'twas right Scottish craft -- hundreds did it! Come, come -- forget and forgive -- confess we have given the young fellow here a right to think us two testy old fools."

"Speak for yourself, Mr. Jonathan Oldbuck," said Sir Arthur, with much majesty.

"Awell -- awell," said the Antiquary, with a sigh, "a wilful man must have his way!"

And the Baronet accordingly stalked into the drawing-room, pettishly refused to accept either tea or coffee, tucked his daughter under his arm, and, having said the driest of good-byes to the company at large, off he marched.

"I think Sir Arthur has got the black dog on his back again!" said Miss Oldbuck.

"Black dog! Black deil!" cried her brother; "he's more absurd than womankind. What say you, Lovel? Why, the lad's gone too."

"Yes," said Miss MacIntyre, "he took his leave while Miss Wardour was putting on her things."

"Deil's in the people!" cried the Antiquary. "This is all one gets by fussing and bustling, and putting one's self out of the way to give dinners. O Seged, Emperor of Ethiopia," he added, taking a cup of tea in one hand and a volume of the Rambler in the other, "well hast thou spoken. No man can presume to say, 'This shall be a day of happiness.'"

Oldbuck had continued his studies for the best part of an hour, when Caxton, the ancient barber of Fairport, thrusting his head into the room, informed the company -- first, that it was going to be "an awfu' nicht," secondly, that Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour had started out to return to Knockwinnock Castle by way of the sands!

Instantly Miss MacIntyre set off to bear the tidings to Saunders Mucklebackit, the old fisherman, while the Antiquary himself, with a handkerchief tied round his hat and wig to keep them from being blown away, searched the cliffs for any signs of his late guests.

Nor was the information brought by Caxton one whit exaggerated. Sir Arthur and his daughter had indeed started out to reach their home by the sands. On most occasions these afforded a safe road enough, but in times of high tide or when the sea was driven shoreward by a wind, the waves broke high against the cliffs in fury.

Talking earnestly together as they walked, Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour did not observe the gathering of the tempest till it had broken upon them. They had reached a deep sickle-shaped bay, and having with difficulty passed one headland, they were looking with some anxiety toward the other, hoping to reach and pass it before the tide closed in upon them, when they saw a tall figure advancing toward them waving hands and arms. Their hearts rejoiced, for, they thought, where that man had passed, there would still be a road for them.

But they were doomed to be disappointed. The figure was no other than that of the old Blue-Gown Edie Ochiltree. As he advanced he continued to sign to them and to shout words which were carried away by the blast, till he had arrived quite close.

"Turn back! Turn back!" he cried, when at last they could hear. "Why did you not turn back when I waved to you?"

"We thought," said Sir Arthur, much disturbed, "that we could still get round Halket Head."

"Halket Head!" cried the vagrant; "why, the tide will be running on Halket Head by this time like the Falls of Foyers. It was all I could do to get round it twenty minutes since."

It was now equally impossible to turn back. The water was dashing over the skerries behind them, and the path by which Miss Wardour and her father had passed so recently was now only a confusion of boiling and eddying foam.

There was nothing for it but to try to climb as far up the cliffs as possible, and trust that the tide would turn back before it reached them. With the help of the old beggar, they perched themselves upon the highest shelf to which, on that almost perpendicular wall of rock, they could hope to attain. But, nevertheless, as the waves leaped white beneath, it seemed very far indeed from safety.

Sir Arthur, struck with terror, offered lands and wealth to the Blue-Gownsman if he would only guide them to a place of safety.

But the old beggar could only shake his head and answer sadly: "I was a bold enough cragsman once. Many a kittywake's and seagull's nest have I taken on these very cliffs above us. But now my eyesight and my footstep and my handgrip all have failed this many and many a day! But what is that?" he cried, looking eagerly upward. "His Name be praised! Yonder comes some one down the cliff, even now."

And taking heart of grace, he cried directions up through the gathering darkness to the unseen helper who was descending toward them.

"Right! Right! Fasten the rope well round the Crummie's Horn -- that's the muckle black stone yonder. Cast two plies about it! That's it! Now creep a little eastwards, to that other stone -- the Cat's Lug, they call it. There used to be the root of an old oak tree there. Canny now! Take time! Now ye maun get to Bessie's Apron -- that's the big, blue, flat stone beneath ye! And then, with your help and the rope, I'll win at ye, and we will be able to get up the young lady and Sir Arthur!"

The daring adventurer, no other than Lovel himself, soon reached the place pointed out, and, throwing down the rope, it was caught by Edie Ochiltree, who ascended to the flat blue stone formerly spoken of. From this point of vantage the two of them were able by their united strength to raise Miss Wardour to safety. Then Lovel descended alone, and fastening the rope about Sir Arthur (who was now utterly unable, from fear and cold, to do anything for himself), they soon had him beside them on Bessie's Apron.

Yet, even so, it seemed impossible that they could remain there all night. The wind and the dashing spray every moment threatened to sweep them from the narrow ledge they had reached. Besides, how was one so delicate as Miss Wardour to stand out such a night? Lovel offered, in spite of the gathering darkness, once more to climb the cliff, and to seek further assistance. But the old Blue-Gown withheld him.

No cragsman in broadest daylight could do such a thing, he asserted. Even he himself, in the fullest of his strength, would never have attempted the feat. It was death to ascend ten yards. Miss Wardour begged that neither of them should try. She was already much better, she said. Besides, their presence was needed to control her father, who was clearly not responsible for his actions.

Just then a faint halloo came from high above. Edie answered it with a shout, waving at the same time Miss Wardour's handkerchief at the end of his long beggar's staff, as far out from the cliff as possible. In a little while the signals were so regularly replied to, that the forlorn party on Bessie's Apron knew that they were again within hearing, if not within reach, of friendly assistance.

On the top of the cliffs Monkbarns was heading the party of searchers. Saunders Mucklebackit, an old fisherman and smuggler, had charge of the rescue apparatus. This consisted of the mast of a boat, with a yard firmly fixed across it. Through the ends of the yard a rope ran in two blocks, and by this Saunders hoped to lower a chair down the cliffs, by means of which (said the old smuggler) the whole party would presently be "boused up and landed on board, as safe as so many kegs of brandy."

The chair was accordingly let down, together with a second rope -- which, being held by some one below, would keep the chair from dashing about in the wind against the rock. This Saunders called the "guy" or guide rope.

Miss Wardour, after some persuasion, mounted first, being carefully bound in the rude seat by means of Lovel's handkerchief and neckcloth, in addition to the mendicant's broad leathern belt passed about her waist.

Sir Arthur, whose brain appeared quite dazed, continued loudly to protest. "What are you doing with my bairn?" he cried. "What are you doing? She shall not be separated from me. Isabel, stay with me -- I command you!"

But the signal being given to hoist away, the chair mounted, intently watched by Lovel, who stood holding the guide rope, to the last flutter of the lady's white dress. Miss Wardour was duly and safely landed. Sir Arthur and Edie followed, and it remained for Lovel to make the more hazardous final ascent. For now there was no one left below to help him by holding the "guy" rope. Nevertheless, being young and accustomed to danger, he managed, though much banged and buffeted about by the wind, to fend himself off the rocks with the long pike-staff belonging to the beggar, which Edie had left him for that purpose.

It was only when Lovel reached the safety of the cliff that he felt himself for a moment a little faint. When he came to himself Sir Arthur had already been removed to his carriage, and all that Lovel saw of the girl he had rescued from death was the last flutter of her dress vanishing through the storm.

"She did not even think it worth while waiting to see whether I was dead or alive -- much less to thank me for anything I had done!"

And he resolved to leave Fairport on the morrow, without visiting Knockwinnock, or again seeing Miss Wardour. But what he did not know was that Miss Wardour had waited till she had been assured that Lovel was safe and sound, having sent Sir Arthur on before her to the carriage.

But as the young man was not aware that she had shown him even this limited sympathy, his heart continued to be bitter within him.

It was arranged that he was to sleep that night at Monkbarns. Indeed Mr. Oldbuck would hear of no other way of it. The Antiquary had looked forward to the chicken pie and the bottle of port which Sir Arthur had left untasted when he bounced off in a fume. What then was his wrath when his sister, Miss Grizel, told him how that the minister of Trotcosey, Mr. Blattergowl, having come down to Monkbarns to sympathise with the peril of all concerned, had so much affected Miss Oldbuck by his show of anxiety that she had set the pie and the wine before him -- which he had accordingly consumed to show his good-will.

But after some very characteristic grumbling, cold beef and hard-boiled eggs did just as well for the two friends, and while Lovel partook of them, Miss Grizel entertained him with tales of the Green Room in which he was to sleep. This apartment was haunted, it seemed, by the spirit of the first Oldenbuck, the celebrated printer of the Augsburg Confession. He had even appeared in person to a certain town-clerk of Fairport, and showed him (at the point of his toe) upstairs to an old cabinet in which was stored away the very document for the want of which the lairds of Monkbarns were likely to be worsted in a famous lawsuit before the Court of Session in Edinburgh. Furthermore, a famous German professor, a very learned man, Dr. Heavysterne by name, had found his rest so much disturbed in that very room that he could never again be persuaded to sleep there.

Lovel, however, laughed at such fears, and was accordingly shown by the Antiquary up to the famous Green Room, a large chamber with walls covered by a tapestry of hunting scenes, -- stags, boars, hounds, and huntsmen, all mixed together under the greenwood tree, the boughs of which, interlacing above, gave its name to the room.

Lovel fell asleep after a while, still bitterly meditating on how unkindly Miss Wardour had used him, and his thoughts, mixed with the perilous adventures of the evening, made him not a little feverish. At first his dreams were wild, confused, and impossible. He flew like a bird. He swam like a fish. He was upborne on clouds, and dashed on rocks which yet received him soft as pillows of down. But at last, out of the gloom a figure approached his bedside, separating himself from the wild race of the huntsmen upon the green tapestry, -- a figure like that which had been described to him as belonging to the first laird of Monkbarns. He was dressed in antique Flemish garb, a furred Burgomaster cap was on his head, and he held in his hands a black volume with clasps of brass.

Lovel strove to speak, but, as usual in such cases, he could not utter a word. His tongue refused its office. The awful figure held up a warning finger, and then began deliberately to unclasp the volume he held in his hands. He turned the leaves hastily for a few minutes; then, holding the book aloft in his left hand, he pointed with his right to a line which seemed to start forth from the page glowing with supernatural fire. Lovel did not understand the language in which the book was printed, but the wonderful light with which the words glowed impressed them somehow on his memory. The vision shut the volume. A strain of music was heard, and Lovel awoke. The sun was shining full into the Green Room, and somewhere not far away a girl's voice was singing a simple Scottish air.


Interlude Of Warning

It was the spinner of yarns himself who broke the silence which fell on the party at the close of the first tale told out of the treasure-house of The Antiquary.

"If I catch you," were the words of warning which fell from his lips, "you, Hugh John, or you, Toady Lion, trying to hoist one another up a cliff with a rope and a chair -- well, the rope will most certainly be used for quite another purpose, and both of you will just hate to look at a chair for a fortnight after! Do you understand?"

They understood perfectly.

"It was me they were going to hoist," confided Maid Margaret, coming a little closer. "I saw them looking at me all the time you were telling the story!"

"Well," I said, "just let me catch them at it, that's all!"

This caution being necessary for the avoidance of future trouble, I went on to read aloud the whole of the Storm chapters, to the children's unspeakable delight. Hugh John even begged for the book to take to bed with him, which privilege he was allowed, on the solemn promise that he would not "peep on ahead." Since Sweetheart's prophecies as to Die Vernon, such conduct has been voted scoundrelly and unworthy of any good citizen of the nursery.

On the whole, however, I could not make out whether The Antiquary promised to be a favourite or not. The storm scene was declared "famous," but the accompanying prohibition to break their own or their family's necks, by pulling chairs up and down rocks, somewhat damped the ardour of the usual enthusiasts.

As, however, the day was hopeless outside, the snow beating more and more fiercely on the windows, and hanging in heavy fleecy masses on the smallest twigs of the tree-branches and leafless rose stems, it was decided that nothing better could be imagined, than just to proceed with our second tale from The Antiquary. But before beginning I received two requests, somewhat difficult to harmonize the one with the other.

"Tell us all about Miss Wardour and Lovel. He's nice!" said Sweetheart.

"Skip ALL the love-making!" cried Hugh John and Sir Toady in a breath.

*    *    *    *    *



The Second Tale From "The Antiquary"


I. Lovel Fights A Duel

THE Antiquary, to whom Lovel told his dream, promptly pulled out a black-letter volume of great age and, unclasping it, showed him the very motto of his vision. So far, however, from glowing with fire now, the words remained in the ordinary calm chill of type. But when the Antiquary told him that these words had been the Printer's Mark or Colophon of his ancestor, Aldobrand Oldenbuck, the founder of his house, and that they meant "SKILL WINS FAVOUR," Lovel, though half ashamed of giving any credit to dreams, resolved to remain in the neighbourhood of Knockwinnock Castle and of Miss Wardour for at least some time longer.

In vain Oldbuck made light of his vision of the Green Room. In vain he reminded him that he had been showing that very volume to Sir Arthur the night before in his presence, and had even remarked upon the appropriate motto of old Aldobrand Oldenbuck.

Lovel was resolved to give his love for Miss Wardour one more chance. And indeed at that very moment, under the lady's window at Knockwinnock Castle, a strange love messenger was pleading his cause.

Miss Wardour had been trying to persuade old Edie Ochiltree to accept a garden, a cottage, and a daily dole, for his great services in saving her own and her father's life. But of this Edie would hear nothing.

"I would weary," he said, "to be forever looking up at the same beams and rafters, and out upon the same cabbage patch. I have a queer humour of my own, too, and I might be jesting and scorning where I should be silent. Sir Arthur and I might not long agree. Besides, what would the country do for its gossip -- the blithe clatter at e'en about the fire? Who would bring news from one farm-town to another -- gingerbread to the lassies, mend fiddles for the lads, and make grenadier caps of rushes for the bairns, if old Edie were tied by the leg at his own cottage door?"

"Well, then, Edie," said Miss Wardour, "if this be so, if you feel that the folk of the countryside cannot do without you, you must just let me know when you feel old enough to settle, and in the meantime take this."

And she handed him a sum of money. But for the second time again the beggar refused.

"Na, na," he said, "it is against our rule to take so muckle siller at once. I would be robbed and murdered for it at the next town -- or at least I would go in fear of my life, which is just as bad. But you might say a good word for me to the ground-officer and the constable, and maybe bid Sandy Netherstanes the miller chain up his big dog, and I will e'en come to Knockwinnock as usual for my alms and my snuff."

Edie paused at this point, and, stepping nearer to the window on which Miss Wardour leaned, he continued, speaking almost in her ear.

"Ye are a bonny young leddy, and a good one," he said, "and maybe a well-dowered one. But do not you sneer away the laddie Lovel, as ye did a while syne on the walk beneath the Briery bank, when I both saw ye and heard ye too, though ye saw not me. Be canny with the lad, for he loves ye well. And it's owing to him, and not to anything I could have done, that you and Sir Arthur were saved yestreen!"

Then, without waiting for an answer, old Edie stalked toward a low doorway and disappeared. It was at this very moment that Lovel and the Antiquary entered the court. Miss Wardour had only time to hasten upstairs, while the Antiquary was pausing to point out the various features of the architecture of Knockwinnock Castle to the young man.

Miss Wardour met the two gentlemen in the drawing-room of the castle with her father's apology for not being able to receive them. Sir Arthur was still in bed, and, though recovering, he continued to suffer from the fatigues and anxieties of the past night.

"Indeed," said the Antiquary, "a good down pillow for his good white head were a couch more meet than Bessie's Apron, plague on her! But what news of our mining adventure in Glen Withershins?"

"None," said Miss Wardour, "or at least no good news! But here are some specimens just sent down. Will you look at them?"

And withdrawing into a corner with these bits of rock, the Antiquary proceeded to examine them, grumbling and pshawing over each ere he laid it aside to take up another. This was Lovel's opportunity to speak alone with Miss Wardour.

"I trust," he said, "that Miss Wardour will impute to circumstances almost irresistible, this intrusion of one who has reason to think himself so unacceptable a visitor."

"Mr. Lovel," said Miss Wardour, in the same low tone, "I am sure you are incapable of abusing the advantages given you by the services you have rendered us -- ah, if I could only see you as a friend -- or as a sister!"

"I cannot," said Lovel, "disavow my feelings. They are well known to Miss Wardour. But why crush every hope -- if Sir Arthur's objections could be removed?"

"But that is impossible," said Miss Wardour, "his objections cannot be removed, and I am sure you will save both of us pain by leaving Fairport, and returning to the honourable career which you seem to have abandoned!"

"Miss Wardour," said Lovel, "I will obey your wishes, if, within one little month I cannot show you the best of reasons for continuing to abide at Fairport."

At this moment Sir Arthur sent down a message to say that he would like to see his old friend, the Laird of Monkbarns, in his bedroom. Miss Wardour instantly declared that she would show Mr. Oldbuck the way, and so left Lovel to himself. It chanced that in the interview which followed Sir Arthur let out by accident that his daughter had already met with Lovel in Yorkshire, when she had been there on a visit to her aunt. The Antiquary was at first astonished, and then not a little indignant, that neither of them should have told him of this when they were introduced, and he resolved to catechise his young friend Lovel strictly upon the point as soon as possible. But when at last he bade farewell to his friend Sir Arthur and returned below, another subject occupied his mind. Lovel and he were walking home over the cliffs, and when they reached the summit of the long ridge, Oldbuck turned and looked back at the pinnacles of the castle -- at the ancient towers and walls grey with age, which had been the home of so many generations of Wardours.

"Ah," he muttered, sighing, half to himself, "it wrings my heart to say it -- but I doubt greatly that this ancient family is fast going to the ground."

Then he revealed to the surprised Lovel how Sir Arthur's foolish speculations, and especially his belief in a certain German swindler, named Dousterswivel, had caused him to engage in some very costly mining ventures, which were now almost certain to result in complete failure.

As the Antiquary described Dousterswivel, Lovel remembered to have seen the man in the inn at Fairport, where he had been pointed out to him as one of the illuminati, or persons who have dealings with the dwellers in another world. But while thus talking and tarrying with his friend Monkbarns, an important letter was on its way to call Lovel back to Fairport. Oldbuck had so far taken his young friend to his heart, that he would not let him depart without making sure that the trouble he read on Lovel's face was not the want of money.

"If," he said, "there is any pecuniary inconvenience, I have fifty, or a hundred, guineas at your service -- till Whitsunday -- or indeed as long as you like!"

But Lovel, assuring him that the letter boded no difficulty of the kind, thanked him for his offer, and so took his leave.

It was some weeks before the Antiquary again saw Lovel. To the great astonishment of the town the young man hardly went out at all, and when he called upon him in his lodgings at Fairport, Mr. Oldbuck was astonished at the change in his appearance. Lovel was now pale and thin, and his black dress bore the badge of mourning. The Antiquary's gruff old heart was moved toward the lad. He would have had him come instantly with him to Monkbarns, telling him that, as they agreed well together, there was no reason why they should ever separate. His lands were in his own power of gift, and there was no reason why he should not leave them to whom he would.

Lovel, touched also by this unexpected affection, answered that he could not at present accept, but that before leaving Scotland he would certainly pay Monkbarns a long visit.

While the Antiquary remained talking thus to Lovel in his lodgings, a letter was brought from Sir Arthur Wardour inviting the young man to be a member of a party which proposed to visit the ruins of St. Ruth's Priory on the following day, and afterward to dine and spend the evening at Knockwinnock Castle. Sir Arthur added that he had made the same proposal to the family at Monkbarns. So it was agreed that they should go together, Lovel on horseback, and Oldbuck and his womenkind (as he called them) in a hired post-chaise.

The morning of the next day dawned clear and beautiful, putting Lovel in better spirits than he had known of late. With the Wardour party there came the German adept, Mr. Dousterswivel, to whom, after offering his thanks to his preserver of the night of storm, Sir Arthur introduced Lovel. The young man's instinctive dislike at sight of the impostor was evidently shared in by the Antiquary, for the lowering of his shaggy eyebrow clearly proclaimed as much.

Nevertheless, the first part of the day went well on the whole. Oldbuck took upon himself the office of guide, explaining and translating all the while, leading the company from point to point till they were almost as much at home as himself among the ruins of the Priory of St. Ruth.

But the peaceful occupations of the day were interrupted by the arrival of a young horseman in military undress, whom the Antiquary greeted with the words, "Hector, son of Priam, whence comest thou?"

"From Fife, my liege," answered Captain Hector MacIntyre, Mr. Oldbuck's nephew, who saluted the company courteously, but, as Lovel thought, seemed to view his own presence with a haughty and disapproving eye. Captain MacIntyre attached himself immediately to Miss Wardour, and even appeared to Lovel to take up a privileged position with regard to her. But Miss Wardour, after submitting to this close attendance for some time, presently turned sharply round, and asked a question of the Antiquary as to the date at which the Priory of St. Ruth was built. Of course Mr. Oldbuck started off like a warhorse at the sound of the trumpet, and, in the long harangue which ensued, mixed as it was with additions and contradictions from Sir Arthur and the minister, Captain MacIntyre found no further chance of appropriating Miss Wardour. He left her, accordingly, and walked sulkily by his sister's side.

From her he demanded to know who this Mr. Lovel might be, whom he found so very much at home in a circle in which he had looked forward to shining alone.

Mary MacIntyre answered sensibly that, as to who he was, her brother had better ask his uncle, who was in the habit of inviting to his house such company as pleased him; adding that, so far as she knew, Mr. Lovel was a very quiet and gentlemanly young man.

Far from being satisfied, however, from that moment Captain MacIntyre, with the instinct of a dog that returns home to find a stranger making free with his bone and kennel, set himself almost openly to provoke Lovel. When by chance the latter was called on by the Antiquary to state whether or not he had been present at a certain battle abroad, MacIntyre, with an accent of irony, asked the number of his regiment. And when that had been told him, he replied that he knew the regiment very well, but that he could not remember Mr. Lovel as an officer in it.

Whereupon, blushing quickly, Mr. Lovel informed Captain MacIntyre that he had served the last campaign on the staff of General Sir Blank Blank.

"Indeed," said MacIntyre, yet more insolently, "that is still more remarkable. I have had an opportunity of knowing the names of all the officers who have held such a situation, and I cannot recollect that of Lovel among them."

Lovel took out of his pocket-book a letter, from which he removed the envelope before handing it to his adversary.

"In all probability you know the General's hand," he said, "though I own I ought not to show such exaggerated expressions of thanks for my very slight services."

Captain MacIntyre, glancing his eye over it, could not deny that it was in the General's hand, but drily observed, as he returned it, that the address was wanting.

"The address, Captain MacIntyre," answered Lovel, in the same tone, "shall be at your service whenever you choose to inquire for it."

"I shall not fail to do so," said the soldier.

"Come, come," exclaimed Oldbuck, "what is the meaning of this? We'll have no swaggering, youngsters! Are you come from the wars abroad to stir up strife in a peaceful land?"

Sir Arthur, too, hoped that the young men would remain calm. But Lovel, from that moment, felt that he was to some extent under suspicion, and so, in a short time, he took the opportunity of bidding the company good-bye, on the plea of the return of a headache which had lately troubled him. He had not ridden far -- rather loitering, indeed, to give MacIntyre a chance of overtaking him -- when the sound of horse's hoofs behind told him that his adversary had returned to find him. The young officer touched his hat briefly, and began in a haughty tone, "What am I to understand, sir, by your telling me that your address was at my service?"

"Simply," answered Lovel, "that my name is Lovel, and that my residence is, for the present, Fairport, as you will see by this card!"

"And is this," said the soldier, "all the information you are disposed to give me?"

"I see no right you have to require more."

"I find you, sir, in company with my sister," said MacIntyre, "and I have a right to know who is admitted to her society."

"I shall take the liberty of disputing that right," replied Lovel, to the full as haughty in tone and manner.

"I presume then," said the young officer, "since you say you have served in his Majesty's army, you will give me the satisfaction usual among gentlemen."

"I shall not fail," said Lovel.

"Very well, sir," rejoined Hector, and turning his horse's head he galloped off to rejoin the party.

But his uncle suspected his purpose, and was determined to prevent a duel at all risks. He demanded where his nephew had been.

"I forgot my glove, sir," said Hector.

"Forgot your glove! You mean that you went to throw it down. But I will take order with you, young gentleman. You shall return with me this night to Monkbarns."

Yet in spite of the Antiquary the duel was easily enough arranged between these two over-hasty young men. It was the custom of the time to fight about trifles, and it seemed to Lovel that as a soldier he had really no honourable alternative. He was fortunate enough to find a second in the Lieutenant-commander of one of the King's gun-brigs, which was stationed on the coast to put down smuggling. Lieutenant Taffril only put one question to Lovel before offering him every assistance. He asked if there was anything whereof he was ashamed, in the circumstances which he had declined to communicate to MacIntyre.

"On my honour, no," said Lovel, "there is nothing but what, in a short time, I hope I may be able to communicate to the whole world."

The duel thus insolently provoked was to be fought with pistols within the ruins of St. Ruth, and as Lovel and his second came near the place of combat, they heard no sound save their own voices mingling with those of the sheep bleating peacefully to each other upon the opposite hill. On the stump of an old thorn tree within the ruins sat the venerable figure of old Edie Ochiltree. Edie had a message to deliver.

He told Lovel that he had been at the Sheriff's that very day, and had got it from the clerk himself that a warrant had been issued on Monkbarns's demand for the apprehension of Lovel. The old beggar had come hastily to warn the young man, thinking that perhaps it might be some matter of debt. But the appearance of Captain MacIntyre and his second, Mr. Lesley, soon informed him otherwise.

The antagonists approached and saluted with the stern civility of the place and occasion. MacIntyre instantly ordered the old fellow off the field.

"I am an auld fellow," said Edie, "but I am also an auld soldier of your father's, and I served with him in the 42nd."

"Serve where you please," said MacIntyre, hotly, "you have no title to intrude on us. Be off with you -- or -- "

He lifted his cane as if to threaten the old man. But the insult roused Edie's ancient courage.

"Hold down your switch, Captain MacIntyre! I am an auld soldier, and I'll tak' muckle from your father's son -- but not a touch o' the wand while my pike-staff will hold together!"

"I was wrong -- I was wrong," said MacIntyre, relenting, "here is a crown for you -- go your ways."

But Edie refused the money, exhorting the young men to go and fight the French instead of each other, if they were so fighting hot. But neither his words nor the efforts of the seconds could reconcile MacIntyre to the man with whom he had from the first resolved to quarrel.

The ground was measured out by the seconds, while old Edie stood unheeded at the side muttering, "Bairns, bairns -- madmen, I should rather say! Weel, your blood be on your heads!"

The fatal signal was given. Both fired almost at the same moment. Captain MacIntyre's ball grazed the side of his opponent, but failed to draw blood. That of Lovel was more true to the aim. MacIntyre reeled and fell. Raising himself on his arm, his first exclamation was: "It is nothing -- it is nothing! Give us the other pistols!"

But the moment after he added in a lower tone: "I believe I have enough, and what's worse, I fear I deserve it. Mr. Lovel, or whatever your name is, fly and save yourself. Bear witness all of you, I alone provoked the quarrel."

Then raising himself on his arm, he added: "Shake hands, Lovel. I believe you to be a gentleman -- forgive my rudeness, and I forgive you my death!"

Lovel stood dizzy and bewildered, while the ship's surgeon approached to do his part. But presently his arm was grasped by Edie, who hurried him off the field with the assistance of Lieutenant Taffril, his late second.

"He is right -- he is right!" exclaimed Taffril, "go with him -- there, into the wood -- not by the highroad. Let him bring you to the sands at three of the morning. A boat will be in waiting to take you off to my brig, which will sail at once."

"Yes -- fly -- fly!" said the wounded man, his voice faltering as he spoke.

"It is madness to stay here," added Taffril.

"It was worse than madness ever to have come!" said Lovel, following his uncouth guide into the thicket. As he went up the valley he realised the bitterness of remorse that comes too late. He had passed that way in the morning, innocent, and now -- he had the stain of blood upon his hands.


II. The Seekers Of Treasure

Edie guided him along a deep ravine till they came to a precipice of rock overhung with brushwood and copse. Here completely concealed was the mouth of a cave, where, as Edie said, they would be in perfect safety. Only two other persons knew of its existence, and these two were at present far away. The cavern was in the shape of a cross, and had evidently been the abode of some anchorite of a time long past. In the corner was a turning stair, narrow but quite passable, which communicated with the chapel above -- and so, by a winding passage in the thickness of the wall, with the interior of the priory of St. Ruth.

Twilight faded into night, and the night itself wore away, while Edie sat telling Lovel all the old-world tales he could lay his tongue to, in order to keep the mind of the young man from brooding over his situation. They sat close together on a little watch-tower niched deep in the wall, and breathed the night air, while waiting for the hour at which they must betake them to the beach, to meet the boat which Lieutenant Taffril was to have in readiness.

Midnight approached, the moon rose high in the sky above, but the voice of the Blue-Gown still droned on, telling his tales of old time, when suddenly Lovel, whose ears were quicker, laid his hand on his companion's arm.

"Hush," he whispered, "I hear some one speaking!"

So saying Lovel pointed in the direction of the sound, -- toward the door of the chancel at the west end of the building, where a carved window let in a flood of moonlight upon the floor.

Two human figures detached themselves from the darkness and advanced. The lantern which one of them carried gleamed pale in the bright moonlight. It was evident in a moment by their motions that they could not be officers searching for Lovel. As they approached nearer, the beggar recognised the two figures as those of Dousterswivel and Sir Arthur.

Lovel was about to retreat, but a touch on the arm from the old Blue-Gown convinced him that his best course was to remain quiet where he was. In case of any alarm, there was always the passage behind, and they could gain the shelter of the wood long before any pursuit would be possible.

Dousterswivel was evidently making some proposition about which Sir Arthur was uncertain.

"Great expense -- great expense!" were the first words they heard him mutter.

"Expenses -- to be sure," said Dousterswivel; "there must be great expenses. You do not expect to reap before you do sow the seed. Now, Sir Arthur, you have sowed this night a little pinch of ten guineas, and if you do not reap the big harvest, it is because you have only sowed a little pinch of seed. Much seed sown, much harvest reaped. That is the way to find treasure. You shall see, Sir Arthur, mine worthy patron!"

The German now put before his dupe a little silver plate engraved with strange signs, squares of nine times nine figures, flying serpents with turkey-cocks' heads, and other wonderful things. Then having professed to lay out the baronet's ten guineas in what he called "suffumigations," -- that is, to scare away the demons which kept guard over the treasures, -- he informed him that he was ready to proceed. The treasure itself could not be obtained till the stroke of midnight. But in the meanwhile he was willing to show Sir Arthur the guardian demon of the treasure-house, which, "like one fierce watchdog" (as the pretended wizard explained), could be called up by his magic power.

But Sir Arthur was not particularly keen to see such marvels. He thought they had little enough time as it was, and if he could get the treasures, he preferred, supposing it to be the same thing to his guide, to let sleeping demons lie.

"But I could show you the spirit very well," said Dousterswivel. "I would draw a circle with a pentagon, and make my suffumigation within it, while you kept the demon at bay with a drawn sword. You would see first a hole open in the solid wall. Then through it would come one stag pursued by three black greyhounds. They would pull him down, and then one black ugly negro would appear and take the stag from them. Then, paff! all would be gone. After that horns would be winded, and in would come the great Peolphan, the Mighty Hunter of the North, mounted on his black steed -- but you are sure that you do not care to see all this?"

"Why, I am not afraid," said the poor baronet, "that is, if -- do any mishaps ever happen on such occasions?"

"Bah -- mischiefs, no!" said the German. "Sometimes if the circle be no quite just, or the beholder be frightened and not hold the sword firm and straight toward him, the Great Hunter will take his advantage, and drag him exorcist out of the circle and throttle him. That happen sometimes."

This was quite enough for Sir Arthur, who did not desire any intercourse with demons on such terms.

Whereupon Dousterswivel, the time of midnight being near, set fire to a little pile of chips, which instantly burned up with a bright light. Then when the flame was at its highest, he cast into the blaze a handful of perfumes which smoked with a strong and pungent odour. This made both Dousterswivel and his pupil cough and sneeze heartily, and by and by, the vapour mounting upward, it found out Lovel and Edie in their high watch-tower, making them also sneeze loudly in their turn.

"Was that an echo? Or are there others present in this place?" cried the baronet, astonished at the sound.

"No, no," said the German, who had so long employed himself with magic that he had grown half to believe in it, "no -- at least, I hope not!"

Here a complete fit of sneezing, together with a kind of hollow grunting cough from Edie Ochiltree, so alarmed the wizard that he would have fled at once, had not Sir Arthur prevented him by force.

"You juggling villain," cried the baronet, whom impending ruin made desperate, "this is some trick of yours to get off fulfilling your bargain. Show me the treasure you have promised, or by the faith of a ruined man, I will send you where you will see spirits enough!"

"Consider, my honoured patron," said the now thoroughly frightened treasure-seeker, "this is not the best treatment. And then the demons -- "

Dousterswivel flung himself on his knees.

'Dear Sir Arthurs,' he cried, 'let us go -- or at least let me go!'

'No, you cheating scoundrel,' cried the knight, unsheathing his sword, 'that shift shall not serve you. I will see the treasure before I leave this place -- or I will run my sword through you as an impostor, though all the spirits of the dead should rise around us!'"]

At this moment Edie Ochiltree, entering fully into the spirit of the scene, gave vent to a prolonged and melancholy howl.

Dousterswivel flung himself on his knees.

"Dear Sir Arthurs," he cried, "let us go -- or at least let me go!"

"No, you cheating scoundrel," cried the knight, unsheathing his sword, "that shift shall not serve you. I will see the treasure before I leave this place -- or I will run my sword through you as an impostor, though all the spirits of the dead should rise around us!"

"For the love of Heaven, be patient, mine honoured patron," said the German, "you shall have all the treasure I knows of -- you shall, indeed! But do not speak about the spirits. It makes them angry!"

Muttering exorcisms and incantations all the while, Dousterswivel proceeded to a flat stone in the corner, which bore on its surface the carved likeness of an armed warrior.

He muttered to Sir Arthur: "Mine patrons, it is here! God save us all!"

Together they managed to heave up the stone, and then Dousterswivel with a mattock and shovel proceeded to dig. He had not thrown out many spadefuls, when something was heard to ring on the ground with the sound of falling metal. Then the treasure-seeker, snatching up the object which his mattock had thrown out, exclaimed: "On mine dear word, mine patrons, this is all. I mean all that we can do to-night!"

"Let me see it," said Sir Arthur, sternly, "I will be satisfied -- I will judge with my own eyes!"

He held the object up in the light of the lantern. It was a small case of irregular shape, which, from the joyful exclamation of the baronet, seemed to be filled with coin.

"Ah!" said Sir Arthur; "this is good luck, indeed. This is a beginning. We will try again at the very next change of the moon. That six hundred pounds I owe to Goldieword would be ruin indeed unless I can find something to meet it. But this puts new hope into me!"

But now Dousterswivel was more than ever eager to be gone, and he hurried Sir Arthur away with his treasure, having only taken time to thrust back the earth and replace the tombstone roughly in its place, so as to leave no very obvious traces of the midnight search for treasure.


III. Misticot's Grave

The hour of going to meet the boat was now approaching, and Edie conducted Lovel by a solitary path through the woods to the sea-shore. There in the first level beams of the rising sun, they saw the little gun-brig riding at anchor in the offing. Taffril himself met his friend, and eased Lovel's mind considerably by telling him that Captain MacIntyre's wound, though doubtful, was far from desperate, and that he trusted a short cruise would cover all the consequences of his unfortunate encounter.

Lovel offered gold to the beggar, but Edie once more refused it, declaring that he thought all the folk had "gone clean daft."

"I have had more gold offered to me these last two or three weeks," he said, "than I have seen in all my life before. Na, na, take back your guineas, and for luck let me have but one lily-white shilling!"

The boat put off toward the lieutenant's brig, impelled by six stout rowers. Lovel saw the old beggar wave his blue bonnet to him, before turning slowly about as if to resume his customary wanderings from farm to farm, and from village to village.

*    *    *    *    *

So excellently well did Captain MacIntyre progress toward recovery that in a little while the Antiquary declared it clean impossible for him to get a single bite of breakfast, or have his wig made decent, or a slice of unburnt toast to eat -- all because his womenfolk were in constant attendance upon the wounded Captain, whose guns and spaniels filled the house, and for whom even the faithful Caxon ran messages, while his own master waited for him in his chamber, fuming and stamping the while.

But as his sister often said, and as all who knew him, knew -- "Monkbarns's bark was muckle waur than his bite."

But an unexpected visit from Sir Arthur soon gave the Antiquary other matters to think about. The Baronet came, so he said, to ask his old friend's advice about the disposal of a sum of money. The Antiquary drew from a right-hand corner of his desk a red-covered book, of which Sir Arthur hated the very sight, and suggested that if he had money to dispose of, it might be as well to begin by clearing off encumbrances, of which the debt marked in his own red book accounted for no less than eleven hundred and thirteen pounds. But Sir Arthur put away the red book as if Monkbarns had offered him so much physic, and hastened to say that if the Antiquary would wait a few days, he would have the sum in full -- that is, if he would take it in bullion.

The Antiquary inquired from what Eldorado this treasure was forthcoming.

"Not far from here," said Sir Arthur, confidently, "and now I think of it, you shall see the whole process in working, on one small condition."

"And what is that?" inquired the Antiquary.

"That it will be necessary to give me your friendly assistance, by advancing the small sum of one hundred pounds."

The Antiquary, who had been rejoicing in the hope of getting both principal and interest of a debt which he had long thought desperate, could only gasp out the words, "Advance one hundred pounds!"

"Yes, my good sir," said Sir Arthur, "but upon the best possible security of having it repaid in the course of a few days."

To this the Antiquary said nothing. He had heard the like before from Sir Arthur's lips. So the Baronet went on to explain. "Mr. Dousterswivel having discovered -- "

But the Antiquary would not listen. His eyes sparkled with indignation. "Sir Arthur," he said, "I have so often warned you against that rascally quack, that I wonder you quote him to me!"

But this time Sir Arthur had something to show for his faith in the expert. He placed a large ram's horn with a copper cover in his friend's hand. It contained Scottish, English, and foreign coins of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Most were silver but some were of gold, and, as even the Antiquary allowed, of exceeding rarity.

"These," said the Baronet, "were found at midnight, at the last full moon, in the ruins of St. Ruth's Priory, in the course of an experiment of which I was myself the witness."

"Indeed," said Oldbuck, "and what means of discovery did you employ?"

"Only a simple suffumigation," said the Baronet, "accompanied by availing ourselves of a suitable planetary hour."

"Simple suffumigation! Simple nonsensification! Planetary hour -- planetary fiddlestick! My dear Sir Arthur, the fellow has made a gull of you under ground, and now he would make a gull of you above ground!"

"Well, Mr. Oldbuck," said the Baronet, "I am obliged to you for your opinion of my discernment, but you will at least give me credit for seeing what I say I saw!"

"I will give you credit for saying that you saw what you thought you saw!"

"Well, then," said the Baronet, "as there is a heaven above us, Mr. Oldbuck, I saw with my own eyes these coins dug out of the chancel of St. Ruth's at midnight! And if I had not been there, I doubt if Dousterswivel would have had the courage to go through with it!"

The Antiquary inquired how much the discovery had cost.

"Only ten guineas," said the Baronet, "but this time it is to cost a hundred and fifty pounds, but of course the results will be in proportion. Fifty I have already given him, and the other hundred I thought you might be able to assist me with."

The Antiquary mused.

"This cannot be meant as a parting blow," he said; "it is not of consequence enough. He will probably let you win this game also, as sharpers do with raw gamesters. Sir Arthur, will you permit me to speak to Dousterswivel? I think I can recover the treasure for you without making any advance of money."

Dousterswivel had on his part no desire to see the Laird of Monkbarns. He was more in fear of him than even of the spirits of the night. Still he could not refuse, when summoned to leave Sir Arthur's carriage and face the two gentlemen in the study at Monkbarns.

The Antiquary then and there told him that he and Sir Arthur proposed to trench the whole area of the chancel of St. Ruth, in plain daylight, with good substantial pickaxes and shovels, and so, without further expense, ascertain for themselves the truth as to the existence of this hidden treasure.

"Bah," said the German, "you will not find one copper thimble. But it is as Sir Arthur likes -- once I have showed him the real method. If he likes to try others, he only loses the gold and the silver, that is all!"

The journey to the Priory was made in silence, each of the party having enough on his mind to employ his thoughts. Edie Ochiltree joined them at the ruins, and when the Antiquary pulled out of his pocket the ram's horn in which the coins had been found, Edie claimed it at once for a snuff-box of his which he had bartered with a miner at Mr. Dousterswivel's excavations in Glen Withershins.

"And that brings it very near a certain friend of ours," said the Antiquary to Sir Arthur. "I trust we shall be as successful to-day without having to pay for it."

It was decided to begin operations at the tomb with the carven figure on top -- the same which Sir Arthur and Dousterswivel had disturbed on a former occasion, but which neither the Antiquary nor Edie ever remembered to have seen before. It appeared, however, that a large pile of rubbish, which had formerly filled up the corner of the ruins, must have been dispersed in order to bring it to light.

But the diggers reached the bottom of the grave, without finding either treasure or coffin.

"Some cleverer chield has been before us," said one of the men.

But Edie pushed them impatiently aside, and leaping into the grave, he cried, "Ye are good seekers, but bad finders!"

For the first stroke of his pike-staff into the bottom of the pit hit upon something hard and resisting.

All now crowded around. The labourers resumed their task with good-will, and soon a broad surface of wood was laid bare, and a heavy chest was raised to the surface, the lid of which, being forced with a pickaxe, displayed, beneath coarse canvas bags and under a quantity of oakum, a large number of ingots of solid silver.

The Antiquary inspected them one by one, always expecting that the lower layers would prove to be less valuable. But he was at last obliged to admit that the Baronet had really and truly possessed himself of treasure to the amount of about one thousand pounds.

It chanced that Edie Ochiltree had observed Dousterswivel stand somewhat disconsolate and sad, looking into the open grave. Age had not dulled Edie's wit, nor caused him to relish less a boyish prank. His quick eye had caught some writing on the lid of the box of treasure, and while all were admiring the solid ingots of precious metal laid bare before them, Edie kicked the piece of wood aside without being observed by any one.

Then, with all due caution, he whispered to Dousterswivel that there must certainly be more and better treasure yet to be brought to light in the place where the silver had been found, and that if he would wait only a little behind the others he would show him proof of it. When they were alone he showed him on the lid of the treasure-chest the words, written in black letter:

"=Search -- Number One="

Dousterswivel at once agreed to meet Edie at midnight within the ruins of the Priory, and he kept his word. It was a stormy night, great clouds being hurried across the face of the moon, and the woods were bending and moaning in the fierce blast. Edie marched up and down while he waited for the German, shouldering his pike-staff, and dreaming that he was back again on the outposts with a dozen hostile riflemen hidden in front of him.

After a little, Dousterswivel arrived, having brought with him a horse and saddle-bags in which to carry away the expected treasure. Edie led him once more to the place of the former search -- to the grave of the Armed Knight. On the way he told his companion the tale of that Malcolm Misticot whose treasure was supposed to have been found and rifled that day.

"There is a story that the Misticot walks," said Edie; "it's an awesome nicht and an uncanny to be meeting the like of him here. Besides he might not be best pleased to come upon us when we were trying to lift his treasure!"

"For the love of Heaven," said Dousterswivel, "say nothing at all, either about somebodies or nobodies!"

Edie leaped into the grave and began to strike; but he soon tired or pretended to tire. So he called out to the German that turn and turn about was fair play. Whereupon, fired with the desire for wealth, Dousterswivel began to strike and shovel the earth with all his might, while Edie encouraged him, standing very much at his ease by the side of the hole.

"At it again," he cried; "strike -- strike! What for are ye stopping, man?"

"Stopping," cried the German, angrily, looking out of the grave at his tormentor; "I am down at the bed-rock, I tell you!"

"And that's the likeliest place of any," said Edie; "it will just be a big broad stone laid down to cover the treasure. Ah, that's it! There was a Wallace stroke indeed! It's broken! Hurrah, boys, there goes Ringan's pickaxe! It's a shame o' the Fairport folk to sell such frail gear. Try the shovel; at it again, Maister Dousterdeevil!"

But this time the German, without replying, leaped out of the pit, and shouted in a voice that trembled with anger, "Does you know, Mr. Edie Ochiltree, who it is you are putting off your gibes and your jests upon? You base old person, I will cleave your skull-piece with this shovels!"

"Ay," said Edie, "and where do ye think my pike-staff would be a' the time?"

But Dousterswivel, growing more and more furious, heaved up the broken pickaxe to smite his tormentor dead -- which, indeed, he might have done had not Edie, suddenly pointing with his hand, exclaimed in a stern voice, "Do ye think that heaven and earth will suffer ye to murder an auld man that gate -- a man that might be your father? Look behind you, man!"

Dousterswivel turned, and beheld, to his utter astonishment, a tall dark figure standing close behind him. Whether this was the angry Misticot or not, the newcomer certainly lifted a sturdy staff and laid it across the rascal's back, bestowing on him half-a-dozen strokes so severe that he fell to the ground, where he lay some minutes half unconscious with pain and terror.

When the German came to himself, he was lying close to Misticot's open grave on the soft earth which had been thrown out. He began to turn his mind to projects of revenge. It must, he thought, be either Monkbarns or Sir Arthur who had done this, in order to be revenged upon him. And his mind finally deciding upon the latter, as most likely to have set Edie Ochiltree on to deceive him, he determined from that moment to achieve the ruin of his "dear and honoured patron" of the last five years.

As he left the precincts of the ruined Priory, he continued his vows of vengeance against Edie and all associated with him. He had, he declared aloud, been assaulted and murdered, besides being robbed of fifty pounds as well. He would, on the very next day, put the law in motion "against all the peoples" -- but against Edie Ochiltree first of all.


A Quite Superfluous Interlude

The snow was now deep in the woods about the library. It lay sleek and drifted upon the paths, a broad-flaked, mortar-like snow, evidently produced on the borderland between thawing and freezing.

"It is fine and buttery," said Hugh John, with a glance of intention at Sir Toady Lion, which was equal to any challenge ever sent from Douglas to Percy -- or even that which Mr. Lesley carried for Hector MacIntyre to Mr. Lovel's Fairport lodgings.

Sir Toady nodded with fierce willingness. He scented the battle from afar.

"Ten yards then, twenty snowballs made before you begin, and then go as you please. But no rushing in, before first volley!"

"And no holding the balls under the drip of the kitchen roof!" said Hugh John, who had suffered from certain Toady Lionish practices which personally he scorned.

"Well, then," said I, "out you go in your jerseys for one hot half-hour. But no standing about, mind!"

Sweetheart and Maid Margaret looked exceedingly wistful.

"Of course," I said, "Sweetheart will want to go on with her knitting, but if she likes, the Maid can watch them from the window."

"Oo-oh!" said Maid Margaret, "I should like to go too!"

"And I should not mind going either," admitted Sweetheart, "just to see that they did not hurt the Maid. They are such rough boys!"

So it was arranged, as I had known it would be from the first. The snow was still falling, but the wind had gone down. There was to be no standing still, and afterward they were to change immediately for dinner. These were the conditions of permitted civil strife.

"Please, is rolling in the snow permitted?" said Hugh John, to whom this was a condition of importance.

"Why, yes," said I, "that is, if you catch the enemy out of his intrenchments."

"Um-m-m-m!" said Hugh John, grimly rubbing his hands, "I'll catch him." In a lower tone he added, "And I'll teach him to put snowballs in the drip!"

As he spoke, he mimicked the motions of one who shoves snow down inside the collar of his adversary.

The cover of a deal box, with a soap advertisement on it, made a very fair intrenching tool, and soon formidable snow-works could be seen rising rapidly on the slopes of the clothes' drying ground, making a semicircle about that corner which contained the big iron swing, erect on its two tall posts. Hugh John and Maid Margaret, the attacking party, were still invisible, probably concocting a plan. But Sweetheart and Sir Toady, laughing and jesting as at some supreme stratagem, were busily employed throwing up the snow till it was nearly breast-high. The formation of the ground was in their favour. It fell away rapidly on all sides, except to the north, where the position was made impregnable by a huge prickly hedge.

Nominally they were supposed to be enacting The Antiquary, but actually I could not see that the scene without bore any precise relation to what they had been hearing within. Perhaps, however, the day was too cold and stormy for standing upon the exactitudes of history.

I did not remain all the time a spectator of the fray. The stated duel of twenty balls was over before I again reached the window. The combatants had entered upon the go-as-you-please stage. Indeed, I could gather so much even at my desk, by the confusion of yells and slogans emitted by the contending parties.

Presently the cry of "It's not fair!" brought me to the window.

Hugh John and Maid Margaret had evidently gained a certain preliminary success. For they had been able to reach a position from which (with long poles used at other times for the protection of the strawberry beds) they were enabled, under shelter themselves, to shake the branches of the big tree which overshadowed the swing and the position of the enemy. Every twig and branch was, of course, laden with snow, and masses fell in rapid succession upon the heads of the defenders. This was annoying at first, but at a word from Sir Toady, Sweetheart and he seized their intrenching tools, calling out: "Thank you -- thank you! It's helping us so much! We've been wanting that badly! All our snow was gone, and we had to make balls off the ramparts. But now it's all right. Thank you -- thank you!"

The truth of this grew so evident that the baffled assailants retired to consult. Nothing better than a frontal attack, well sustained and driven home to the hilt, occurred to Hugh John; and, indeed, after all, that was the best thing that could happen on such a day. A yell, a charge, a quick batter of snowballs, and then a rush straight up the bank -- Maid Margaret, lithe as a deer-hound, leading, her skirts kilted "as like a boy" as on the spur of the moment she could achieve with a piece of twine. Right on Sweetheart she rushed, who, -- as in some sort her senior and legal protector, -- of course, could not be very rough with her, nor yet use the methods customary and licensed between embattled brothers.

But while the Maid thus held Sweetheart in play, Hugh John developed his stratagem. Leaning over the ramparts he seized Sir Toady by the collar, and then, throwing himself backward down the slope, confident in the thick blanketing of snow underneath, he dragged Sir Toady Lion along with him.

"A prisoner -- a prisoner!" he cried, both of them, captor and captive alike, being involved in a misty flurry of snow, which boiled up from the snowbank, in the midst of which they fraternally embraced, in that intimate tangle of legs and arms which only boys can achieve without breaking bones.

"Back -- come back!" rang out the order of the victorious Hugh John. "Sit on him -- sit on him hard!"

Thus, and not otherwise, was Sir Toady captured and Sweetheart left alone in the shattered intrenchments, which a little before had seemed so impregnable. Now in these snow wars, and, indeed, in all the combattings of the redoubtable four, it was the rule that a captive belonged to the side which took him, from the very moment of his giving in. He must utterly renounce his former allegiance, and fight for his new party as fiercely as formerly he had done against them. This is the only way of decently prolonging strife when the combatants are well matched, but various prejudices stand in the way of applying it to international conflicts.

In this fashion was Sweetheart left alone in the fort which she and Sir Toady had constructed with such complete confidence. She did not, however, show the least fear, being a young lady of a singularly composed mind. On the other hand, she set herself to repair the various breaches in the walls, and so far as might be to contract them, so that she would have less space to defend. Then she sat sedately down on the swing and rocked herself to and fro to keep warm, till the storm should break on her devoted head.

It broke! With unanimous yell, an army, formidable by being exactly three times her own numbers, rushed across the level space, waving flags and shouting in all the stern and headlong glory of the charge. Snowballs were discharged at the bottom of the glacis, the slope was climbed, and the enemy arrived almost at the very walls, before Sweetheart made a motion. There was something uncanny about it. She did not even dodge the balls. For one thing they were very badly aimed, and her chief safety was in sitting still. They were, you see, aiming at her.

It soon became evident, however, that the works must be stormed. Still Sweetheart had made no motion to resist, except that, still seated on the broad board of the swing, she had gradually pushed herself back as far as she could go without losing her foothold on the ground.

"She's afraid! -- She is retreating! On -- on!"

No, Hugh John, for once your military genius has been at fault. For at the very moment when the snowy walls were being scaled, Sweetheart suddenly lifted her feet from the ground. The swing, pushed back to the limit of its chains, glided smoothly forward. One solidly shod boot-sole took Hugh John full on the chest. Another "plunked" Sir Toady in a locality which he held yet more tender, especially, as now, before dinner. Both warriors shot backward as if discharged from a petard, disappearing from view down the slope into the big drifts at the foot. Maid Margaret, who had not been touched at all, but who had stood (as it were) in the very middle of affairs, uttered one terrified yell and bolted.

"Time!" cried the umpire, appearing in the doorway.

The baffled champions entered first. While changing, they had got ready at least twenty complete explanations of their downfall. Sweetheart, coming in a little late, sat down to her sewing, and listened placidly with a faint, sweet, far-away smile which seemed to say that knitting, though an occupation despised by boys, does not wholly obscure the intellect. But she did not say a word.

Her brothers somehow found this attitude excessively provoking.

*    *    *    *    *

Thus exercised in mind and body, and presently also fortified by the mid-day meal, the company declared its kind readiness to hear the rest of The Antiquary. It was not Rob Roy, of course -- but a snowy day brought with it certain compensations. So to the crackle of the wood fire and the click and shift of the knitting needles, I began the final tale from The Antiquary.



The Third Tale From "The Antiquary"


I. The Earl's Secret

ON the seashore not far from the mansion-house of Monkbarns stood the little fisherman's cottage of Saunders Mucklebackit. Saunders it was who had rigged the mast, by which Sir Arthur and his daughter were pulled to the top of the cliffs on the night of the storm. His wife came every day to the door of Monkbarns to sell fish to Miss Griselda, the Antiquary's sister, when the pair of them would stand by the hour "skirling and flyting beneath his window like so many seamaws," as Oldbuck himself said.

Besides Steenie Mucklebackit, the eldest son, the same who had assisted Edie Ochiltree to bestow a well-deserved chastisement upon Dousterswivel, and a number of merry half-naked urchins, the family included the grandmother, Elspeth Mucklebackit -- a woman old, but not infirm, whose understanding appeared at most times to be asleep, but the stony terror of whose countenance often frightened the bairns more than their mother's shrill tongue and ready palm.

Elspeth seldom spoke. Indeed, she had done little for many years except twirl the distaff in her corner by the fire. Few cared to have much to do with her. She was thought to be "far from canny," and certainly she knew more about the great family of Glenallan than it was safe to speak aloud.

It chanced on the very night when Edie and Steenie had given a skinful of sore bones to the German impostor Dousterswivel, that the Countess of Glenallan, mother of the Earl, was brought to be buried at midnight among the ruins of St. Ruth.

Such had been the custom of the family from ancient times -- indeed, ever since the Great Earl fell fighting at the Red Harlaw against Donald of the Isles. More recently there had been another reason for such a strange fashion of burial. For the family were Catholics, and there had long been laws in Scotland against the holding of popish ceremonials even on an occasion so solemn.

The news of the death of her ancient mistress, coming at last to the ears of old Elspeth, took such hold upon her, that she could not rest till she had sent off Edie Ochiltree to the Earl of Glenallan, at Glenallan House, with a ring for a token and the message that Elspeth of the Craigburnfoot must see him before she died. She had, Edie was to say, a secret on her soul, without revealing which she could not hope to die in peace.

Accordingly Edie set off for the castle of Glenallan, taking the ring with him, but with very little hope of finding his way into the Earl's presence; for Lord Glenallan had been long completely withdrawn from the world. His mother was Countess in her own right, and so long as she lived, her son had been wholly dependent upon her. In addition to which some great sorrow or some great crime, the countryside was not sure which, pressed sore upon his mind, and being a strict Catholic he passed his time in penance and prayer.

However, by the help of an old soldier, one Francie Macraw, who had been his rear-rank man at Fontenoy, Edie Ochiltree was able after many delays to win a way to the Earl's presence -- though the priests who were about his person evidently tried to keep everything connected with the outer world from his knowledge. The Earl, a tall, haggard, gloomy man, whose age seemed twice what it really was, stood holding the token ring in his hand. At first he took Edie for a father of his own church, and demanded if any further penance were necessary to atone for his sin. But as soon as Edie declared his message, at the very first mention of the name of Elspeth of the Craigburnfoot, the Earl's cheek became even more deathlike than it had been at Edie's entrance.

"Ah," he said, "that name is indeed written on the darkest page of a terrible history. But what can the woman want with me? Is she dead or living?"

"She is living in the body," said Edie, "and at times her mind lives too -- but she is an awfu' woman."

"She always was so," said the Earl, answering almost unconsciously. "She was different from other women -- likest, perhaps, to her who is no more -- "

Edie knew that he meant his own mother, so lately dead.

"She wishes to see me," continued the Earl; "she shall be gratified, though the meeting will be a pleasure to neither of us."

Lord Glenallan gave Edie a handful of guineas, which, contrary to his usage, Edie had not the courage to refuse. The Earl's tone was too absolute.

Then, as an intimation that the interview was at an end, Lord Glenallan called his servant.

"See this old man safe," he said; "let no one ask him any questions. And you, my friend, be gone, and forget the road that leads to my house!"

"That would indeed be difficult," said the undaunted Edie, "since your lordship has given me such good cause to remember it."

Lord Glenallan stared, as if hardly comprehending the old man's boldness in daring to bandy words with him. Then, without answering, he made him another signal to depart by a simple movement of his hand, which Edie, awed far beyond his wont, instantly obeyed.


II. The Mother's Vengeance

The day of Lord Glenallan's visit to the cottage where dwelt old Elspeth of the Craigburnfoot seemed at first ill timed. That very day Steenie Mucklebackit, the young, the gallant, the handsome eldest son of the house had been carried to his grave. He had been drowned while at the fishing, though his father had risked his life in vain to save him. The family had now returned home, and were sitting alone in the first benumbing shock of their grief.

It was some time before the Earl could make good his entrance into the cottage. It was still longer before he could convince the old woman Elspeth that he was really Lord Glenallan, and so obtain an opportunity of speaking with her. But at last they were left alone in the cottage, and the thick veil which had fallen upon Elspeth's spirit seemed for a while to be drawn aside. She spoke like one of an education far superior to her position, clearly and calmly, even when recounting the most terrible events.

Her very first words recalled to the Earl the fair young wife, whom he had married long ago, against his mother's will and without her knowledge.

"Name not her name," he cried, in agony, "all that is dead to me -- dead long ago!"

"I MUST!" said the old woman; "it is of her I have to speak."

And in the fewest and simplest words she told him how, when his mother the Countess had found means to separate husband and wife, while he himself was fleeing half mad, none knew whither, the young wife had thrown herself in a fit of frenzy over the cliffs into the sea. It was to Elspeth's cottage that she and her babe had been brought.

"And here," said the terrible old woman, suddenly thrusting a golden bodkin into his hand, "is the very dagger which your mother the Countess gave me in order that with it I might slay your infant son."

The Earl looked at the gold bodkin or dagger, as if in fancy he saw the blood of his child still red upon it.

"Wretch!" he cried; "and had you the heart?"

"I kenna whether I would or not," said Elspeth. "My mistress commanded and I obeyed. So did I ever. But my obedience was not to be tried that time. For when I returned, the babe had gone. Your younger brother had been called up to the castle. The child had been left in the care of the Countess's Spanish maid, and when I returned to my cottage, both she and the babe were gone. The dead body of your young wife alone remained. And now," concluded Elspeth, abruptly, "can you forgive me?"

Lord Glenallan was going out of the hut, overwhelmed by the disclosure to which he had been listening. He saw his young wife hounded to death by his fierce and revengeful mother. He thought of the living child so wonderfully left to him as a legacy from the dead. Yet he turned at Elspeth's last words.

"May God forgive thee, miserable woman," he said. "Turn for mercy to Him. He will forgive you as sincerely as I do."

As Lord Glenallan went out into the sunlight, he met face to face with the Antiquary himself, who was on his way to the cottage to offer what consolation or help might be in his power. The Earl and he recognised one another, but the Antiquary's greeting was hard and cold. As a magistrate he had made, on his own responsibility and against all the power of the Glenallan family, the legal inquiries into the death of the Earl's young wife. Indeed, during a residence which she had made at Knockwinnock Castle with the Wardour family twenty years ago, and while she was still only known as Miss Eveline Neville, the Antiquary had loved her and had asked her to be his wife. It was, indeed, chiefly on her account that he had never married. Mr. Oldbuck had never ceased to mourn her, and now, believing as he had good reason to do, that the Earl was the cause of her untimely death, and of the stigma which rested upon her name, it was little wonder that he should wish to have no dealings with him.

But the Earl had a great need in his heart to speak to some one. In a moment the whole world seemed to have changed for him. For the first time he knew the truth about a dark deed of cruelty. For the first time, also, he knew that he had a son. He desired above all else the wise counsel of a true friend. In his heart he had admired the fearlessness of the Antiquary in the bold inquiry he had made at the time of Eveline Neville's death, and now, refusing to be rebuffed, he followed Mr. Oldbuck as he was turning away, and demanded that he should not deny him his counsel and assistance at a most terrible and critical moment.

It was not in the good Antiquary's nature to refuse such a request from Earl or beggar, and their interview ended in the Earl's accepting the hospitality of Monkbarns for the night, in order that they might have plenty of time to discuss the whole subject of Elspeth's communication.

On his own part Mr. Oldbuck had some comfort to give Lord Glenallan. He had kept the papers which concerned the inquiry carefully, and he was able to assure his lordship that his brother had carried off the babe with him, probably for the purpose of having it brought up and educated upon the English estates he had inherited from his father, and on which he had ever afterward lived.

"My brother," said Lord Glenallan, "is recently dead, which makes our search the more difficult. Furthermore, I am not his heir. He has left his property to a stranger, as indeed he had every right to do. But as the heir is like himself a Protestant, he may be unwilling to aid the inquiry -- "

"I trust," interrupted Mr. Oldbuck, with some feeling, "that you will find a Protestant can be as honest and honourable as a Catholic."

The Earl protested that he had no idea of supposing otherwise.

"Only," he continued, "there was an old steward on the estate who in all probability is the only man now living who knows the truth. But it is not expected that any man will willingly disinherit himself. For if I have a living son, my father's estates are entailed on him, and the steward may very likely stand by his master."

"I have a friend in Yorkshire," said Mr. Oldbuck, "to whom I can apply for information as to the character of your brother's heir, and also as to the disposition of his steward. That is all we can do at present. But take courage, my lord. I believe that your son is alive."

In the morning Lord Glenallan returned to the castle in his carriage, while Mr. Oldbuck, hearing from Hector that he was going down to Fairport, in order to see that old Edie Ochiltree had fair play before the magistrates, offered to bear him company.

Edie Ochiltree -- in prison for thwacking the ribs of Dousterswivel, which he had done (or at least poor Steenie Mucklebackit for him), and for stealing the German's fifty pounds, which he had not done -- willingly revealed to Monkbarns what he had refused to breathe to Bailie Littlejohn of the Fairport magistracy. After some delay Edie was accordingly liberated on the Antiquary's bail, and immediately accompanied his good friend to the cottage of old Elspeth Mucklebackit, where, by the Earl's request, Oldbuck was to take down a statement from her lips, such as might be produced in a court of law. But no single syllable would the old beldame now utter against her ancient mistress.

"Ha," she said, at the first question put to her by the Antiquary; "I thought it would come to this. It's only sitting silent when they question me. There's nae torture in our days, and if there was, let them rend me! It ill becomes a vassal's mouth to betray the bread which it has eaten."

Then they told her that her mistress, the Countess Jocelin, was dead, hoping this might bring her to confession. But the news had quite an opposite effect.

"Dead!" cried Elspeth, aroused as ever by the sound of her mistress's name, "then, if she be gone before, the servant must follow. All must ride when she is in the saddle. Bring my scarf and hood! Ye wadna hae me gang in the carriage with my lady, and my hair all abroad in this fashion!"

She raised her withered arms, and her hands seemed busied like those of a woman who puts on a cloak to go a journey.

"Call Miss Neville," she continued; "what do you mean by Lady Geraldin? I said Eveline Neville. There's no Lady Geraldin. But tell her to change her wet gown and not to look so pale. Bairn -- what should she do wi' a bairn? She has nane, I trow! Teresa -- Teresa -- my lady calls us! Bring a candle! The grand staircase is as black before me as a Yule midnight! Coming, my lady, we are coming!"

With these words, and as if following in the train of her mistress, old Elspeth, once of the Craigburnfoot, sunk back on the settle, and from thence sidelong to the floor.


III. The Heir Of Glenallan

Meanwhile doom was coming fast upon poor Sir Arthur Wardour. He seemed to be utterly ruined. The treachery of Dousterswivel, the pressing and extortionate demands of a firm called Goldiebirds, who held a claim over his estate, the time-serving of his own lawyers, at last brought the officers of the law down upon him. He found himself arrested for debt in his own house. He was about to be sent to prison, when Edie Ochiltree, who in his day had been deep in many plots, begged that he might be allowed to drive over to Tannanburgh, and promised that he would certainly bring back some good news from the post-office there.

It was all that Oldbuck, with his best tact and wisdom, could do to keep Hector MacIntyre from assaulting the officers of the law during the absence of Edie. Two long hours they waited. The carriage had already been ordered round to the door to convey Sir Arthur to prison. Miss Wardour was in agony, her father desperate with shame and grief, when Edie arrived triumphantly grasping a packet. He delivered it forthwith to the Antiquary. For Sir Arthur, knowing his own weakness, had put himself unreservedly into the hands of his abler friend. The packet, being opened, was found to contain a writ stopping the proceedings, a letter of apology from the lawyers who had been most troublesome, and a note from Captain Wardour, Sir Arthur's son, enclosing a thousand pounds for his father's immediate needs. It also declared that ere long he himself would come to the castle along with a distinguished officer, Major Neville, who had been appointed to report to the War Office concerning the state of the defences of the country.

"Thus," said the Antiquary, summing up the situation, "was the last siege of Knockwinnock House laid by Saunders Sweepclean, the bailiff, and raised by Edie Ochiltree, the King's Blue-Gown!"

There was, at the time when the story of the Antiquary and his doings draws to a close, a daily expectation of a French invasion. Beacons had been prepared on every hill and headland, and men were set to watch. One of these beacons had been intrusted to old Caxon the hairdresser, and one night he saw, directly in the line of the hill to the south which he was to watch, a flame start suddenly up. It was undoubtedly the token agreed upon to warn the country of the landing of the French.

He lighted his beacon accordingly. It threw up to the sky a long wavering train of light, startling the sea-fowl from their nests, and reddening the sea beneath the cliffs. Caxon's brother warders, equally zealous, caught and repeated the signal. The district was soon awake and alive with the tidings of invasion.

From far and near the Lowland burghers, the country lairds, the Highland chiefs and clans responded to the summons. They had been drilling for long, and now in the dead of the night they marched with speed upon Fairport, eager to defend that point of probable attack.

Last of all the Earl of Glenallan came in with a splendidly mounted squadron of horse, raised among his Lowland tenants, and five hundred Highland clansmen with their pipes playing stormily in the van. Presently also Captain Wardour arrived in a carriage drawn by four horses, bringing with him Major Neville, the distinguished officer appointed to the command of the district. The magistrates assembled at the door of their town-house to receive him. The volunteers, the yeomanry, the Glenallan clansmen -- all were there awaiting the great man.

What was the astonishment of the people of Fairport, and especially of the Antiquary, to see descend from the open door of the carriage, -- who but the quiet Mr. Lovel.

He had brought with him the news that the alarm of invasion was false. The beacon which Caxon had seen was only the burning of the mining machinery in Glen Withershins which had been ordered by Oldbuck and Sir Arthur to make a final end of Dousterswivel's plots and deceits.

But there was yet further and more interesting private news. The proofs that Lovel was indeed the son of the Earl of Glenallan were found to be overwhelming. His heirship to the title had been fully made out. The chaplain who had performed his father's wedding had returned from abroad, exiled by the French Revolution. The witnesses also had been found. Most decisive of all, among the papers of the Earl's late brother, there was discovered a duly authenticated account of his carrying off the child, and of how he had had him educated and pushed on in the army.

So that very night the Antiquary enjoyed in some degree the crowning pleasure of his whole life, in bringing together father and son for the first time. That is, if the marriage which took place soon after between his young friend Lovel (or Lord William Geraldin) and Miss Isabella Wardour of Knockwinnock Castle did not turn out to be a yet greater pleasure. Old Edie still travels from farm to farm, but mostly now confines himself to the short round between Monkbarns and Knockwinnock. It is reported, however, that he means soon to settle with old Caxon, who, since the marriage of his daughter to Lieutenant Taffril, has been given a cottage near the three wigs which he still keeps in order in the parish, -- the minister's, Sir Arthur's, and best of all, that of our good and well-beloved Antiquary.


The End Of The Last Tale From "The Antiquary."

*    *    *    *    *


"Now," said Sweetheart, nodding particular approval, "that is the way a story ought to end up -- everything going on from chapter to chapter, with no roundabouts, and everything told about everybody right to the very end!"

"Hum," said Hugh John, with a curl of his nose; "well, that's done with! But it was good about the Storm and the Duel! The rest was -- "

"Hush," said Sweetheart, "remember, it was written by Sir Walter."

"Sir," said I to Hugh John, heavily parental, "The Antiquary may not now be much to your taste, but the day will come when you may probably prefer it to all the rest put together."

At these words the young man assumed the expression common to boys who are bound to receive the wholesome advice of their elders, yet who do so with silent but respectful doubt, if not with actual disbelief.

"Well," he said, after a long pause, "anyway, the Duel was good. And I'd jolly well like to find a treasure in Misticot's grave. Can we have another snow fight?"

The End Of The First Series Of Red Cap Tales From The Treasure-Chest Of The Wizard Of The North.

<eob>

Children's Hour With Red Riding Hood And Other Stories

By

Watty Piper



Little Red Riding Hood


There was once a sweet little maid who lived with her father and mother in a pretty little cottage at the edge of the village. At the further end of the wood was another pretty cottage and in it lived her grandmother.

Everybody loved this little girl, her grandmother perhaps loved her most of all and gave her a great many pretty things. Once she gave her a red cloak with a hood which she always wore, so people called her Little Red Riding Hood.

One morning Little Red Riding Hood's mother said, "Put on your things and go to see your grandmother. She has been ill; take along this basket for her. I have put in it eggs, butter and cake, and other dainties."

It was a bright and sunny morning. Red Riding Hood was so happy that at first she wanted to dance through the wood. All around her grew pretty wild flowers which she loved so well and she stopped to pick a bunch for her grandmother.

Little Red Riding Hood wandered from her path and was stooping to pick a flower when from behind her a gruff voice said, "Good morning, Little Red Riding Hood." Little Red Riding Hood turned around and saw a great big wolf, but Little Red Riding Hood did not know what a wicked beast the wolf was, so she was not afraid.

"What have you in that basket, Little Red Riding Hood?"

"Eggs and butter and cake, Mr. Wolf."

"Where are you going with them, Little Red Riding Hood?"

"I am going to my grandmother, who is ill, Mr. Wolf."

"Where does your grandmother live, Little Red Riding Hood?"

"Along that path, past the wild rose bushes, then through the gate at the end of the wood, Mr. Wolf."

Then Mr. Wolf again said "Good morning" and set off, and Little Red Riding Hood again went in search of wild flowers.

At last he reached the porch covered with flowers and knocked at the door of the cottage.

"Who is there?" called the grandmother.

"Little Red Riding Hood," said the wicked wolf.

"Press the latch, open the door, and walk in," said the grandmother.

The wolf pressed the latch, and walked in where the grandmother lay in bed. He made one jump at her, but she jumped out of bed into a closet. Then the wolf put on the cap which she had dropped and crept under the bedclothes.

In a short while Little Red Riding Hood knocked at the door, and walked in, saying, "Good morning, Grandmother, I have brought you eggs, butter and cake, and here is a bunch of flowers I gathered in the wood." As she came nearer the bed she said, "What big ears you have, Grandmother."

"All the better to hear you with, my dear."

"What big eyes you have, Grandmother."

"All the better to see you with, my dear."

"But, Grandmother, what a big nose you have."

"All the better to smell with, my dear."

"But, Grandmother, what a big mouth you have."

"All the better to eat you up with, my dear," he said as he sprang at Little Red Riding Hood.

Just at that moment Little Red Riding Hood's father was passing the cottage and heard her scream. He rushed in and with his axe chopped off Mr. Wolf's head.

Everybody was happy that Little Red Riding Hood had escaped the wolf. Then Little Red Riding Hood's father carried her home and they lived happily ever after.



The Goose-Girl


There was once an old Queen who had a very beautiful daughter. The time came when the maiden was to go into a distant country to be married. The old Queen packed up everything suitable to a royal outfit.

She also sent a Waiting-woman with her. When the hour of departure came they bade each other a sorrowful farewell and set out for the bridegroom's country.

When they had ridden for a time the Princess became very thirsty, and said to the Waiting-woman, "Go down and fetch me some water in my cup from the stream. I must have something to drink."

"If you are thirsty," said the Waiting-woman, "dismount yourself, lie down by the water and drink. I don't choose to be your servant."

Being very thirsty, the Princess dismounted, and knelt by the flowing water.

Now, when she was about to mount her horse again, the Waiting-woman said, "By rights your horse belongs to me; this jade will do for you!"

The poor little Princess was obliged to give way. Then the Waiting-woman, in a harsh voice, ordered her to take off her royal robes, and to put on her own mean garments. Finally she forced her to swear that she would not tell a person at the Court what had taken place. Had she not taken the oath she would have been killed on the spot.

There was great rejoicing when they arrived at the castle. The Prince hurried towards them, and lifted the Waiting-woman from her horse, thinking she was his bride. She was led upstairs, but the real Princess had to stay below.

The old King looked out of the window and saw the delicate, pretty little creature standing in the courtyard; so he asked the bride about her companion.

"I picked her up on the way, and brought her with me for company. Give the girl something to do to keep her from idling."

The old King said, "I have a little lad who looks after the geese; she may help him."

The boy was called little Conrad, and the real bride was sent with him to look after the geese. When they reached the meadow, the Princess sat down on the grass and let down her hair, and when Conrad saw it he was so delighted that he wanted to pluck some out; but she said -- 

"Blow, blow, little breeze, And Conrad's hat seize. Let him join in the chase While away it is whirled, Till my tresses are curled And I rest in my place."

Then a strong wind sprang up, which blew away Conrad's hat right over the fields, and he had to run after it. When he came back her hair was all put up again.

When they got home Conrad went to the King and said, "I won't tend the geese with that maiden again."

"Why not?" asked the King.

Then Conrad went on to tell the King all that had happened in the field. The King ordered Conrad to go next day as usual and he followed into the field and hid behind a bush. He saw it happen just as Conrad had told him. Thereupon he went away unnoticed; and in the evening, when the Goose-girl came home, he asked her why she did all these things.

"That I may not tell you," she answered.

Then he said, "If you won't tell me, then tell the iron stove there;" and he went away.

She crept up to the stove and unburdened her heart to it. The King stood outside by the pipes of the stove and heard all she said. Then he came back, and caused royal robes to be put upon her, and her beauty was a marvel. Then he called his son and told him that he had a false bride, but that the true bride was here.

The Prince was charmed with her beauty and a great banquet was prepared. The bridegroom sat at the head of the table, with the Princess on one side and the Waiting-woman at the other; but she did not recognize the Princess.

When they had eaten, the King put a riddle to the Waiting-woman. "What does a person deserve that deceives his master?" telling the whole story.

The false bride answered, "He must be put into a barrel and dragged along by two white horses till he is dead."

"That is your doom," said the King, "and the judgment shall be carried out."

When the sentence was fulfilled, the young Prince married his true bride, and they lived together in peace and happiness.



Babes In The Wood


Once upon a time there lived two little children whose parents were ill unto death. They begged their brother to care for the two little ones as he would his own.

The uncle promised he would be a father to them, but he soon began to scheme to possess the money the parents had left in his care for the children. He sent for two robbers and bargained with them to take the two babes into the woods and kill them.

After going many miles into the woods one of the robbers said, "Let us not kill the little children, they never harmed us." The other robber would not consent, so they came to blows. This frightened the children so much that they ran away and did not see the robbers again.

They wandered on and on until they became so tired and hungry that at length they sat down at the foot of a tree and cried as if their hearts would break. The little birds heard them and began to trill sweet lullabies, which presently lulled them to rest.

The birdies knew that the children would die of cold and hunger, so they covered them with leaves of crimson and brown and green. They then told the angels in Heaven the sad story of the lost babes, and one of the white-robed angels flew down to earth and carried both the little ones back to Heaven, so that when they awoke they were no longer tired and hungry, but were again with their dear mother.



The Sleeping Beauty


Once upon a time there was a king and queen who for a very long time had no children, and when at length a little daughter was born to them they were so pleased that they gave a christening feast to which they invited a number of fairies. But, unfortunately, they left out one rather cross old fairy, and she was so angry that she said the princess should die when she reached the age of sixteen, by pricking her hand with a spindle.

All the other fairies present, except one, had already given the princess their beautiful gifts, and this last one said she could not prevent part of the wicked wish coming true; but her gift should be that the princess should not really die, but only fall into a deep sleep, which should last for a hundred years, and at the end of that time she should be awakened by a king's son.

It all happened as the fairies had predicted. When the princess was sixteen years old she saw an old woman spinning and took the spindle from her to try this strange new work. Instantly she pricked her hand and fell into a deep sleep, as did everyone else in the palace. There she lay in a bower of roses, year after year, and the hedge around the palace garden grew so tall and thick that at last you could not have told that there was a castle at all.

At the end of the hundred years a king's son heard of the castle and the enchanted princess who lay asleep there and determined to rescue her. So he cut his way through the thick prickly hedge and at length he came to the princess. When he saw how lovely and how sweet she looked he fell in love with her and, stooping, kissed her lips.

At once she awoke and with her the king and queen and all the courtiers, who had fallen asleep at the same time.

As the princess was as much taken with the prince's appearance as he was with hers, they decided to be married. And so the wedding was celebrated the same day with great pomp and ceremony.



Snowdrop And Seven Little Dwarfs


Once upon a time there was a little princess called Snowdrop, who had a cruel step-mother who was jealous of her. The Queen had a magic mirror, which could speak to her, and when she looked into it and asked who was the fairest lady in the land the mirror told her she was, for she was very beautiful; but as Snowdrop grew up she became still more lovely than her step-mother and the mirror did not fail to tell the Queen this.

So she ordered one of her huntsmen to take Snowdrop away and kill her; but he was too tender-hearted to do this and left the maiden in the wood and went home again. Snowdrop wandered about until she came to the house of seven little dwarfs, and they were so kind as to take her in and let her live with them. She used to make their seven little beds, and prepare the meals for the seven little men, and they were all quite happy until the Queen found out from her mirror that Snowdrop was alive still, for, as it always told the truth, it still told her Snowdrop was the fairest lady in the land.

She decided that Snowdrop must die, so she dyed her face and dressed up like an old pedlar, and in this disguise she went to the home of the seven Dwarfs and called out, "Laces for sale."

Snowdrop peeped out of the window and said, "Good-day, mother; what have you to sell?"

"Good laces, fine laces, laces of every color," and she held out one that was made of gay silk.

Snowdrop opened the door and bought the pretty lace.

"Child," said the old woman, "you are a sight, let me lace you properly for once."

Snowdrop placed herself before the old woman, who laced her so quickly and so tightly that she took away Snowdrop's breath and she fell down as though dead.

Not long after the seven dwarfs came home they found that she was laced too tight and cut the lace, whereupon Snowdrop began to breathe and soon came back to life again.

When the Queen got home and found by asking her mirror that Snowdrop was still alive, she planned to make an end of her for good, so she made a poisoned comb and disguised herself to look like a different old woman.

She journeyed to the dwarfs' home and induced Snowdrop to let her comb her hair. The minute she put the poisoned comb in her hair Snowdrop fell down as though dead.

When the seven dwarfs came home they found their poor Snowdrop on the floor, and suspecting the bad Queen began to look for the cause, soon finding the comb. No sooner had they removed it than Snowdrop came to life again.

Upon the Queen's return home she found by asking her mirror that Snowdrop still lived, so she disguised herself a third time and came to the dwarfs' little house and gave Snowdrop a poisoned apple. As soon as the little princess took a bite it stuck in her throat and choked her.

Oh! how grieved were the good little dwarfs. They made a fine glass coffin, and put Snowdrop into it and were carrying her away to bury her when they met a prince, who fell in love with the little dead maiden, and begged the dwarfs to give her to him.

The dwarfs were so sorry for him they consented, and the prince's servants were about to carry the coffin away when they stumbled and fell over the root of a tree. Snowdrop received such a violent jerk that the poisonous apple was jerked right out of her throat and she sat up alive and well again.

Of course she married the prince, and she, her husband and the good little dwarfs lived happily ever after, but the cruel step-mother came to a bad end, and no one was even sorry for her.

<eob>

Randy's Summer: A Story For Girls

By

Amy Brooks



Chapter I. Randy And The Fairy Tales


"Randy! Randy! where are you?" came in shrill, high-pitched tones from the kitchen.

The girl on the wooden seat just outside the door neither moved nor heeded, so engrossed in her book was she.

"Ran-dee!" This time there was a rising inflection on the last syllable. Slowly the girl's forefinger followed along the line which she was reading. A quick step across the kitchen, and a tall, angular woman appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her blue-checked apron.

"Why, Randy Weston! Here I've been callin' and callin' to you, and you're right here at the door and never heard at all, I'll warrant you. What's that you're readin'?"

"Oh, mother, I'm sorry I didn't hear you," said Randy, her face still aglow with the thought of the fascinating tale; "but the story was so wonderful that I never knew you called me."

"Must have been wonderful," said Mrs. Weston, smiling. "What sort of a book is it, and where did you get it?"

"Why, it's the one I told you I found in the field back of the barn," said Randy. "It's all about kings and queens, and princes and fairies, and goblins, and oh, it's just the most wonderful book you ever saw!"

"I hope it's a good book," said Mrs. Weston, doubtfully; "it sounds kind of outlandish, and I know one thing, I never have to call twice when I give you 'Pilgrim's Progress' or Fox's 'Book of Martyrs' to read."

"But, mother, just see the pictures! Here's the one that shows when the prince rode on the horse which was shod with golden shoes, and could run faster than the wind!"

That was too much for practical Mrs. Weston.

"Look here, Randy, that'll do! That shows what kind of a book it is. Who ever heard of shoeing a horse with gold! Land knows it costs enough to shoe them with iron; and as for running faster than the wind, why, anybody'd know better. You give me the book till I ask your father what he thinks of it. I'll put it up on the mantel, back of the clock, and show it to him to-night and see what he says."

As Mrs. Weston usually meant what she said, Randy was forced to submit; but she could not help thinking it a trial to have to do without the wonderful book until her father should have time to read it.

"Now," said Mrs. Weston, "come in and help me make these pies."

"Oh, yes," said the girl; while she thought, "What a change from the prince's castle to the hot kitchen and apple pies!" However, she was a thoughtful girl, and seeing a tired look on her mother's face, she took a big yellow dish on her lap, and grasping a knife began to pare apples as if her life depended upon it.

The first she pared rapidly and deftly, the next one took her a little longer, and the sixth she held in one hand while the knife lay idly in the other, as she gazed out of the window, wondering if the hot, sunny road which led to the village could be at all like the high-road over which the king's huntsmen returned to the castle.

"Randy Weston! I thought you was parin' apples! Bring the dish here and we'll finish them together. At that rate you wouldn't get them done in a month!"

Randy started. "Oh, dear! I meant to have peeled them in no time," said she.

"Well, never mind," said her mother; "we'll do them together, and then you can get out the things for me to make the crust with."

Soon the apples were pared, cored, and sliced, and away Randy hurried to the closet, getting the sifter, sugar-bucket and rolling pin, the spice box, and last of all, a lot of plates.

Running back to the closet she brought out the lard and began to grease the plates in furious haste, so determined was she to show her mother that she was really willing to be helpful. How she admired the deft manner in which her mother rolled out the crust, stretched it over the plate, and inserted her knuckles to make it fit the hollow of the dish.

Randy watched her as, balancing the crust-covered plate on her left hand, she swept the knife which she held in her right swiftly around the edge of the plate, trimming off the extra crust.

"I wish I could make pies as quick as you can," said the girl, "and have them turn out right every time, too."

Mrs. Weston smiled at the compliment so earnestly expressed.

"Mebbe you can, when you've made as many as I have," said she.

"Now get the broom, Randy, and sweep up the flour I spilled 'round the table and put the apple peels in the bucket, while I commence to wash up the cookin' dishes."

Randy got the broom and began to sweep vigorously. "I wonder," thought the girl, "if princesses have to bake pies, and wash dishes, and sweep hot kitchens." She could not remember of any mention being made of either pies or kitchens in the fairy tales which she had been reading, so she concluded that in those delightful days no such things existed.

"They must have had pies," she said to herself, "so p'r'aps they had somebody to bake for them, same's Mrs. Hodgkins has Sophrony Brown to help her about the housework.

"Sophrony Brown doesn't look 's if she belonged in a castle, even to stay in the kitchen, if it had one," thought Randy. "Her hair's red, and so are her hands, and they're awful big, too. Everybody in that splendid book was handsome, and they all had little white hands and tiny feet, too." Here she stopped and took a long survey of her own feet, encased in coarse, cowhide boots, with leather lacings.

"The shoes and slippers in the pictures," mused Randy, "have beautiful bows on the toes, and they have tiny little heels. I wonder how they ever managed to walk on them." So still she stood, looking down at her shoes, the broom held listlessly in her hand, that her mother turned to see where she had gone.

"Why, Randy Weston, what ails you? You've been mooning 'round all this morning. You do try to help me real good, and then, first thing I know, you're miles away thinkin' of something or other. I say, whatever ails you?"

"Nothing," said Randy, "I was only wondering about the fairy tales in the book."

"Well, more'n ever I think it can't be a good kind o' book to read, that makes a good, sensible girl so took up with it that she can't think of anything else."

"But if father says it's all right, I can read it, can't I?" said Randy.

"I suppose so," said the tired woman. "Now go and find Prue. Like enough she's into something by this time."

Little Prue had a positive talent for inventing mischief, and as Randy hastened to the door to call her, she remembered that the little sister had had at least an hour in which to play without supervision. "I do hope," said Randy, "that she hasn't torn her dress or lost her sunbonnet while I've been helping mother with the cooking. I'll call first, and if she don't answer, then I'll hunt for her." So, standing in the doorway, she called long and loudly.

Such a pretty picture Randy made, all the sweeter because she never dreamed that she possessed the beauty of which she read in the fairy book, and for which she so ardently longed.

The kitchen doorway was low, and up on one side grew scarlet runners, which over the top clasped tendrils with the morning glories as they clambered up the other side of the door-frame and half covered the kitchen window.

The cool wind from across the meadow fanned Randy's flushed cheeks, and tossed back some short brown ringlets from her forehead, for Randy's hair would curl, as she said, "spite of anything." She did her best with brush and comb to make it lie smoothly, but the short ends flew back every time, and curled and rippled in a manner which would have been the envy of many a city girl who was a slave to "curlers." Her hair was a soft, light brown, and her eyes were large and gray, bright and twinkling. She was quite tall for a girl of her age, just fifteen that summer, and she stood as "straight as a birch," her father said.

Her plain calico gown and coarse apron could not hide her trim figure; and, judging by her small, shapely hands, and slender fingers, one would say that with dainty boots instead of cowhides, her feet would be as shapely as her hands. But Randy had never thought much about beauty or personal adornment until the finding of the wonderful fairy book. She had been dressed like the other children in that little country town, and had never seen a fashion book or a stylishly dressed person in her life. Mrs. Weston had taught her children to think that to be neat and clean was to be well dressed, and certainly Randy and Prue were always dressed in clean gowns and aprons, and stiff-starched sunbonnets. Yes, Randy was more than pretty. Would she one day know it?

Long and patient calling brought no answering shout from little Prue, so Randy snatched her sunbonnet from its peg on the wall, and started in search of her. She looked in every place, both possible and impossible, and she laughed as she thought of the funny scrapes the little sister had gotten into. She thought of the day on which their aunt, Miss Prudence Weston, had come to visit them, bringing three bags and as many bundles, although she was to stay but a week.

She had always lived in a little town in one of the Western states, and as that week's stay was her first visit to her brother's home, she was really a stranger to Randy and Prue. The children had known only that little Prue was her namesake, and that she was a person well-nigh perfect.

"Your Aunt Prudence never did that," was a remark so frequently addressed to little Prue that that lively, mischievous little being conceived a great dislike for so perfect a person; and, although she dared not say so to either father or mother, she confessed it freely to Randy when at night they lay in their little bed in the chamber under the eaves.

"I think it would be just horrid to live in this house if Aunt Prudence lived here too, don't you, Randy?" said little Prue in a loud whisper. "You're good, Randy, and you know I love you, but you can be naughty and Aunt Prudence can't, that's the difference."

"Oh, hush!" Randy had said. "I most think it's naughty not to like her. We don't know but may be she's real nice if we knew her."

"Don't want to," whispered Prue, "don't want to, ever. If she staid here I'd-I mean I'd-" but the tired little sister had gone fast asleep and left Randy to wonder just what she would have done.

Immediately upon her arrival Miss Prudence had removed her wraps, and had at once taken out her knitting from a voluminous pocket, saying to the two staring children, as she peered at them over her glasses, "It's not right to waste time," and as soon as they had made their escape to the kitchen, naughty little Prue had said, "Randy Weston! If keeping busy would make me look like that, I'd just do nothing forever and ever."

Funny little Prue! Aunt Prudence's sharp eyes behind her spectacles, her "false front," and tall, angular figure, had strengthened the child's preconceived dislike. Then that day before their aunt had bidden adieu to the Weston farm, Randy had caught Prue perched upon a chair, which made her just high enough to see herself in the glass. On her head was Miss Prudence's best cap, on her saucy little nose the big, old-fashioned spectacles, over which she peered at herself, saying, in imitation of her aunt, "I never waste time, no, not a single minute."

Randy had escaped to the barn where, on the hay, she had laughed until she was tired; all the time feeling guilty, for she knew that, funny as the sight had been, Prue had been very naughty. Prue was a little captive in the house that afternoon, a great trial for her, and at night her father had talked with her and told her that she must always be kind to every one, especially to old people, and Prue had promised, at the same time saying that, "if Aunt Prudence was always good, it was easier for grown-up people to be good."

Around the house and barn, down by the well, and, lastly, into the barn went Randy, calling, "Prue! Prue! where are you?"

"Here!" called a little voice.

"Where?" shouted Randy.

"Up here!" came the answer, which appeared to come from the loft.

Up the ladder went Randy, and, once at the top, she espied a funny little figure sitting on the hay. "Why, Prue," said Randy, "what are you doing up here? Why didn't you come when I called?"

"I couldn't," said Prue; "I'm helping mother, and I've got to stay. Mother said you could help her make pies, so I came up here and I'm sitting on some eggs. The old hen's left them, and mother said they'd just got to be set on."

"Oh, Prue!" said Randy, "you'd ought to know better. If you've smashed them, won't you be a sight?"

"I ain't smashed them," said the child; but upon Randy's insisting, she rose from the nest, only to show that not an egg remained whole, as her pink calico dress plainly showed.

"Well, I never got into such scrapes," said Randy, for once out of patience.

"Now, Randy," said Prue, "don't you talk that way; that's just like Aunt Prudence;" and that silenced Randy completely.

Randy's first thought was a longing to shield Prue, but she knew that her mother wished them always to come to her at once when any mischief had been done, so, a forlorn little procession of two, they walked toward the house.



Chapter II. At The Brook


The next morning dawned bright and fair. Randy awoke and rubbed her eyes. "I believe there was something that made me uncomfortable yesterday. Wonder what it was?" thought she. "Don't see what it could have been," mused the girl, half awake. "I helped mother with the baking and swept the kitchen for her, because I knew I ought to, instead of reading that fairy book. Then I hunted for Prue.-Oh, that's it! mother had to scold her, and that always makes me feel just awful.

"She was naughty, and seems 's if she might know better than to get into such queer scrapes, though she isn't much more than a baby."

Here Randy turned over and looked at her little sister, who was still fast asleep. "How pretty she looks!" said Randy, half aloud. The sleeping child stirred, and thrust one chubby arm and hand under her short curls. She drew a long breath, which was half a sigh, her eyelids quivered, opened, closed, then opened wide, and she stared at Randy, who, leaning upon her elbow, was gazing at little Prue.

"Oh, Randy! what are you looking at and thinking of?" said Prue, half laughing.

"I was just thinking," said Randy, "that when you're asleep you don't look as if you could ever be naughty."

Prue stopped laughing, and, putting her arm around her sister's neck, she said, "Oh, Randy! I never mean to, and 'most always when I'm naughty it's when I'm trying to help. Don't you know that time when I dropped the platter and broke it all to smash? Mother put down the towel she was wiping it with to look in the oven to see if the bread was burning. I thought I'd s'prise you and mother, and show you I'd wiped the big platter nice and dry. Just a minute before, mother said it was too big for me to handle, and that just made me want to."

"I know it," said Randy, "I know you mean to be good, and I do believe you can't help doing funny things, you best little sister in all the world," and she kissed Prue, laughing at her at the same time. "Now, do be good to-day, and, if you don't do a naughty thing before dinner, I'll do something splendid. I'll have to help mother this morning, and do a lot of things. Then, of course, I'll wipe the dinner dishes, and after that you and I will go down to that shady place by the brook, and I'll tell you some of the stories I read in that book I found."

"Oh, will you?" said Prue, "can you 'member them?"

"Yes, some of them; I can't remember all of them yet," said Randy.

"Why don't you take the book and read them?" said Prue.

"Because," said Randy, "father's got to look it over and see if it's a good book first, mother says."

"Why isn't he 'fraid to read it, if p'r'aps, it isn't good?" said the child, with such a funny expression on her face that Randy, who really did not know how to answer such a question, laughed, and said she thought it must be time to dress.

Up sprang little Prue, and out upon the floor. "You dress me first," said she. So Randy put on the little one's shoes and stockings, then, piece by piece, her other little garments, all the time silently admiring the round, dimpled arms, the roguish eyes, and tangle of short curls, and the sweet little mouth, honestly believing that no girl in all the world had so dear a little sister. Just as Randy turned to button the little dress, Prue uttered a joyous cry, and darted over to the window.

"Oh, come quick, quick!" she called. "See the butterfly almost coming in our window." And sure enough, when Randy reached the window, there he was, a gorgeous fellow, with bright, golden wings, swinging up and down over a fresh rose-colored morning-glory.

"Oh!" cried Prue, "isn't it the handsomest butterfly you ever saw?"

"Yes, and look at the dewdrops on the pink morning-glory," said imaginative Randy; "I wonder if the necklace that the fairy queen wore looked as bright as that? In the picture in the book it looks just like strings and strings of beads."

"I liked the beads and her dress, with a long train to it; but in the picture she didn't have a nice face 't all," said Prue, the young critic.

"Oh, but she was bea-utiful," said Randy. "She must have been, the story said so," but just here Randy's raptures over the heroine of the fairy tale were cut short by a loud call of "Randy! Randy! Prue! it's time to come downstairs!"

So Randy hurried on her own clothing, and Prue amused herself while waiting by counting the buttons on Randy's best gingham dress as it hung on the first hook in the closet, and this is the way she half said and half sung it:-

"Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, doctor, lawyer,-Randy, what's a lawyer? Your last button is a lawyer."

"I don't know," said Randy; "ask father;" but when they had reached the lowest stair and entered the kitchen Prue had forgotten her question and asked another.

"Father," she cried, "have you read the book yet? Are you going to let Randy read it? the fairy book, I mean?"

"Two questions in one," said Mr. Weston, laughing. "Why, yes, I guess I'll have to let her read it, if she wants to," said he.

"Going to let Randy read those outlandish tales?" said Mrs. Weston coming out of the closet with a pie in her hand, which she placed upon the table. "Why there wasn't a word of truth in them."

"I know it," said her husband, smiling, "but I didn't see anything wrong about them, and the yarns that are in the book are so big that no sensible girl, like our Randy, would s'pose she was expected to believe them a minute. I looked it over last night after I'd thought over that piece of medder land of Jason Meade's that he wants to swap for my little pasture, and cal-lated 'bout what the bargain was worth. I just took down that fairy book from behind the clock, and I thought I'd just look it over to see if it was all right for Randy and Prue, and, if you'd believe me, 'fore I knew it, I was 'most as interested as the children was. As you say, there ain't any sense in it, but it reads kinder fine, I must say."

Mrs. Weston laughed, and said that she was willing enough to let them have it if the book was all right.

"Right enough," rejoined her husband, "only kind of foolish," and smiling at the children's eager faces he said kindly, "Read it if you like, only don't let it make you forget to help mother, Randy."

Randy and Prue started for the Brook

"Randy don't often forget that," said Mrs. Weston, at which unwonted bit of praise, Randy flushed with delight.

Mrs. Weston was a hard-working woman who loved her husband and children dearly, but so busy was she, that she forgot to say the encouraging word, or give the bit of praise, justly won, which seems a reward to the husband for his care and toil, and to the child for "being good."

When the hot forenoon's work was done, and the dinner dishes put away, Randy and Prue started for the brook, Randy carrying the wonderful book very carefully, and little Prue skipping along beside her. Across the fields, behind the barn, into a bit of woodland went the children, and there they found the brook, calm and placid in one place, rippling and chattering in another. "Hark! hear it talk," said Randy, but practical little Prue said, "It only says 'wobble, wobble, wobble,' as it goes over the stones, and I don't call that talking."

"Well, I do," said Randy, "and I always wonder what it says."

"How'll you find out?" said Prue.

"Oh, Prue!" said Randy, "what makes you ask questions that nobody could answer?"

"But somebody could," said the child; "if it really says anything, somebody, somewhere, would know what it means, now wouldn't they, Randy?"

"I do believe there is some one who could understand it." Randy spoke so earnestly that Prue stopped throwing pebbles at the water-spiders and throwing her arms around Randy, she said, "Oh, Randy! don't look that way. When your eyes get big, and you just think and think, it makes me lonesome. Do begin to read the fairy stories."

So Randy roused herself from her dream about the brook, and sat down, with Prue close beside her, on a rough plank which spanned the tiny stream. There, with the book upon her lap, and one arm around her little sister, she read the tales of wonder and enchantment, while the sunlight, sifting through the leaves, touched her hair and made a halo around the sweet face. Parts of the stories were too much for little Prue to understand, but such of them as her small brain could take in delighted her.

Randy read very well, although she had had but little schooling, and her delight in the splendor which the stories described gave added expression to her reading, and delighted little Prue exclaimed, "Oh, Randy, you make it seem as if it was true!"

Randy laughed, well pleased with the compliment, and continued reading: "'And as soon as she heard the witch's voice, she unbound her tresses.'"

"What's 'tresses'?" interrupted Prue.

"Why, hair," explained Randy.

"Then, why didn't they say 'hair'?" said the child.

"Tresses sounds nicer," answered Randy.

"I don't know," said Prue, doubtfully.

"Well, I do," said Randy. "If my hair was long, I'd enough rather have it called tresses."

"I'll call it tresses," said obliging little Prue, "even if it isn't very long. Now, go on, Randy."

So Randy continued: "'She unbound her tresses, and they fell down twenty ells, and the witch mounted up by them.'"

"Oh, my, my!" interrupted Prue, "your hair's longer'n that!"

"Longer than what?" said the astonished Randy.

"Twenty ells," said Prue. "When you showed me the other day how to print a L, it wasn't very big. Would twenty of 'em be so very much? Your hair is most down to your waist, when I stretch the ends out so they don't curl."

"O you funny child!" said Randy, half laughing, half impatient. "It doesn't mean that kind of ell. What's the use of reading the stories? You ask so many questions, I don't believe you half hear them."

"Oh, I do truly want to hear the stories, and if you'll only read, I won't ask a question, 'less it's something I can't make out."

Again Randy found the place, and for some time the story went on without interruption. Once they paused to see the picture of the lovely girl in the tower, then Randy went on:-

"'The king's son wished to ascend to her, and looked for a door in the tower, but he could not find one. So he rode home, but the song which she had sung had touched his heart so much that he went every day to the forest and listened to it. As he thus stood one day behind a tree, he saw the witch come up and heard her call out:-

"'Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let down your hair.'

"'Then Rapunzel let down her tresses, and the witch mounted up.'"

"Oh, Randy!" cried Prue, excitedly, "why, didn't it 'most pull her head off?"

Randy laughed. "O Prue, Prue!" she said, "I do believe you think of the funniest questions to ask."

"But, Randy, do you b'lieve it didn't pull like everything?" And Prue's eyes were round with wonder.

"Oh!" said Randy, "don't you know that father said we wouldn't be expected to believe the stories, only just enjoy them?" But the little girl looked bewildered; so, closing the book, Randy sought other means to amuse her. "Let's play this is a beautiful bridge, this plank we're sitting on, and this brook, a great big river," said Randy, "and we're princesses waiting for a prince to come and save us-I mean rescue us," she corrected.

Again little Prue showed her lack of imagination. "Save us from what?" said she.

"Oh, dragons that live in this big, roaring river."

"It don't roar much," said Prue, doubtfully; "but," she added, "we can play it does."

Thus encouraged, Randy went on, giving her fancy full play. "And that pretty green branch overhead, with sun on the leaves, that's an arch of flowers such as the princess rode under in another story."

That was too much for Prue. "But, Randy!" she exclaimed, "there isn't a blossom on it. If we were princesses, Randy, I could love you just the same, couldn't I?" questioned Prue, looking up at her sister with eager eyes.

"Of course you could," said Randy, giving Prue a hug, who thus assured began to hum a little tune, swinging her legs to keep time with her singing. They made a pretty picture, Randy with her arm still about the little sister, Prue nestling as close as possible to Randy, and in the brook below a reflection showing the two children. Randy was looking off as if for the coming of the prince, while little Prue, becoming drowsy, laid her head against her sister.

Suddenly Prue started: "S'pose that's the prince?" said she, as a low, merry whistle sounded through the woods. Randy looked toward the opening, then her laugh rang out. "Oh, Prue," said she, "it's 'Bijah Bowstock, the deacon's hired man, going after the cows. Just look at him!" she added. And Prue looked.

Little enough like the prince in the fairy book looked he! An old straw hat upon the back of his head, a blue "jumper," and a pair of overalls tucked into his boots, completed his costume. He did not see Randy and Prue as he passed through the woods to a path far beyond the brook, whisking off the blossoms with his switch as he went along.

"His clothes wasn't the kind the prince wore in the picture, was they, Randy?" said Prue, when 'Bijah was out of sight. "In the picture in the fairy book they wear such long, long stockings way over their knees, and hats with feathers in them, and everything," said Prue, intending thus to supply all the details of costume which she might possibly have omitted.

Randy made no answer. Little Prue felt as many a grown person does, that the clothes made the man; but Randy, thoughtful Randy, felt that, given all the fine raiment, 'Bijah never could have even looked the prince.

Little Prue edged her way along the plank on which they sat, and at last succeeded in slipping off from the end of the board down to the edge of the brook. There she found bits of bark which she freighted with moss, and then floated them down the tiny stream.

The little crafts, aided by a gentle push, floated out into a placid little pool just under Randy's feet. For an instant they paused, wavered, then turning about they flew over the miniature rapids, made there by three small stones below the surface, then sailed around a bend in the brook and disappeared behind a clump of brakes growing at the foot of an alder.

Sometimes the tiny boats foundered, and the passengers were tipped out into the stream, but little Prue found other bits of bark for the boats and gaily loaded them with moss for more passengers.

"Look, Randy! Look!" screamed Prue, "there's a fine new boat just under your feet. The gray moss is mens, and the moss with the red tops is womens. The red is their bonnets. Randy, Randy! why don't you hear me when I'm close to you?"

Randy shook herself and sat upright, laughing. "I did hear you," she said, "only I didn't think to answer. I guess I was dreaming."

"Well, don't dream in the daytime!" said Prue; "I've sent lots and lots of pretty boats down the stream, and I kept telling you to look, and now I don't believe you've seen one of them."

"Oh, yes, I have," said Randy, "only I was so busy thinking that I didn't say anything about them. Come, we'll sail a few boats together, and then I guess we'd better go home."

Prue was delighted, and to reward Randy for agreeing to play with her, she hunted with all her might for finer pieces of bark and choicer bits of moss, and gay indeed was the little fleet with its red-capped crew and passengers. Prue wandered off to find even finer mosses, and Randy was trying to capture a big water-spider for a passenger for a piece of birch bark, when Prue came rushing down the path, crying, "Look, Randy! Look! Here's old Mr. Plimpkins to sail in one of our boats."

In her surprise Randy let the water-spider escape, and, turning about, saw Prue quite alone, running toward her, laughing and holding out something which she had in her hand.

"Prue Weston! what do you mean?" said Randy.

Old Mr. Plimpkins was a farmer who lived at the outskirts of the town, but Prue had seen him at church, and she thought him the funniest man she had ever seen.

He was nearly as broad as he was tall. Winter and summer, he habitually wore very broad-brimmed hats, and he walked with a comical waddle, because his legs were completely bowed. As if to attract attention to these members, they were always encased in light, snuff-colored trousers, while about his neck, hot weather or cold, was always wrapped an immense red plaid cotton handkerchief.

As Prue came along, she handed out to Randy the object which she called Mr. Plimpkins, and, sure enough, clutched tightly in the little hot hand, was a bit of twig on which two stems bowed together until they nearly touched. On it, for a broad-brimmed hat, she had stuck a round green leaf.

"Oh, I think it must be naughty to laugh about him, even if he is funny," said Randy.

"But doesn't it look like him?" persisted Prue, "besides, you're laughing, Randy, only not out loud."

Indeed, Randy was laughing, so, without attempting to reprove the little sister, she placed the bit of birch, which represented the old farmer, on the bark, and watched Prue as she floated it down the stream. Then, turning toward home, they walked along the path which led to the entrance to the wood.

Prue sang all the way, and, seeing her happiness, Randy, sweet Randy, felt rewarded for the afternoon given up to her little sister's amusement; but she felt that the reading of the fairy tales was not a success. Clearly, the stories were beyond little Prue; for, at the supper table, when there was a pause in the conversation, she described the afternoon and Randy's reading, much to Randy's surprise and her father's amusement.

"Oh, father!" she exclaimed, "we've been down to the brook, sailing boats, an' Randy read me the beautifulest story! The girl's name was-I've forgotten what, but her hair comed down to the ground, and the prince clumb up on it, and 'most pulled her head off, and the tower was so small the old witch couldn't live in it, and she cut her hair off, and that's all I can think of, 'cept the girl sang all the time, and the prince could hear her, and we sat on the plank and waited for the prince to come."

All this she said in one breath. Her father laughed heartily at her manner of telling the story, but Mrs. Weston said, "What on airth does the child mean?" while Randy decided to read the stories to herself, thereafter, and amuse Prue in another way.



Chapter III. Randy At Church


"Come, Randy, come! It wants a quarter to ten, an' you'd better hurry."

"Yes, mother, I'm coming," said Randy, pleasantly, and with redoubled energy she reached for the middle button of her dress waist, which was fastened at the back. This button was just too high for her left hand to reach up to, and almost too low for her right hand to reach down to, but at last she succeeded in crowding the refractory little button into its buttonhole, and, flushed with the struggle, she stood before the tiny looking-glass brushing a stray curling lock from her temple. The glass was a poor one, and Randy's reflection appeared to be making a most unpleasant grimace at the real girl standing there. When she lifted her chin, a flaw in the glass made one eye appear much larger than the other, and when she bent her head, you would never have believed that the little nose in the glass was a reproduction of Randy's, so singular was its contour. Truly, with such mirrors as the farm-house afforded, Randy stood little chance of becoming vain.

"Come, Randy!" Randy started, took one more look at the stiff gingham dress, then hastened down the stairs. At the door stood Mrs. Weston, impatiently waiting for her, while little Prue patted the old cat and told her that she "mustn't be lonesome while they were all at church."

Into the wagon they climbed, and away they started to the church. Their progress was slow, for the old horse was far from a "racer" at any time, and on Sunday Mr. Weston felt it to be wrong to more than walk the horse; yet, even with such slow locomotion, they did at last reach the church, and the old horse was duly ensconced in the carriage-shed to dream away the forenoon.

The Westons had arrived a bit early, and Randy amused herself surveying the few parishioners who had already come. In that country town the neighbors were few and far between. The Westons' nearest neighbor was about a mile and a half distant, and so on Sundays it was quite a treat to see so many people.

There were the Babson girls just a few pews in front of Randy. Randy thought Belinda Babson very pretty, mainly because of her fine yellow braids of straight hair. These braids lay down Belinda's broad back, falling quite below her waist.

Her sister Jemima's braids were even thicker and longer; but then, Randy reflected, Jemima's braids were red.

There was Jotham Potts, whose black eyes always espied Randy at church or school, but whose regard she did not at all value. True, on one hot Sunday when Randy had found it well-nigh impossible to keep awake, Jotham had reached over the top of the pew and dropped some big peppermints in her lap. His intention was good, and Randy blushed and was delighted, although her pleasure was partly spoiled by a snicker from Phoebe Small, who longed to win Jotham's admiration, but thus far had failed to gain it. Randy had inspected every boy and girl in the church and was just watching a big blue fly that was circling around a web in the angle of the window, when a slight stir among the occupants of the other pews caused Randy to look around and become delighted with a sweet vision. With Farmer Gray and his wife came a number of ladies and gentlemen; summer boarders who were to be at the Gray homestead a number of weeks; but to Randy's eyes, the young lady who took a seat next to Mrs. Gray seemed a dream of beauty. She wore a simple white muslin and a very large hat trimmed with daisies, but to the little country maid the city girl's costume was nothing short of magnificent.

It had always been Randy's delight when the choir arose to sing, to watch Miss Dobbs, the little woman who sang soprano, as she drew herself up to her full height in a vain attempt to catch a glimpse of the page of the hymn book, the other half of which was held by Silas Barnes, the phenomenally tall tenor. Equally amusing was the tall, thin woman who sang "second," standing beside her cousin, John Hobson, who sang bass with all his might. He was short, fat, and very dark, and his musical efforts, which were mighty, caused a scowl upon his usually jovial countenance, and a deal of perspiration as well.

But to-day when the choir arose, Randy had no eyes for any one but the Grays' lovely boarder, and she almost held her breath as she wondered if the girl would sing.

The tall tenor touched his tuning fork, the choir sounded the chord, then choir and congregation joined in singing the old missionary hymn, "From Greenland's Icy Mountains," and round and full rang out the sweet contralto voice of the tall, fair girl in white.

Randy was spellbound. She had never admired that hymn, but to-day it sounded sweeter than anything she had ever heard. Little Prue looked at the singer with round eyes, and as they sat down she clutched Randy's skirts and in a loud whisper said, "Oh, Randy, do you s'pose she is the fairy princess?"

"Oh, hush!" said Randy, alarmed lest the young girl should hear the child.

Did she hear her? She sat in the pew just in front of the Westons', and when Prue whispered her eager question, a faint suggestion of a smile hovered about the lovely mouth, and a bright twinkle glimmered for an instant in her beautiful eyes.

Just then Parson Spooner arose, gave out the text, and commenced one of his long sermons. He was a good man, with a kindly word and smile for every one, and all of his people were devoutly fond of him. The people liked him, and he always had a pleasant chat with every child whom he met, and most of them thought that he was "lots" nicer on week-days than on Sundays. On week-days he talked with the boy whom he chanced to meet with his fishing-rod over his shoulder, and laughingly wished him good luck. Or, if it happened that the small owner of a home-made kite could not make it fly, the genial parson had been known to tie a new bob (usually a few weeds tied together) to the tail of the refractory kite, and off it would sail to the delight of the small boy and his clerical friend.

But on Sundays, his sermons, delivered in a drowsy sing-song, tried the patience of his small parishioners. Prue and Randy settled down as if for a long day of it, and Randy resolved that, however long the sermon might be, she would not get sleepy; whereupon, she stretched her eyes to their fullest extent, and stared at nothing so persistently, that Prue became uneasy, and whispered, "What's the matter, Randy? you look so queer!"

"Nothing," said Randy. "I just mean to keep my eyes open, that's all."

"They are open, just monstrous!" said Prue, at which Randy could not help laughing. As the little girl was not aware that she had said anything that was at all funny, she thought Randy's amusement quite out of place, and sat quietly for a few moments, in injured silence.

Randy tried very hard to attend to the sermon, but in spite of good intentions, her mind wandered from Parson Spooner's flushed face, as he proceeded to make his meaning clear by loud vocal efforts, and to enforce his meaning by many thumps of his fat fist upon the pulpit cushion.

Mrs. Brimblecom sat over by the window, slowly waving a palm-leaf fan to and fro, and occasionally nudging her husband, to keep him awake. In front of her, sat Joel Simpkins, his sandy hair brushed so carefully that not one hair was awry, and just across the aisle, Janie Clifton sat, in all the glory of a new pink calico. Janie's black curls were very pretty, and she knew it; and her bright, black eyes had been pointedly praised in an alleged poem, which had appeared in the county paper a few weeks before. It was entitled the "Black-eyed Coquette," and Janie felt sure that Joel had written it, in which case, its boldly expressed flattery could have been meant for none other than herself. Accordingly, she shook her curls, and occasionally looked at Joel, in a manner which Randy considered shockingly bold, and she wondered if, at eighteen, she could act like that. She decided that she could never be so bold, not even if the object of her admiration looked like a prince.

She thought, too, that Joel was very ordinary; then she looked again at the girl in the daisy-trimmed hat and white muslin gown, and fell to wondering how fine and handsome a prince would have to be to gain her favor.

"Probably there isn't any one in these parts that would please her," thought Randy. "'Tisn't only her clothes," mused she, "it's something else that makes her different from the folks around here."

All this time Prue had been unusually still, and Randy looked to see if she was asleep. The little girl was very wide awake, and sat staring at the large hat in front of her, her lips moving as if she were counting. Prue's manner of counting was something unique, and as Randy bent her head to listen, she could hardly help laughing, for this is what she heard:-

"One, two, four, five, two, six, ten, nine, two,-oh, Randy, there's more daisies on her hat than I can count. Are they truly daisies? If they are, why don't they wilt?"

"Hush-sh-sh," said Randy. "Keep still and watch that big bumble bee that's just come in the window."

Prue counts the Daisies on Miss Dayton's Hat

"Hear him bum," said Prue, thus making Randy laugh again. She felt very wicked, laughing in church, and knew that her father would not approve; but how could she help laughing, for while she watched the bee, and wondered where he would fly next, little Prue watched him, too, all the time softly imitating his monotonous tune by saying under her breath, "bum, bum, bum."

The heat increased, and Prue looked out of the window at the green branches moving in the breeze, and longed to be out there, too. At last the bee tired of the church and flew out of the window, and just as Randy was thinking that she could not bear the heat, Parson Spooner's sermon came to an end. He had become entangled in his own eloquence; and seeing no way to extricate himself, or make his meaning clear, he abruptly closed his sermon and suggested singing the Doxology.

After the service Mrs. Gray stopped to talk with Mrs. Weston, and then, to the mingled delight and embarrassment of Randy and Prue, the beautiful stranger turned, and, stooping, spoke to the little girl.

"How very good you have been," said she, "to sit still this long, hot morning. Do you know I had some candy in my pocket which I longed to share with you, but I didn't like to turn quite around, as I should have had to, to give it to you. Let me give it to you now, and you and your sister can enjoy it during the long ride home. See!" And from a pretty chatelaine bag which hung from her belt, she took a small box of bonbons. "If I give you this, will you give me a kiss?" And she stooped and placed the gift in Prue's eager little hands.

For an instant the child hesitated; then shyly she lifted her face, and as the young girl stooped to take the kiss, Prue's pudgy little arm went around her neck.

Then, turning to Randy, she extended her hand in its dainty glove, saying, "I have seen you and your sister many times when I have strolled past your home, and once, when you were standing near the tall clump of sunflowers, watching the bees, I was tempted to stop and chat with you awhile."

"Oh, I wish you had," said Randy, so eagerly, that the girl laughed merrily, saying, "Well, the next time I am out for a walk and am going up the long hill, I will make you a little call."

Just at that moment Mrs. Weston's friendly chat with her neighbor came to an end, and with her usual hasty manner she hurried the two children out of the church and into the old wagon. Mr. Weston gathered up the reins, and with a loud "g'lang" and a few jerks, the old horse seemed to awaken from his forenoon's nap in the carriage-shed and ambled a few steps, then subsided into the habitual jog.

"Look, mother, just see what she gave me," said Prue, swinging the tiny package of bonbons before her mother's eyes.

"What is it?" said her mother; "who gave it to you?"

"The princess," said Prue, as plainly as she could, considering the size of the bonbon which she was eating. Mrs. Weston looked puzzled, and Randy, helping herself to a bit of the candy, explained:-

"It was that beautiful, tall girl with Mrs. Gray. She gave Prue the candy for being good and keeping still this morning, and she's coming to see me soon's ever she takes a walk past our house, and isn't she the handsomest person that ever lived?"

"Wal', I don't know as I noticed," said Mrs. Weston.

"Why, how could you help seeing her?" said Randy, in amazement.

"Wal', I s'pose I did see her, but I didn't 'specially notice her, 'cept that she was talkin' to you children, for Mrs. Gray was tellin' me a new way to make cookies with two eggs instead of four, and I made her tell me twice so's I'd remember; two eggs is quite a savin'." But this new bit of economy was lost on Randy.

"Did Mrs. Gray tell you her name?" asked Randy, eagerly.

"Seems to me she said it was Dayton, or something like that, but I was so took up with that two-egg rule for cookies that I didn't notice." So, failing to interest her mother, Randy subsided.



Chapter IV. Prue's Mishap


Down the long, dusty road trudged Randy and Prue one hot morning on their way to the village store.

At every step the dust arose like smoke, then settled upon their shoes, making a thick coating like that which whitened the blackberry vines growing luxuriantly over the wall by the roadside.

Randy was far from pleased to be taking this long walk in the dust and heat. She had been sitting upon the rough, wooden seat just outside the kitchen door, reading the beloved fairy book, when her mother had stepped briskly to the doorway, calling her back from fairyland abruptly, saying: "Come, Randy, you must go down to the store after some sugar. I've got my cookies 'bout half done and my sugar's given out, so you must put on your sunbonnet and take Prue, and go as quick as you can. Ye needn't run, only don't waste time."

"Oh, mother," said Randy, "it'll take me twice as long if I have to take Prue, she's so little, and she walks so slow."

"I know it," said Mrs. Weston, "but I've got lots to do while you're gone, and I can't watch her and work at the same time; so you take her 'long o' you, and I'll know she's all right."

Randy took her sunbonnet from its peg on the wall and called little Prue, who was playing in the sun. The child's delight when told that she might go to the store with Randy made the elder girl regret that she had demurred when told that she must take her little sister with her.

Prue laughed with delight, and, thrusting her little sunburned hand into Randy's, she trudged along, scuffling her feet and laughing to see the dust rise in little gray clouds.

At any other time Randy would have checked Prue, but that day her mind was too much occupied with the heroine of the fairy tale to notice Prue's movements or comment upon them; but Prue was getting tired of walking in silence, while Randy indulged herself in day-dreams.

"Why don't you talk, Randy? You haven't talked any since we started," said Prue.

"Oh, it's too hot to talk," answered Randy, and she once more relapsed into silence.

Prue dropped Randy's hand, and, leaving the road, she clambered upon the wall to hunt among the dusty vines for blackberries. There were more leaves than fruit, so the little girl, after finding a few small berries, walked along upon the wall until she came to another lot of vines, where she again searched for fruit.

While Prue looked for berries Randy was critically inspecting her own and her little sister's costume. How ugly they looked! The girl who, up to that time, had never seen any one arrayed in anything more beautiful than a print or gingham gown, varied by a long apron of blue-checked cotton, or a dark, chocolate-colored calico, now looked with startling dislike upon that style of apparel.

"Only think," mused Randy, "if we wore white dresses and fine shoes, and big hats, 'twouldn't seem near as hot doing errands. Seems as though we could sit still in meeting if we had on different clothes and-why, Prue, what's the matter?" cried Randy, in answer to a doleful wail from the little sister.

"Oh, my foot, my foot!" screamed Prue; "it hurts drefful, and I can't get it out."

"Let me see," said Randy. "Hold still a minute; I can get it out, Prue," which, however, proved to be easier said than done. While walking upon the wall the little foot had slipped between the stones and seemed firmly fixed.

Randy worked gently and patiently, and at last the little foot was out of prison. Prue insisted upon having her shoe and stocking taken off, saying that her foot felt "awful big," and sure enough it had become a trifle swollen. Randy tried in every way to soothe her, assuring her that it was but a short walk to the store, but Prue wailed dismally.

"Oh, I can't walk, Randy, my foot aches just drefful, and I can't have any shoes on, 'cause my foot has grown big."

Randy blamed herself for the mishap. "I ought to have been taking care of Prue instead of thinking of fine clothes," thought Randy. "It ought to have been me that got hurt instead of little Prue. 'Twould have served me right for being real silly, almost vain, I do believe." And thus she berated herself.

Poor, repentant Randy! Careless she had been, but surely not wicked. She was utterly at a loss to know what to do. "Don't you think you could walk slowly, Prue, if I put my hands under your arms to help you?" she asked coaxingly.

"Randy, how can I walk when this foot is most twice as big as my other foot?" said Prue.

Randy thought a moment. Then she said: "There's only one thing to do, Prue. You can look right down the road and see the store from here. You sit still where you are, and I'll run and get the sugar; it won't take but a few minutes, and when I get back I'll carry you home in my arms. You can hold the sugar and I'll carry you."

Prue tried bravely to stop crying, and although she declared that her foot felt "worser," she promised to be patient until Randy should return. The store was in the front part of a farm-house but a short distance from where the two sat upon the wall, and Randy rushed off down the road and in at the open door, in such evident haste that Silas Barnes looked at the girl in amazement.

"In a kind of hurry, ain't ye?" said he, as in his usual deliberate manner he weighed the sugar.

"Yes, oh, yes," answered Randy, as she almost snatched the bundle and darted out of the door and ran up the road to where Prue sat upon the wall, a most disconsolate little heap, trying very hard to be brave, but sobbing in spite of all endeavor.

"Now, you carry the sugar-just think what a sweet bundle-and I'll take you. My arms are real strong, so I believe I can carry you easily."

Prue hugged the parcel, and taking her little sister in her arms Randy stepped out bravely toward home. It seemed to her that she could not remember such intense heat as she that day experienced. They had taken off their sunbonnets as they sat upon the wall, and in their haste they had started for home, leaving them where they had dropped them, so that their heads were unprotected from the scorching rays of the sun, which was now directly overhead.

Randy carrying Prue in her Arms

Many times Randy was obliged to set Prue upon the wall, just long enough to rest her aching arms; then taking her again, she bravely trudged on toward home.

Just as she concluded that her arms would surely break, she heard the sound of wheels behind her, and looking over her shoulder she saw Obadiah Gray's old mare, Clover, jogging along and in the wagon the beautiful young girl whom she had so much admired at church.

"There's that pretty girl whom I saw in church last Sunday," thought Helen Dayton. "How much prettier she looks without that ugly sunbonnet. Why, she has her little sister in her arms, and the little one is crying. I'll stop and speak to them." Old Clover, always delighted to stop, came to a standstill, and Randy looked up shyly at Helen's beautiful face.

"Are you not tired?" said Miss Dayton. "I see that you are carrying your little sister." Then, as she noticed the swollen foot, she said: "Oh, how did she hurt her foot? Do let me take you home."

Randy was only too glad to accept the invitation so sweetly given; so Prue was gently lifted to a place beside Miss Dayton, and then Randy clambered in, not only thankful for the ride, but positively charmed to be with the lovely driver.

"Now, tell me," said Helen, "how your little sister injured her foot." So Randy told her the whole story, and blamed herself more than she deserved. "If I hadn't been wishing that I had a big, beautiful hat like"-but here Randy stopped abruptly, as she noticed, for the first time, that Miss Dayton was wearing the very hat and dress which so filled her mind that morning.

"What was the hat like? Anything like the one I am wearing this morning?" asked Helen, sweetly.

"Well, yes, just like it," admitted Randy, blushing.

"Did you so much admire my hat?" said Helen. "Well, who knows but that on some fine day you may have one quite like it."

When, at last, they had reached Randy's home, both Prue and Randy had become quite well acquainted with their new friend.

Mr. Weston had just come in from the field, in answer to a blast from the dinner horn, and was as anxious as his wife when told that the children had been gone two hours and a half. "I guess I'll have to harness up and go down to the store and see if they're-sakes alive! Here they be now, with that 'stonishing pretty boarder of Obadiah Gray's," and Mr. Weston hastened down the walk to thank the young lady for her kindness.

"I'm much 'bleeged to ye for bringing the children home; mother and I was getting anxious. Randy, here, is going on fifteen, and pretty tall of her age, but we still call them the children, and Randy, she's reliable; so, when she don't appear at the right time, we know that something's up. Why, Prue, where's your shoe and stocking?"

"Oh, father," said Randy, "you won't say I was reliable this time."

"Now, Mr. Weston," said Helen Dayton, "Randy blames herself for Prue's injured foot, but she has bravely carried her little sister up the long hill from the store, and I think accuses herself too harshly."

"Like enough," said Randy's father. "Randy's conscience is all out of proportion to her size." Then, once more thanking Helen heartily for her kindness, he took little Prue into his arms saying, kindly: "There, there, little daughter, I wouldn't cry any more. You're home now, and mother'll know just how to fix your foot all right; and, Randy, ye may have let yer thoughts wander, so to speak, but you didn't make Prue hurt her foot, and ye've more than made up fer it all by bein' so truly sorry, and tryin' to bring her home. She's a little girl, but she's solid for a girl of your size to carry. 'Stead of blamin' and accusin' yourself, you just help mother to make Prue comfortable, and then you amuse her with the fairy book, and, may be, she'll forget how bad her foot aches."

"I'll do it," said Randy, delighted to think that she could in any way be useful to her little sister, and so well did she amuse her that in the middle of the sixth fairy tale Prue was sound asleep.

As soon as Mrs. Weston had seen the little foot, she had given it a bath in hot water, bound securely about it a hot bandage, and told little Prue that she must be quite still.

"I will, if Randy will read to me," said Prue. So Randy read story after story, until the little sister was asleep.

Randy sat beside her, intending to read to her again if she awoke, but Prue had cried with the aching foot until she was very tired, so she slept soundly. Once she stirred, and thrust her chubby hand under her head, murmuring as she did so. Randy bent over her, to hear what she said.

"The big stones squeezed my foot, so course it wasn't my Randy did it," murmured Prue. "My Randy wouldn't do such a thing to me. My Randy's just about right always and she-" but here her voice faltered and that which commenced in a sentence ended in a sigh. A bright tear glistened in Randy's gray eyes. How lovingly little Prue held her above the possibility of anything wrong.

"I must try hard to be as good as Prue thinks I am," thought Randy, and, bending, she kissed the little one ever so gently so as not to awaken her; "for," thought Randy, "while she sleeps she doesn't know her foot aches, and when she wakes I'll read or do anything she wishes me to, to amuse her."

And Randy kept her promise. The injury, although not serious, was quite painful, and Prue declared that Randy was "'most an angel," so patient and entertaining was she, reading the same story over and over again if it chanced to please her.

In a few days Prue was able to be about, and Randy was every bit as happy as her little sister, to see that the swelling had disappeared and the wee foot back to its usual size. There was one story with which Prue seemed the most pleased and which she wished oftenest to hear.

That was the story of the "Sleeping Beauty," but it mattered not how many times she heard it, she never could tell it straight.

One day Prue's mother said that the little girl would be wise if she rested her foot all the afternoon. "I'll sit still on the 'lunge,'" said Prue, "if you'll listen to a bea-utiful story called the 'Sleeping Beauty.' I guess I can tell it 'most right; do you want to hear it, mother?"

Now this was a trial to Mrs. Weston's patience. She had glanced hastily at a few pages of the fairy book and had declared it to be "clear foolishness," adding, "if it amuses Randy and Prue, I do'no as I care; but it puzzles me how they can enjoy it."

But, thinking to please her little daughter and make her willing to sit still, she promised to listen attentively to Prue's narrative, adding under her breath, "I guess I can stand it for once, if it is foolish." So she handed the book to Prue, who declared that, although she couldn't read, she could tell the story better by looking at the pictures.

Mrs. Weston brought her sewing to the window nearest the lounge where Prue sat as if enthroned, and the youthful entertainer commenced at once to tell the story as she remembered it. As Randy afterward said with stifled laughter, "If that is the best Prue could tell the story with the pictures to help her, how much more could she have twisted it without the book?"

"Once upon a time (they all commence that way)," said Prue, "there was a little girl so be-autiful that folks 'most went crazy who saw her, an' her father was tickled to see how handsome she was when she was a baby; an' one time when she was fifteen (that's what Randy is)-no, I forgot, when the baby, that's the princess, you know, was a bein' chris-chris-chris-tened, there was a lot of fairies that bringed her presents, and one was mad because she didn't be invited, and she did something awful, but I've forgot what.

"Then the beautiful princess went to sleep a hun-dred years" (here Prue's eyes grew round with excitement), "and she grew older and older every minute-no, no, she didn't. I mean she didn't grow older a' tall."

Here Randy turned hastily to gaze out of the window, and Prue, fortunately, failed to notice her sister's very evident effort to conceal her amusement.

"Then everybody in the house-no, palace-went sound asleep and snored, and they never waked up 'til the prince kissed them-oh, no, he only kissed the princess. Mother, why do you s'pose he didn't kiss anybody but the princess? Shouldn't you a thought he would?"

Without waiting for an answer, however, Prue babbled on.

"They was married and lived happy ever after, and all the folks waked up, and the horses, and cows, and cats, and dogs, all wagged their tails 'cause they was awake too. Isn't that a wonderful story?"

"I should say it was," ejaculated practical Mrs. Weston. "Nothing less than wonderful."

Mrs. Weston folded the garment which she had been mending, and saying, kindly, "That was a long story for a little girl to try to tell," she went out to the kitchen to make preparation for tea, leaving Prue still looking at the pictures in the fairy book. Randy stole out to the kitchen.

"Oh, mother," she said, looking up wistfully, "I know you think it funny that I can like fairy stories almost as well as Prue does; but, truly, Prue does not tell them straight. They're not true, of course, but they do sound pretty when you read them straight through instead of 'mixed up' as she gets them."

"I know, of course," said her mother, "that Prue has a funny way of telling anything. If you enjoy the stories, I'm sure I don't care, only don't ask me to read them. I want to read something that's somewhat probable," and Randy was obliged to be satisfied with that.

Mrs. Weston's mind was utterly void of imagination, and to read to her of magic locks, of sleep which, lasting a hundred years, left the sleeper youthful and beautiful, of wild wishes granted, of people turned to stone, and back to life again, simply tried her patience and amused her not at all.



Chapter V. Helen Dayton's Call


The sun shone in at the kitchen window and made a golden panel on the floor.

"Looks like another hot day," said Mrs. Weston, and she paused a moment and looked out at the meadow, where the little brook sparkled in the sun.

"Mother, are we very poor?" said Randy, irrelevantly.

Mrs. Weston wheeled around abruptly in her surprise, and promptly dropped the dishcloth which she held in her hand. "There," said she, "look at that dishcloth; somebody's comin' sure as preachin'. I never knew it to fail."

"Oh, I do hope somebody will, if it's Miss Dayton, if that's her name," added Randy. "But you didn't answer what I asked you," said the girl. "Are we, mother?"

"Why, Randy, what's in your mind? Lately you've been dreamin' most of the time, and askin' queer questions between times. Are we what? Poor? Why no, I do'no's we be. Your father ain't a rich man, but he's well-to-do. What put it in your head to ask me?"

"Nothing," said Randy, "only I was wondering what the reason was that all the folks in church yesterday looked so different from Mrs. Gray's boarders. Was it because they were poorer or was it some other reason?"

"Well," said Mrs. Weston, as she took the towel from Randy's listless hands, and commenced energetically to finish wiping the dishes, "I guess we're as well fixed as any one around here; your father owes nobody nothin', and our farm's one of the biggest and best in the town. I've heard say that some city folks was rich, an' I heard tell of other city folks as wasn't so well off as their clothes seemed to make them out; and as to our lookin' different, there ain't any call to dress up any more than what we do now. I tell you what, Randy, to be clean and neat ought to satisfy any one."

To this Randy could not agree, so she wisely said nothing. In her inmost heart she knew that, were she the possessor of an immense hat loaded with flowers, she would not have the courage to walk into church, the cynosure of all eyes. On the other hand, a sunbonnet never had looked so uncouth and unbecoming as now.

The dishes put away, the chickens fed, and a dozen other little chores attended to, Randy was free to do as she liked; so off to the "best" room she flew, eager to brighten it in any way which might suggest itself. The best room was a front room, and the front door, although seldom used, opened from it, showing a little garden in which grew boys' love, larkspur, balsams, and, later in the season, marigolds.

But the front room and the front door were never used; and the little path from the door-stone to the flower beds was overgrown with weeds, years ago. The side door which led to the barn, the well, and the woodpile was the proper one to use. So Randy did not open the door; it never occurred to her to do so; but she drew up the green paper curtains, and let in the sunlight, and, although the room was scrupulously clean, she decided that the correct thing to do first was to dust.

Between the front windows stood a little table with an oil-cloth cover, dotted with red and green figures. Over the table, and quite too high for any one to take a peep, hung a small, square looking-glass with a broad, wooden frame.

Randy remembered having seen a huge asparagus plume over a mirror in the parson's sitting room on one gala occasion when the sewing-circle had met there, and she had been permitted to be present with her mother. Asparagus, then, would be quite the thing with which to decorate the glass. The parson's mirror had a gilt frame and a gorgeous landscape above the glass, and Randy felt sure that the wooden frame needed the decoration even more than the gilt one. The asparagus in place, Randy stopped in the middle of the floor, duster in hand, to view the effect. Her eyes wandered about the room, and this is what she saw.

On the opposite wall was a picture entitled "The Tree of Life," on which every known virtue hung pendant from the branches on one side, while every evil of which man is guilty kept the balance on the other.

This picture always served to depress Randy. The tree was a sombre green, and Randy espied Envy printed in large type on that side where hung the sins, and she felt sure that a wee bit of envy had crept into her heart on Sunday, and as she looked at the pictured tree she said, under her breath: "Must have been vanity that made me almost hate my sunbonnet. The parson preached a while ago on the sin of vanity."

Poor Randy! To think it a sin to long with all her girlish heart for pretty things! With a sigh she turned from the picture of the tree to the one hanging upon the side wall. This was more cheerful-an ancient fashion plate in which insipid-looking gentlemen, in white trousers and long, blue coats, were smiling at some waxen-faced ladies whose beruffled skirts were voluminously extended.

She rather admired this picture, mainly because the people in it, at least, looked cheerful. Leaving the pictures, Randy let her eyes slowly wander over the furnishings. As none of her neighbors or acquaintances had carpets, the yellow painted floor seemed quite fine. The chairs were also yellow, and as a crowning luxury, a green enamelled cloth lounge stood in all its slippery grandeur against the wall, beside the door.

Randy liked the lounge, but wished it possible to sit upon it without slipping. While she was wishing that she had some pretty thing in the shape of an ornament for the table, her eyes wandered to the window, where, looking out into the garden, she could see the tall spikes of pink and blue larkspur waving in the breeze. A bright idea! Why not have some flowers upon the table?

Away she ran to the kitchen closet, and there she inspected everything on the shelves, so anxious was she to find something fine for her flowers.

"Oh, that's the thing," said Randy, "if mother'll let me have it." Appealed to, Mrs. Weston looked doubtful. "'Tain't a vase," said she, "it's my old white and blue spoon holder, an' I do'no how it will look in the best room."

"But you'd be willing I should use it, wouldn't you?" Randy asked eagerly.

"Oh, I don't mind your usin' it; go put your posies in it an' see how it looks."

Surprised and delighted that her mother should express the least interest, Randy skipped out into the garden and came running back in a few moments with a dozen long stalks of larkspur in her hands. She filled the old spoon holder with water and crowded in the flowers, then away she ran to the best room.

"Oh, mother," she called, a minute later, "do come and see the room." Mrs. Weston stopped in the doorway.

"Wal', I do declare," she ejaculated, "I must say that does look pretty. Why, Randy, you do have a real knack to fix it up so. Them flowers brighten up the place wonderful, and that sparrowgrass just beats anything."

"Oh, I'm so glad you like it, mother! Would you put some on the mantel if you were me?"

"I'd put some anywhere," said her mother, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. "I declare I'd actually forgotten how much the blossoms cheer up the house. I used to bring them in when I was first married, but ever sence I've been too busy to think of anything but cookin', sweepin', sewin', and mendin' from Monday 'til Saturday; but, Randy, if you're a mind to, you may bring in a few blossoms once in a while. It seems like the time when I used to fix up the house, and myself too, for that matter."

Mrs. Weston was a reserved woman, and Randy was amazed that her mother should show so much feeling, and delighted that her efforts at decoration were approved.

"I wish I had something to hang down from the mantel in some way. I don't know how to say it, but I know just how it ought to look." A moment Randy stood thinking with a queer little scowl over her eyes. Then her face brightened, and out of the room she darted, then across the yard to the old well around whose sides the wild morning glory clambered. Lifting her skirt, she filled it with the long vines and hurried back to the house.

She filled a small stone jar with water, carried it to the front room and stood it in the centre of the mantel, and then proceeded to fill it with long sprays of the morning glory. When all the vines were thus disposed of, she inspected her work.

"There, you couldn't have done better," said her mother, and Randy felt rewarded for her efforts. Then they turned to go back to the kitchen, and there, in the doorway, stood Helen Dayton. Randy started.

"Forgive me for startling you, and also for coming in without knocking. I was out for a walk, and coming up the hill I thought of your invitation. I walked toward the house and was about to knock when this little puss offered to lead me through the house to you."

"I'm sure you're welcome any time, Miss Dayton, and this girl of mine," laying her hand on Randy's arm, "has been so eager to see you again I do'no what would have become of her if you had waited long to come."

Randy blushed, and Helen Dayton laughed and said that she was very glad to be so welcome. Then she chatted pleasantly with Mrs. Weston "just as if she had always known her," as Randy afterward said.

While she was talking, a little book which lay upon Miss Dayton's lap fell to the floor and flew open, showing a page of bright little sketches, and Randy and Prue stared at it in wonder. "My sketch book," said Miss Dayton. "I am not an artist, but I have a bit of talent and have studied a little, and when I go out for a walk I jot down a part of a birch tree, a few wild flowers, or some tall weeds beside an old wall. Take the book and look at it if you like," she added, as she caught the eager look upon Randy's face.

Gladly Randy picked up the little book. The drawings were not wonderful, only rather clever, but to the country girl, who had never seen a sketch, they were truly charming. Randy looked at each little picture at least a dozen times, always telling Prue in a whisper that she must not put her little fingers on them.

"However did you do them?" asked Randy. "I didn't know that anybody ever did such beautiful things."

"Thank you for liking them," said Helen; "but you must not call them beautiful."

"But," said Randy, "that old mullein stalk looks just like a mullein, and those birches look just 's if you could strip the bark off."

Helen laughed at Randy's enthusiasm. "Sometime, when I come," said she, "I will make a sketch of your old well."

"Our well!" said Randy, "would that look pretty in a picture?" Helen was amused. "You shall see," said she; "and now tell me who arranged the flowers and vines so prettily?"

"I did," said Randy; "I did it to please you," and Randy, the sketch book still in her hand, looked up into the lovely face.

Helen Dayton laid a gentle hand on Randy's shoulder, saying sweetly, "Thank you so much, but tell me why you so wished to please me?"

"Because you are the very loveliest girl I ever saw in this world," and then Randy blushed and looked down to cover her confusion.

"And because you are the princess," chimed in Prue, who had been still an unusually long time.

"The princess!" echoed Helen. "Whatever do you mean, dear? I am not a princess," and Randy hastened to explain. She told all about the fairy book, and how on Sunday in church little Prue had felt sure that Miss Dayton was the princess of the fairy tales.

"Well, of all things!" said Helen; "now I must assure you, little one, that I am not a princess, only Helen Dayton of Boston."

"But you look like one," persisted the child, looking at her with round, admiring eyes. Mrs. Weston had slipped from the room, while the children entertained their visitor, and as she bustled about the kitchen, doing many things, she murmured softly to herself, "Randy's right, the girl is lovely."

A pretty picture they made-the young girl and the two children-as they sat in the best room, chatting now like old acquaintances. Helen had taken little Prue upon her lap, where she sat looking admiringly up into that young lady's face, while Randy sat beside her on the floor, telling her all her small confidences.

"Randy's such a homely name," she was saying. "'Tain't so bad as Jerushy, but it's homely enough."

"But that isn't the whole name, is it? Isn't it 'Miranda'?" asked Helen.

"Why, yes," said Randy, "and it sounds almost fine when you say it; but, generally, it's just Randy. And there's Prue. Her name is Prudence, after Aunt Prudence."

"Who's just horrid," said Prue, so vehemently that Helen and Randy laughed. After a pause Randy asked, abruptly, "If you belong in Boston, how could you come here to board; Boston's a city, my geography says so, and this is just country."

"That is just why I came here," said Helen. "The spring found me very tired, after a long, gay winter, and I came here to be quiet, and get rested."

"How funny!" said Randy. "I was wishing and wishing the other day that it wasn't always so quiet here, and the other night when father was talking to Jason Meade about buying the big piece of meadow land, Mr. Meade was saying that he was going to Boston for a spell-he's been there once-and he told about the streets full of people, and cars running all day, and teams and everything; and I did wish things would fly around here awhile."

Randy paused for breath, and looking at the pretty, eager face, Helen stooped, and touching the curly head ever so lightly with her lips she said, "Dear Randy, I'll try to stir things up a bit, and we will see if we cannot have some pleasant times while I am here."

"Oh, will you?" said Randy, eagerly.

"I never went anywhere 'cept to a sewing-circle once."

"What will you do?" asked Prue.

"Oh, you shall see," said Helen, laughingly. "We are planning a picnic now," said she, "and if we really have it, I'll invite you, and you shall go with me."

"With you!" said Randy. "I'd love to, but I shouldn't look fit," and she looked admiringly at Helen Dayton's dainty outing suit, and glanced up at the trim sailor hat perched upon her pretty head.

"Oh, you will look every bit fine enough with a shade hat-we shall all wear broad-brimmed hats-and a clean gingham dress," said Helen, cheerily.

"But I've got nothing but sunbonnets," said Randy, "'less father will buy me one next time he takes eggs and vegetables to the village. I mean to ask him to if that would be soon enough," and she looked up eagerly at Helen.

"Oh, yes, indeed," said Helen, "we've planned to have it in about two weeks."

"I want to go, too," said little Prue.

"Of course, dear, so you shall," said Helen, "and now I must be going, but I'll tell you all about the picnic the next time we meet. Do you know where Mrs. Gray lives, Randy?"

Randy laughed. "Of course I do," said she.

"Well, when father brings home your new shade hat, and of course he will, if you wish it so much, suppose you take a walk over to Mrs. Gray's and make a little call upon me, and when you come bring the new hat with you; I shouldn't wonder if I had something with which to trim it."

"Oh, I will, I will!" said Randy, eagerly, "and then you'll tell me all about the picnic."

With sheer excitement little Prue was executing a funny little jig, which reminded Helen to inquire for the injured foot.

"It's all well. See!" and Prue hopped upon that one foot to assure her that it was quite itself again.

"I should call that foot very well indeed," said Helen. Then together they walked out to the kitchen where, bidding good morning to Mrs. Weston, Helen said that she had enjoyed her call, admired Randy's tasteful decoration, and asked if she might borrow Randy once in a while.

"Why, yes, you may have Randy whenever I can spare her," said Mrs. Weston, "'though she seems so took up with you, and so delighted, that when she comes home from a call on you I'm afraid she'll about tread on air."

Helen laughed, and taking Randy's hand they walked together as far as the road where Randy, perched upon the wall, watched her new friend out of sight.

Helen turned many times to wave her hand until a bend in the road hid her from view. Then Randy walked slowly to the house, followed by Prue, and as they walked they talked of nothing but Helen's beauty and sweetness and the wonderful picnic.



Chapter VI. The Picnic


Mr. Weston had gone to market two days after Helen Dayton's call upon Randy. He had laughed heartily at the description of the exact kind of shade hat which Randy wished for, and as he drove off he continued to laugh as Mrs. Weston called after him, "Remember, she wants a white hat; don't, for mercy's sake, come home with a brown one."

"And, father," shrieked Randy, "remember to get a big one and one that isn't too coarse."

"Yes, yes, land sakes! I b'lieve I'll bring ye home a dozen to pick from," and the good man chuckled to himself-he had his own plan for doing Randy's errand. His eggs and vegetables disposed of, he turned to start for home, when he ejaculated, "Bless me! if I didn't most forgit Randy's hat." Back into the store he went. "What have ye got for hats?" said Mr. Weston. "My Randy's set her mind on havin' a fine shade hat for the picnic, and nothin' but a white one will do."

Silas Barnes reached under his counter and brought forth a dozen straw hats, which lie spread out for Mr. Weston to select from.

"Wal', that beats all! Randy and her mother told me just how it ought to look, but I don't see any difference in 'em, do you, Barnes?"

"Why, yes," replied the genial storekeeper, "that one's twice as fine as the other, an' it's worth twice as much."

"Wal', I guess it's 'bout good enough for Randy, then, and I'll take it."

When her father returned that night Randy met him at the door, and with a little cry of delight took the parcel which he handed her, and she could not find words to express her pleasure when the fresh, white hat lay before her on the table.

"Dear me! Ye might have had one before, if it delights ye so," said her mother; "I didn't think of it before, because most every girl here wears a sunbonnet."

"Well, I've got it now," said Randy, "and to-morrow I'll go over to Miss Dayton's and she'll trim it for me; she said she would." On the following day, true to her promise, Helen gave Randy a cordial welcome, and trimmed the hat with some gay ribbons which, although not new, were very pretty, and to Randy seemed nothing short of gorgeous.

On the day of the picnic no happier heart than Randy Weston's beat fast with anticipation; and with Prue's hand held tightly in her own she started, as they had planned, for Mrs. Gray's house to join Helen.

"Don't forget to take care of Prue," called her mother.

"I won't forget," answered Randy.

Mr. Weston stepped back into the house after watching the children until a bend in the road concealed them from view, and sat down for a moment before going out to the field. "I tell ye what, mother," said he, "I mean those girls shall have a chance. I'd no idee what a difference there was between a hat and a sunbunnit. I say, why don't you have a new bunnit yourself, mother? You were every bit as pretty as our Randy when you were young, and I b'lieve you'd look a good deal the same now, with a little fixin'. Just see the difference in Randy with a bran' new hat! When we was a-payin' off the mortgage we had to scrimp; but now, I think ye might have a few duds, once in a while."

He stopped, expecting a rebuff, and was surprised when his wife turned with a sweet smile and said, "I b'lieve I will have just a few things."

"Ye can have what ye want," was the hearty rejoinder, "and we'll go to the village next week and do some shoppin'," and with a jolly whistle he started for the barn.

When they arrived at Mrs. Gray's, the children were surprised to find almost every man, woman, and child who had been invited to the picnic already there, and, as they were all talking at once, it was impossible to understand what any one person was saying.

Very conscious of her new hat was Randy, and she longed to find Helen that she might talk with her. She knew that any one with whom she stopped to speak would mention her new finery, so she only nodded pleasantly to the girls whom she passed, and walked toward the house, hoping there to find Helen. Helen saw her and came out to meet her; but as Randy passed the Babson girls, she heard Phoebe Small say to them: "Look at Randy Weston! Isn't she getting fine!"

"Dunno how fine she is," responded Belinda Babson; "but I don't see as she need walk right by us, just because she's got a new hat."

Poor Randy! She had not the least idea of being vain or silly. "Why need the girls spoil the fun of my having a new hat," said she, and a hot flush crept up on her cheek, but soon Helen's merry chatter caused Randy to forget Phoebe's unkindness, and she was laughing and talking as gayly as Helen herself.

Miss Dobbs, the little soprano of the choir, hearing Randy's laugh, turned and smiled, an unusual thing for her to do, saying: "How are ye, Randy? That's a dreadful pretty hat."

"I like it," said Randy, simply, although her eyes showed her delight that some one should approve of it. "Miss Dayton trimmed it for me; didn't she do it lovely?" continued Randy, anxious that her new friend should have all the glory which belonged to her for her millinery skill.

"Umph!" ejaculated Miss Dobbs, "they do say you're pretty int'mit with Miss Dayton, considering she's from the city." Randy moved away, pleased with the compliment for her hat, but hurt by the last remark. "'Considering she's from the city,'" thought Randy. "Anybody'd think I asked her to be pleasant to me. Why, I wouldn't have dared to. She wanted to be nice, and I was glad enough to let her," and she brushed away a tear and forced back a sob which rose in her throat.

Just then something happened to cheer Randy and give her a wee bit of triumph.

Phoebe Small moved toward Randy and fastening her small eyes disapprovingly upon the offending hat, she was about to speak, when, without noticing Phoebe at all, Jotham Potts walked awkwardly up to Randy, and, standing upon one foot, then shifting to the other, he said: "Morning, Randy! Be you going to walk to the picnic or ride? Because," he continued, "I told father I'd like to have you ride with us, seein's we have a spare seat, and he said he'd be pleased to have your company. Will ye come, Randy? I do wish ye would."

"I'd like to, and thank you," answered Randy, sweetly, with a blush and a glance at Phoebe Small, who pretended not to have heard, "but I promised to go in Mr. Gray's team with Miss Dayton, so I'll have to."

"I wish ye was goin' with us, but as ye can't, I'll see ye at the picnic," said Jotham, and he turned to get into his father's wagon; then, stepping back to where Randy was standing, he blushed, and from his pocket produced a little package.

"Here, Randy," he said, "I brought this a purpose for you to enjoy durin' the ride, so I guess I'll give it to ye now."

"Oh, thank you," said Randy, "how good you are," and that so completely overcame Jotham that he retired in confusion. By this time the party was about ready to start. The choir had decided to go in the first wagon and enliven the way by singing, and were still discussing as to a selection from their scant repertoire.

"Ye needn't ask me to join ye," said Silas Barnes, "and sing 'Chany,'"-he meant China-"for I don't think that's gay enough for a picnic."

Miss Hobson suggested that they might please Mr. Barnes by singing "Yankee Doodle." This was meant to suggest that Silas Barnes was too frivolous, but he did not, apparently, feel injured, as he laughingly answered that he would "rather be patriotic than mournful, and he reely guessed they'd better settle upon 'Yankee Doodle,' as Miss Hobson suggested."

On one end of the door-stone old Mrs. Perkins had just convinced her neighbor, Mrs. Johnson, that it was just the right time of the year to gather 'pennyroyal' and mouse-ear, and so have them a-drying, and Mrs. Buffum had gathered the six little Buffums under her wing by uttering this awful threat:-

"Johnny! Johnny Buffum! do you and Hitty want to go to the picnic? Katie! do you and Jack and Sophy and Ann want to stay at home? Well, then, come here, or the first thing you'll know the wagons'll go without ye!"

From all directions the six young Buffums rushed and crowded closely around their mother. Stay at home from their first picnic? Never!

At last every one had arrived, and they lost no time in clambering into the waiting wagons; then away they jogged toward the grove.

Farmer Gray had taken his wife and Helen Dayton, Randy and little Prue in one wagon, and had told his other boarders that they were welcome to fill his two remaining wagons, allotting places as they chose.

The wagon with the choir had started first, and Randy and Helen could still faintly hear the stirring strains of "Yankee Doodle." Randy sat with sparkling eyes, enjoying the ride as she had never enjoyed one before. Had she not a fine new hat? Was she not beside the beautiful Miss Dayton? and had not Jotham, to the envy of the other girls, given her a package purchased expressly for her?

"What you got in your bundle what Jotham gave you, Randy?" asked Prue. "Will you let me see?"

"Yes, do let us see," said Helen Dayton; "I know it must be something nice."

So Randy untied the package and found a lot of huge pink and white peppermints, which Prue at once commenced to help her eat. Helen pronounced them to be very nice, but as she never liked peppermints, politely excused herself from eating them by saying that she must save her appetite for the spread at the picnic.

Along the dusty road they jogged, Randy never minding the heat, Helen feeling it intensely, even with the protection of her dainty ruffled parasol. Sometimes they rode under overhanging boughs which made long, cool shadows across the road, then over a sunny, dusty stretch with only a fringe of daisies by the roadside and a chain of hazy blue hills in the distance.

On the Way to the Picnic

The occupants of one wagon would chat merrily with those in the wagon behind them; and so, with sunny and shady roads, with laughter and song, they at last reached the grove.

The horses were unharnessed and tethered with a rope long enough to permit them to graze. The baskets of lunch were all placed in one large wagon which stood in the shade of a huge tree. Then intimate friends and neighbors formed little groups and sat under the trees and chatted together, delighted to have this little outing. The children played hide-and-seek behind the tree trunks, and those farmers who had left their work to enjoy the holiday talked over their crops, their cattle, and the price of produce when disposed of at the village store.

The Babson girls were each trying in an awkward fashion to win favor in the eyes of Reuben Jenks, who Phoebe Small declared "had a hull basketful of maple sugar stored away under the seat of his father's wagon."

When Reuben had spoken of the picnic his mother, who was, to express it mildly, a frugal woman, had said that she, for one, didn't approve of picnics. "Folks eat four times as much at a picnic as they do at home, and ain't no better satisfied," she declared; but after much urging she consented to go, saying: "A lot of maple sugar'll be all I'll take. Sweets take away folks' appetites, and folks that eat my maple sugar won't want much else."

But try as they would, neither Belinda's nor Jemima's blandishments brought forward any of the desired sugar. Now Reuben liked the girls well enough, and his boyish vanity was pleased by their evident liking for his society. He was a generous little fellow and would gladly have treated his friends, but his mother's eyes were upon him, and he said afterward, he "just didn't dare."

Jotham Potts, hearing Helen say that she liked water cresses, gallantly offered to go and find some, assuring her that he knew just where they grew.

Helen, Randy, and Prue sat under a large tree, and Helen promised, since Randy was so charmed with fairy tales, to tell some which she knew they had never heard. She told them tales from Grimm's wonderful book, pleasantly answering Prue's funny questions regarding them. When she related the story of the "Gold Children," little Prue's eyes dilated with wonder.

"It's just beautiful," said Randy.

"If they were clear, solid gold how could they move or stir?" asked Prue.

Helen laughed, and patted the little girl's cheek as she said: "Dear little girl, you mustn't ask questions which have no answers. Remember the fairy tales are not true, only amusing."

Having told story after story, Helen became a bit weary, and she proposed that the children should gather a few flowers, saying that she would twine them into a lovely wreath for Prue's curly head.

Off went the children to search for the finest blossoms to heap in Helen's lap. Soon little Prue hastened back with three large daisies and a buttercup, asking if they were quite enough to make a wreath. "No, indeed," said Helen, "I must have ever so many more."

Away ran Prue, shouting to the children, "Miss Dayton says it takes a nawful lot more." Soon other children came running to Helen with little hands full of buttercups and daisies, until she cried, "Enough, more than enough!" and commenced the weaving of the wreath.

The children watched her dainty fingers, as with airy grace they fashioned it, and when she twined the ends of the garland together, and placed the finished wreath upon Prue's head, their delight knew no bounds.

"Oh, Miss Dayton, you can do anything, can't you?" said Belinda Babson.

"Oh, no, indeed!" said Helen, "there are many, many things which I cannot do."

Then they spread the table-cloth upon the grass, and "put the picnic on it," as Prue said. Prue's idea of a picnic was a lunch out of doors, and until the luncheon made its appearance, she felt that the picnic had not even commenced. Then suddenly clapping her chubby hands, and dancing in a manner which threatened to dislodge her flower crown, she said, "May I wear this wreath while I eat my lunch?"

"Oh, do," said Helen, "it is really very becoming."

Every one seemed anxious that Helen should sit as guest of honor at the spread, so, with children on either side, she took her place, and deftly put each one present at ease with her bright, pleasant conversation; now saying a kind word to old Mrs. Dewing, that she might not feel neglected, or laughing lightly at Farmer Morse's clumsy wit, noticing Randy's gentle manner with her little sister, and at the same time, with ready tact, seeming unmindful of the practised hand with which Jack Marden handled his pie with his knife.

So with laughter and gay chatter the lunch was eaten and cleared away, and some one proposed some games.

"Let's play 'On the green carpet,'" said Phoebe Small, and a chorus of voices echoed: "Oh, yes! Let's play that first;" so, joining hands, they sang the old tune as they danced about Helen, whom they insisted should first stand in the centre.

"And choose the one That you love best,"

sang the children.

"I choose Randy," said Helen, much to Randy's delight.

"Give her a kiss and send her away, And tell her you'll call another day,"

sang the gay little troop, and Helen stooped, and taking Randy's sweet face between her hands she kissed her and slipped from the ring. Around and about Randy they circled, and then she must choose. She longed to choose Helen, and turned toward her, but Helen said, "We must not keep choosing each other, Randy, because it is more fun to change about," so Randy turned with a puzzled face, wondering whom to choose. Seeing the little sister's eager face, she decided at once. "I choose you, pussy," said she.

Into the ring sprang Prue. "Oh, Randy," said the child, "you did love me best, didn't you?"

"Of course," said Randy; "but now we know, Prue, that you love me best, you choose the one you love next best, because that's the way to play it;" so, wondering much whom the child would favor, Randy left her in the circle. But it did not take dear little Prue a great while to decide.

"Next to Randy, I guess I like you, Jotham, so I choose you," said the child. Every one laughed except Jotham, who, seeing the little girl's lip quiver, said awkwardly, yet very kindly, "You're a nice little girl, Prue, and I'm real proud to have you choose me;" at which Prue's spirits rose, and, turning with one little hand in Jotham's, she said: "You needn't have laughed if I did choose a big boy. He's very nice, and 'most always gives Randy candy, and she gives some to me."

This so amused every one that they commenced to pet Prue, and, much to Jotham's delight, the game ended, for he felt that he could have chosen none but Randy as his favorite among his friends, and he realized that this would have been a trying ordeal for his diffidence.

Many games they played that sunny afternoon, and so fast flew the hours that every one was surprised when Deacon Turnbull pulled out his great, old-fashioned "timepiece" and declared that it "wanted a quarter to six, and that they ought to be hitchin' up and startin' toward home."

So the baskets and pails were packed into the wagons, the horses harnessed, and the merry, tired party started homeward.

Some of the picnickers were jolly, singing as they went along, others were too tired to sing; but all were unanimous in voting the picnic a success, many declaring that it was just wonderful how Miss Dayton planned it, and that they didn't know when they'd had such a good time. The ride with Helen was delightful to the two children, Randy looking admiringly at Helen all the way and talking little. She was really too happy for conversation.

Not so with little Prue. She sat between Helen and Randy, and all the way home her chatter was interspersed with snatches of the songs which had been a part of their games.

"'On the green carpet here we stand, Take your true love by the hand, Give her a kiss and send her away, And tell her-'

"That's just the best picnic I ever saw, wasn't it, Randy?"

Before Randy could answer, out rang the childish treble again:-

"'Sailor in er boat when the tide runs high, Sailor in er boat when the tide runs high, Sailor in er boat when the tide runs high, Waiting for a pretty girl to-'

"Oh, Miss Dayton, don't you think Jotham's 'most as nice as a prince? I do," said Prue, without waiting for an answer, although she looked up in Miss Dayton's face expectantly.

Helen took Prue's little dimpled hand in her own as she said: "All princes are not good, although many of them are very, very good indeed. Jotham has a good face, and I am sure when I really know him I shall like him very much. If he grows to be a good, brave, true man, that is worth much more than being a prince."

"Yes'm," said Prue, not quite catching Helen's meaning, yet vaguely understanding that Jotham was fully appreciated. Prue's curly head swayed a little, like a tired flower; and Helen, slipping her arm around her, drew her toward her, and soon the little girl's head lay against her new friend.

Still she sang, although drowsily:-

"'Oh, what a beautiful choice you've made, Don't you wish you'd longer stayed?'"

The last line was drawled out so slowly that Randy said, "Oh, wake up, Prue, you're asleep."

"I guess I ain't sleepy, but my eyes feel 's if-" she was now really asleep just as they reached Farmer Gray's door.

Mr. Weston was waiting in the dooryard with his own team to take the children home, and, after an exchange of remarks with Mr. Gray regarding the weather and bluff, but hearty thanks to Miss Dayton for the children's day of pleasure, he took little Prue in his arms, and, placing her in Randy's lap, gathered up the reins, and with a resounding "g'lang there" the old mare ambled toward home.

Mrs. Weston was at the door when they arrived. "Well, Randy," said she, smiling.

"Oh, mother!" cried Randy, "it was just splendid, and we had such good times all day."

"What! Prue asleep?"

"No," said little Prue, "I ain't asleep, but my eyes feel funny, and we had gingerbread and peppermints, and cold sausage and lemonade, and 'On the-green-carpet,' and I chose Jotham, and I had a wreath and some maple sugar, and it was all made of daisies and butter-cups-and-and," but here she lost the thread of her story, and was carried upstairs and put in her bed.



Chapter VII. Randy Outwits Jason Meade


The day after the picnic was a busy one for Mrs. Weston, and Randy, eager to be helpful, was really a fine assistant. She washed all the dishes, allowing little Prue to wipe the spoons, knives, and forks because they would not break if dropped, then she thoroughly cleansed the milk cans and put them just outside the door to dry in the bright sunlight.

"Now, mother, what do you suppose I'm going to do next?" said Randy.

"I don't know," said her mother, "but ye have worked this morning like all possessed."

"Well," said Randy, "I'm just going to bring in towels and aprons from the line and sprinkle and iron them, so's you can sit down awhile after dinner."

Mrs. Weston looked at the bright, flushed face a moment, then said: "I do declare, Randy, you're a real help. There ain't a better daughter in this town, if I do say it."

"Oh, mother," said Randy, "I'd 'most work my fingers off just to hear you say that. I help you because I love you, though somehow I never 'til now could say it."

Mrs. Weston wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron, then, turning to Randy, she kissed her, saying: "Why, Randy, it does me good to hear you say it, and, child, ye must know I'm all bound up in you and Prue. We busy folks sometimes forget to show how much we really feel."

"I mean," said Randy, "to make you and father happy, always; sometimes I forget to help, but always I mean to."

"I know ye do," said her mother.

Randy moved about the kitchen with a subtle sense of exhilaration. Her mother had always been kind and good, but to have her speak of her affection and say a word of approval for her helpfulness, what more could be needed to make a young girl happy? thought Randy.

She sang little snatches of melody while she cleared the dinner table, and grasped the first leisure moment to steal out under the apple tree, thence toward the brook to the old stone wall. A large stone had toppled from the wall, and Randy sat down upon it to rest. She had intended to make a little call upon Miss Dayton, to talk over the events of the picnic, and to hear what her new friend had to tell her; for Helen had hinted that she had another good time planned, and she promised to tell Randy all about it when next they met.

Tall alders grew luxuriantly almost the entire length of the wall, which served as a fence for one side of the pasture; and Randy, a bit tired with the forenoon's work, easily fell into one of her day-dreams, when she was aroused by hearing voices behind the alders. There seemed to be two voices, and Randy heard them mention her father's name. She was an honest girl who, under ordinary circumstances, would have scorned to listen; but something in the tone of the speaker's voice seemed distinctly unfriendly when he spoke of her father, and Randy seemed, against her will, riveted to the spot and obliged to listen. She must have taken her place on the big stone when the conversation was well under way, but the sound of her own footsteps, while unheard by the earnest talkers, had prevented her from hearing their voices. She was invisible to them as they were to her, separated as they were by the alders.

"Now, I've tried and tried 'til I'm tired er tryin' to sell Mr. Weston that piece er medder land er mine, 'n' it would a been sold long ago if I hadn't been bound to swap land instead er taking cash."

"Yes, but I don't see the great pint er not takin' cash ef he's fool enough to pay it," said the second voice.

"Nearer to the Wall she crept"

"I don't s'pose ye do, 'til I tell ye. Ye haven't been here fer years, 'n' only come yisterday, an' ef you was anybody under the sun but my own brother, I wouldn't tell ye now."

How Randy's heart beat! Surely, it was right to listen now. If any one meant to do her father harm, she must know it and warn him. Nearer to the wall she crept, with a stealth which she was unaware she possessed, and she tried to hush her breathing which came quick and hard.

"Just listen to this, Jim. My wife's just got back from a visit to her folks, I forgit the name of the town, 'though it's on my tongue's end this minute, and while she was there she heard say that they're goin' to run a railroad through this part of the town, next summer, jest a sort er branch road from the one that goes through the centre, and my wife never let on that she was much interested; but she asked 'nough questions, kinder keerful like, and she found that ef they do build the road, and she says the folks down that way say they do really mean to, it'll be straight across that little bit er rocky field, back er Weston's barn. Now, I argy that Weston's got money 'nough, and I mean ter keep at him 'til he agrees ter swap that 'ere little pesky, rocky field er his'n fer my piece er medder land. The more I urge him the less he seems ter want ter swap, an' I even offered to throw in a good young steer to boot, an' all the satisfaction I could git out er him was, 'Wal', I dunno what makes yer so anxious fer that little piece er land er mine.'

"He don't know nothin' 'bout the railroad yet, but there's no knowin' how soon he will. My wife's naggin' me to make him swap, but I'd like to see her try to hurry Weston when he don't intend to hurry; but I tell ye now, ef that 'ere road does run through his field, I mean ter own it fust, an' I'm goin' up ter night ter talk him inter it."

Randy now realized that the speaker's voice was no other than Jason Meade's. She was but fifteen, but she knew that if her father yielded to his neighbor's urging, it would in some way mean loss to him. All thought of her call upon Helen vanished, and in its place lay a great fear that she might be seen before she could get away from her hiding place and rush home.

She was a bit cramped with her crouching pose behind the wall. Slowly she arose to her feet, glided along upon the grass, lest her footsteps should be heard, and, once in the grove, she sprang across the brook, dashed through the fields, up the path, and into the kitchen door, where she dropped upon a chair and tried to speak.

"Why, Randy Weston! whatever ails ye? Ye look 's if ye'd seen a ghost. Why, father," as the girl did not speak, "jest come look at Randy. She's been runnin' 'til she's clean tuckered out, 'n' can't seem to speak."

Mr. Weston came hastening in from the well with a pail of water, which he set down when he saw Randy.

"Why, Randy, child, what-"

"Oh, father,-the little rocky field behind the barn,-don't sell it, don't swap it; the railroad's going through it; and oh, father, that's why Jason Meade wants to make you swap it. It's going to be worth lots and lots of money; he can't make you swap it, can he, father?" and in her anxiety she sprang up and put her hands upon her father's shoulders.

"There, there, Randy, you've done your father a good turn this time, sure enough, ef it's true. Sit down and tell me where ye heard all this."

So Randy, having regained her breath, told her anxious listeners the tale, beginning with her intended call upon Miss Dayton; how she strolled through the grove and across the brook, and sat down to rest upon the big stone by the wall, with the great alders behind her; how she had, at first sound of the voices, tried not to listen, and, on hearing an unfriendly voice mention her father's name, she had, although afraid of detection, crept close to the wall, to hear if the men really meant to harm him.

Then she had told all that she had heard, word for word, finishing with, "And, father, he can't make you swap, can he? he seemed so determined."

Then Mr. Weston did a very unusual thing. Putting his arm around Randy, he drew her down upon his knee, where she had not sat since she was a little girl like Prue, and as he looked at her, with just a suspicion of moisture in his kind, blue eyes, he said, "Mother, we've got a girl to be proud of."

"And to be thankful for," said Mrs. Weston.

"Amen!" said Randy's father, and he added, "Always be as brave and quick to do what's right, Randy, as you have been to-day, even forgetting your own pleasure, and I will trust you anywhere."

Here little Prue, who had been awed into silence by the earnestness of the conversation, found her tongue once more, and piped in with, "Why, pa, my big sister Randy's been good again. How can she be always good?"

They all laughed, and Randy, catching little Prue and giving her a tight hug, said: "I know who's got the best little sister in all the world. I have, just as sure as your name is Prudence."

"I like you to love me lots, Randy dear, but don't you call me anything but Prue. 'Prudence' makes me think of Aunt Prudence, and she looked all so," and here Prue drew down her wee mouth, and puckered up her fair little forehead and brows into such a scowling imitation of Aunt Prudence, that even her father, who did not at all approve, could not help smiling at the dimpled copy of that lady's unpleasant face.

Soon Mrs. Weston had tea ready, and the family had but just finished the evening meal when a loud tap at the door announced some neighbor's arrival. Mr. Weston looked at his wife, with a twinkle in his eye, as he arose to answer the knock.

"Well, well, Jason, come in, come in!" Thus Mr. Weston welcomed his crafty neighbor.

"How are ye, Square Weston? I thought I'd jist drop in an' see if you'd made up yer mind about that piece er land er mine."

"Well, yes, I hev," said Mr. Weston, looking his neighbor squarely in the face; "I told ye, a month ago, I'd give ye two hundred dollars in cash fer that big medder of yourn."

"I know it, I know you did; but the thing is, I've took a reel fancy to that little rocky pasture er yourn, and I feel 's if I'd lots rather have it, little as it is, than the cash, 'f you'll believe me."

Jason Meade sat back in his chair with the bland air of a man who had done a good deed in praising his neighbor's property.

Mrs. Weston came out of the closet where she had been placing the dishes and stood by her husband's chair, anxiously awaiting his answer. She knew his generous nature, but she believed that this time he would be firm.

Randy, who after tea had taken the fairy book to the table to read, now leaned forward with parted lips.

Slowly Mr. Weston turned toward his neighbor, and a faint smile played about his lips as he said, "I'll tell ye, Jason, I jist thought that while it ain't so very val'able now, I've 'bout decided to keep it, for when the railroad comes clean through it, I'm thinkin' I'll be reel pleased to think it's my property."

Jason Meade's mouth opened to its widest extent, and to say that he was amazed, astonished, or surprised, would be expressing it very mildly indeed. He cleared his throat and blinked once or twice, then, as no suitable remark seemed to suggest itself he arose, and pushing back his chair, he said "he'd reely have to go as he'd got an arrant to do at Mrs. Gray's." He sheepishly made his way toward the door, and mumbling something about the weather, he dejectedly stalked out with the air of a disappointed man.

"Why, father," said Randy, "he didn't even ask you how you knew about the railroad."

Mr. Weston laughed as he said: "I guess he didn't care how I knew. That I knew at all was what worried him."



Chapter VIII. Tableaux


One morning Miss Dayton sent a little hastily written note to Mrs. Weston, saying that she was planning another entertainment which she believed would be as enjoyable as the picnic had been, and asking if Randy might come over and help her make some preparations for the event.

Mrs. Weston read the note, then re-read it to Randy.

"Oh, may I go, could you spare me?" said Randy, eagerly.

"Why, yes indeed," said her mother; "there is less than usual to do to-day, and nothing at all after dinner. Fly 'round and get cleared up, and you can put on your clean red and white gingham and your new hat and go over early."

"Fly 'round!" Randy did fly, and by two o'clock she was off down the road, walking as fast as her feet and her enthusiasm would take her.

What could Miss Dayton be planning, thought Randy, as she hastened toward the farm-house where Helen was staying.

Helen saw her coming and opened the door, smiling at Randy's questioning face, which expressed a world of interest in Helen's scheme, whatever it might be.

"Come right in, take off your hat, and sit down and I will tell you all about my plan for an evening's pleasure. You know I promised when I first met you that I would try to make this summer just a bit gay during my stay here. Now I believe we shall all enjoy an evening of tableaux," but here Helen was obliged to pause and explain just what tableaux were, "and," she continued, "I think that any one of the large girls who attended the picnic, and a few of the little ones, will make a very nice set of pictures."

"Oh, I should think it would be lovely, but," Randy added doubtfully, "what could we wear that would be nice enough for pictures or tab-"

"Tableaux," said Helen.

"Yes, tableaux," said Randy.

"I will agree to furnish the costumes," said Miss Dayton; "they will not have to be very fine to look extremely pretty in the frame. Mr. Gray has made me a fine frame which you and I will cover with evergreen. Then Mrs. Gray has two bracket lamps which we will fasten to the back of the frame to light up the pictures, and I have a lot of odds and ends of pretty things in my trunks which will be sufficiently bright and gay for costumes. Now let us go at once to the barn and decorate the frame."

Mr. Gray's man, Roger, had just brought in an immense load of evergreen. Randy was all eagerness to help, and together they worked all the afternoon.

When she left for home the frame was thickly covered. There was evergreen and asparagus over the pictures in the "best room" where they were to exhibit to the townspeople their tableaux, and Randy had seen her costume which Helen had designed.

Miss Dayton was an ardent admirer of Greuze, and she possessed many photographic reproductions of his paintings. She also owned a number of photographs of Sir Joshua Reynold's portraits of beautiful women and children, and knowing the bareness of the walls in the average New England farm-house, she had brought these pictures with her to decorate her room during her stay. She intended to copy these beautiful pictures in the list of tableaux which she arranged.

Randy was spellbound when she saw the photographs. "Oh, Miss Dayton," cried she, "do you really think any of us will do?"

"Why, yes indeed," laughed Helen, "I have you all selected now. You are to be the girl with the broken pitcher in the painting by Greuze. Would you like to see your costume?"

"I guess I should like to," answered Randy, excitedly clapping her hands; so Helen showed her a waist with large, loose sleeves, a kerchief or scarf, and a wide ribbon "to tie up her bonny brown hair."

Randy went home in a fever of excitement. Think of a girl of fifteen who had never witnessed an entertainment of any kind, and you will understand with what delight she looked forward to an evening of tableaux in which she would take part.

Miss Dayton called upon those girls who she thought would like to pose for the tableaux, and every one was invited to be present.

The girls, both large and small, were delighted, and their elders were quite as pleased with the promise of an evening's enjoyment, and every invitation was enthusiastically accepted. Mrs. Gray's attic proved a perfect treasure room. She generously offered the contents of all the old trunks to Helen, saying, "If you see anything which you can make use of, I shall be truly glad." Mrs. Gray had been a city girl, and had spent the greater part of her married life there, and she brought to the farm-house many trunks containing faded finery, which, while far too good to be thrown away, were of but little use in that small country town. Helen chose those things which she could best utilize and carried them down to the front room, where she deposited them behind an improvised screen.

Randy thought the evening would never come; so did little Prue, for she, too, was to be one of the "tab things," as she called them. She could not remember the word "tableaux."

But the evening did arrive, and with it all the girls whom Helen had drilled for the proper posing, all of the boys who were curious to see the girls "fixed up for pictures," as Reuben Jenks had expressed it, and all of the farmers and their wives, who were nearly as excited as the young people.

Mrs. Gray and Helen received the friends and neighbors as they arrived, showing them the photographs on the walls and telling them that the girls, correctly dressed, would look very much like pictures when seen in the frame.

The frame was in place with a dark background behind it, and stretching from either side of the frame to the side walls of the room were some old brocatelle curtains which Helen had found in Mrs. Gray's attic. These curtained spaces served as dressing rooms.

Besides the tableaux Helen had planned quite a little programme, and although much drilling had been necessary, each performer was perfect in her part.

Jotham Potts had, after much urging, agreed to read the programme, and Helen had promised to contribute a song, and a piano solo which should be the opening number.

The hum of conversation rose loud and cheery, and so lively did it become that it was impossible to hear a completed sentence.

"They say your Phoebe's goin' to be a dreadful pretty picture to-night."

"What's she goin' to-"

"Wal', I dunno, seems Miss Dayton thinks our Jotham has a good voice, so she asked him to read the-I forgit what you call it, but anyhow I guess-"

"Yes, Miss Dayton says my hair is auburn and not red, and she says-"

"Why, ef here isn't Mis' Weston's little Prue!"

"Yes'm, I'm going to be one of the tab things, and sing a little tune what Miss Dayton learned-no, taught me," said the little girl, very proud to think that she had remembered the correction.

"Well, I think she's real nice to come up here and plan such good times," but here Helen tapped upon the piano, and the conversation ceased so abruptly that one might think that the audience held its breath.

The girls rushed behind the curtains on either side of the frame, and Jotham Potts, clearing his throat, read the first number for the evening.

Helen had drilled him in pronouncing those names which he found difficult, and very clearly he read,-

"Our first number will be a piano solo by Miss Dayton, entitled, 'Marche Militaire.'"

Mr. Potts nudged his wife, saying, in a loud whisper, "Our Jotham did that just like a city feller, didn't he?" His wife ejaculated "Sh-," but she smiled and nodded, for she was of the same opinion.

Helen in her white muslin looked very beautiful, as she took her seat at the piano. That piano was the only one in town, and the only one that many of the audience had ever heard. Helen was a good musician, and the piece, grand in itself, rang out brilliantly, to the great delight of every one present, and many were the words of praise which reached her ears when she arose. One voice, bolder than the others, said, "That's what I call great; just one more piece, Miss Dayton, ef it ain't asking too much."

This was an honest if unceremonious encore, so Helen seated herself once more, and for those simple country people played a brilliant polacca.

"Wal', 'twas all I could do to keep from dancin', I dew declare," said old Deacon Turnbull, which made every one laugh, as the deacon was a very dignified old man.

Helen rose and saying, "Now, Jotham," she stepped behind the curtains. "Our next number," announced Jotham, "will be a tableau as nearly as possible like the painting entitled 'The Age of Innocence.'"

"That's it over there," said Mrs. Buffum to her husband, pointing at the photograph on the wall, and every one looked that way. When the curtain was drawn aside, there was chubby little Hitty Buffum, her hands clasped upon her breast, a wee bit of a smile on her parted lips-a very good counterpart of Sir Joshua Reynolds's picture.

"Oh! oh my! She looks just like it. Isn't she cunnin'?" and similar remarks greeted the little girl in the first tableau. She had done her very best for Miss Dayton. Then the curtain swung across the frame and Jotham announced, "The next number will be a song by little Miss Weston."

"I didn't know as the Weston children could sing, did you?" queried one neighbor, but there was no time for an answer, for little Prue had taken her place on the improvised platform, and Helen was playing a little prelude.

Mrs. Weston laid her hand upon her husband's arm. Would Prue, her little Prue, get through the song without faltering? She need not have feared. Out rang the childish treble in the song which Miss Dayton had taught her. How fresh and clear the little voice sounded!

"Sometimes I am a daisy bloom, I make believe 'tis true, I play that all I ever eat Is early morning dew.

"Sometimes I am a butterfly, - Just see my gauzy wings! Sometimes I play I am a bird, Who only sits and sings.

"But always I am mama's girl, And papa's girlie, too, And next to them I love the best, I love each one of you."

Putting up her dimpled hands she daintily kissed her finger tips, made a very cunning little bow, and tripped back to Miss Dayton, saying, "Did I do it nice?"

"Just splendid, little Prue," said Jotham.

"Couldn't have been better," said old Mrs. Green.

Then Prue crept up on her father's lap to see "all the other tabs," she said.

"The 'Chapeau Blanc,' which Miss Dayton says means the White Hat," announced Jotham. This time the curtain swept aside to disclose Phoebe Small's little face beneath a hat with white gauzy ruffles upon the brim, and a feather held in place by a knot of blue ribbon. A pearly kerchief about the shoulders was most becoming to Phoebe, whose usually expressionless face looked almost piquant under the saucy white hat and feather.

"Don't she look like a photograph?" whispered Mrs. Small, "and a good deal nicer, if I do say it as shouldn't," and Mrs. Small looked around with a sniff at those present who possibly thought their daughters prettier.

Now, Phoebe's principal defects were an abundance of freckles, and an absence of character in her small face; but the costume was becoming, and the freckles not apparent in the light in which she was posed; so her heart was delighted with words of commendation, and she hoped that Jotham Potts had seen her tableau.

As a matter of fact, Jotham had not seen her; for, having announced that number, he had sat down and waited for Miss Dayton to appear. The next number on the programme was his, and now Helen stepped from behind the curtain to announce it.

"We will now listen to a solo by Jotham Potts."

"Oh! oo! oo! Does your Jotham sing?" asked Mrs. Brimblecom of Mrs. Potts.

"Why, no; leastways I never heard him," said Jotham's mother, with a twinkle in her eyes, for did she not know of Jotham's evenings spent in practising this very solo with Miss Dayton's accompaniment?

Randy had said one day to Helen, "You'd ought to hear Jotham Potts whistle. He does it just splendid. It sounds just like the brook rippling."

When Helen made her plans for the entertainment, she invited him to give a whistling solo.

"Oh, I'd do anything to 'blige you, Miss Dayton, but who'd want to hear me whistle?" said Jotham.

Then Helen told the boy how many people gave whistling solos in the city, with a piano accompaniment, and Jotham consented to "jest try it" with the piano.

After announcing the number, Helen seated herself, and played a pretty little prelude, and then Jotham commenced to whistle a simple piece which Helen played, called "The Alpine Echo," in which there was an imitation of an Alpine horn, followed by echoing notes an octave higher.

Jotham was, indeed, a charming whistler, and as his courage rose, his notes sounded true and flutelike, making the song and echoes, the piano ever aiding him, until with a final thrill and flourish he finished his solo, and, blushing and bowing, retired.

The little assembly was much excited and there were repeated calls for one more whistling solo, and cries of "fine," and "that beats all," and "whistle just once more, Jotham." So Helen resumed her seat at the piano, and this time Jotham whistled a medley in which were heard "The Girl I Left Behind Me," "Yankee Doodle," and "The Star-Spangled Banner."

"There stood Randy as the Demure little Maid"

"Hooray for Jotham and Miss Dayton, I say!" shouted Reuben Jenks, and everybody cheered.

Jotham was very happy over his musical success, and with a beaming face he announced, "Our next tableau is a copy of the large photograph on the right wall called 'The Broken Pitcher,' by Greuze."

This time the curtain drew aside and there stood Randy, sweet Randy, as the demure little maid with the broken pitcher hanging to her wrist, her beautiful hair loosely bound, and her large gray eyes looking out at one for all the world like the Greuze model.

"Isn't she lovely, mother?" said Jotham, who had stolen out in front of the frame in order to make sure of seeing this tableau.

"Well, I must say, she is," said Mrs. Potts. "She's always a pretty girl, but I do declare to-night she's nothin' short of handsome."

"So I say," said Jotham, and even Randy's parents were surprised at her beauty. The tableau was recalled, and this time Randy blushed most becomingly because of the encore.

"Oh, do see my Randy!" called little Prue, who had been nodding when the tableau was first shown, and awoke with a start to see her dear Randy looking out from the frame.

"The next number will be a solo by Katie Buffum." Immediately wee Katie was in position. She was not diffident in the least, and clasping her chubby hands she at once piped up with cheery voice:-

"Once there was a little mouse No bigger than my fumb; He crept into my pocket, Where he hunted for a crumb.

"I put my finger in there, Just to see what there was in it; But the little mouse was naughty, And he bit me in a minute."

This solo, so cunningly sung by the pudgy little mite, "brought down the house," and little Katie and her family were delighted with the praise which she received. Still the little girl stood upon the platform until the audience began to think that she wished to sing another verse.

"Go on, Katie," called her brother Jack, "what yer waiting for?"

"I forgot somefin and I dunno what. Oh, yes, I do. It's dis," and, making a comical little bow, this very conscientious little soloist left the platform, feeling that now her performance was complete.

Every one laughed and gave Katie more praise, and she curled up in her mother's lap, feeling her wee self to be a very successful singer.

"We will now look at a tableau called 'Titian's Daughter,'" announced Jotham.

Away flew the curtain and Jemima Babson stood in the fine pose, copying to perfection the engraving of that subject. Jemima was resplendent.

"Oh! oh!" ejaculated every one. A glint of bright light shone in her eyes. She had liked that picture better than any which Miss Dayton had shown the girls when they had called for the first rehearsal, and was delighted when Helen chose it for her tableau.

Next came her sister Belinda as the "Magdalene." Belinda always wore her yellow hair in braids, but to-night it shone like rippling gold over her shoulders. With her blue eyes uplifted, and the shimmering mass of yellow hair, who could believe that the "Magdalene" was Belinda Babson, the girl who climbed every apple tree in her father's orchard, and laughed at chance passers-by from the highest branches.

"A solo by Miss Dayton will close the entertainment."

Helen had sung at church with the congregation, but until to-night no one, not even Randy, had heard her sing a solo.

Ah, how sweet and clear sounded her voice as, looking across at old Sandy McLeod, she sang "The Bluebells of Scotland."

The proverbial pin could have been heard had it been dropped. As the last notes ceased, old Sandy arose, and, stoutly thumping on the floor with his cane, shouted, "Well, noo, that's bonny, say I, Sandy McLeod."

"That's so," said little Reuben Jenks, under his breath, for he sat quite near old Sandy and was a bit afraid of him. The old Scotchman owned a large farm on the outskirts of the town and was reported to have a deal of money, which most people said he never spent. He lived alone and was said to be rather crusty.

One day, when out for a walk, Helen, in passing his door, saw old Sandy sitting on his door-stone, trying to thread a needle. Helen paused for a moment, saying kindly, "Please let me thread it for you."

The old man scowled and hesitated, then surrendered the needle. Helen threaded it; then, after a few pleasant words, resumed her walk.

The old fellow mumbled something, possibly thanks, and ever after that morning pulled off his cap to Helen when he met her.

Mrs. Gray laughed when Helen said she intended to invite him to the entertainment, saying that he would never come. He came, however, very promptly, and it was for him she sang the old Scotch ballad.

"Now," said Helen, "let us all sing, 'Should Auld Acquaintance be Forgot,'" and with a will they sang it, old Sandy joining in the chorus.

It was now quite late, but good old Parson Spooner rose and proposed three cheers for the young lady who had planned such a beautiful entertainment. They were given heartily, and then every one crowded around Helen to clasp her hand and thank her again, and of all the merry party no one was happier than she.

Turning to Mrs. Gray, after the last guest had departed, Helen said, "I have often helped to entertain, with some success, but in the city one does not always feel the thanks so enthusiastically expressed to be sincere, but who could doubt the genuineness of the kind words spoken to-night?"



Chapter IX. Callers


"Randy, wake up!"

"Yes, oh yes, in a minute," Randy answered, drowsily.

"No, now, Randy, wake up now! I want to talk about those tab things what we had last night," and two little soft arms wound their way about sleepy Randy's neck.

Randy rubbed her eyes, laughing as she said, "Do call them tableaux, Prue, can't you remember that? Tableaux, Prue, say so."

"Tabby-lows!" shouted Prue. "How's that?"

"Better," said Randy, still laughing.

"Well, whatever you call 'em, yours was the prettiest, Randy dear, the very prettiest, and Jotham said so, too, so of course it's true," said little Prue, who had been sitting up in bed in order to see her sister's face when she repeated the compliment.

"Now, Prue," said Randy, "did he say that because you asked him?"

"Why, no," said the child, whose smiling face now assumed an injured expression. "He didn't say it to me 'tall. He said it to his mother; I heard him, and she said she thought so, too, I heard her; she sat just behind us. Now, Randy Weston, I thought it was real nice to tell you, and that's what I waked you up for."

"It's all very nice," Randy answered, "that you liked my picture best; and do you know, little sister, I would rather have you pleased than almost any one, next to father and mother."

"Why?" questioned the little girl, in genuine surprise.

"Because," said her sister, "you're a little girl who means just what she says."

"Yes, I do mean it, Randy dear; you did look just the best of any one, but you'd ought to seen Jotham," she continued, "he meant it, too. He meant it just tremenjous!"

"Well, Jotham's kind, too," said Randy; then, with a happy little sigh, she turned a smiling face to little Prue as she said, "'most every one's good, I do believe."

"Not near as good as you, Randy," said Prue, thoughtfully; but, she added, brightening, "I mean to be good all day, 'cause why do you s'pose, Randy? 'Cause I had such a good time last night."

"That's a good reason," said Randy. Soon Randy proposed dressing, and at the breakfast table Prue resumed the conversation with which she had awakened Randy.

All agreed that it had been just a lovely evening, but the little girl was not quite satisfied.

"Well, now, we did have a splendid time," said she, "but I want you to say my Randy was just the best of all."

"Why, of course, we say so," said her father, laughing; "but who sang a nice little song?"

"Oh, I 'most forgot, I sang a little tune and so did Katie Buffum."

"So you did, so you did," said her father, "and your mother and I thought you little girls did your parts well."

"I think they all did wonderful," said Mrs. Weston. "I was jest proud of my girls, and my neighbors' children, too. I do declare, I believe Miss Dayton can do anything. Last evening jest did me good. Well, this won't do for me," she added, "there's a sight to do to-day."

"We'll help," said Randy and Prue together.

"I guess I'll have to have you help me, Randy, if you're a mind to."

"Me too, me too," cried Prue.

So Randy filled a large pan with hot water and Prue armed herself with a long towel, and the two commenced work as if their lives depended upon it.

Mrs. Weston was an energetic woman and soon her pies were made and baked, and standing to cool upon the table. The children had worked bravely all the forenoon, Randy doing a great deal to be helpful, and Prue assisting in many small things. Randy was just thinking that she would surely scorch if she remained in the hot kitchen another minute, when such an interesting thing happened.

Up the well-trodden path to the kitchen door came Mrs. Hodgkins, "the best woman in town and the newsiest," as Silas Barnes had described her.

The children were always delighted to see her coming, as a call from Mrs. Hodgkins meant numberless scraps of gossip, and in a small country town where neighbors are few and far between, anything in the shape of news is welcome.

Laboriously the good woman stepped from door-stone to threshold, and voluminously filling the wooden rocker which Mrs. Weston offered her, she fanned herself with her handkerchief, ejaculating between gasps for breath, "Lor' me! How hot it is! Ef I ever get my breath again, I'll try ter talk a spell." But it would have been something greater than shortness of breath that could have completely silenced Mrs. Hodgkins. A few energetic movements of the palm-leaf fan which Randy offered her, a few moments of jerky rocking in the old wooden rocker, and she was ready to begin.

"Well there, Mis' Weston, I b'lieve I can talk now," said she. "Joel was goin' over to the barn raisin', an' I told him I didn't care nothin' 'bout seein' it; but ef he'd a mind to drive me as fur as your house, I'd call in an' look at yer a spell, 'n' I can't spare the time to talk 'n' not do somethin' at the same time," and she drew from a capacious bag an old woollen stocking, saying, "I thought I'd bring my knittin' along and p'haps git this stockin' footed down while I was talkin'."

"Why, that's a woollen stocking," said little Prue.

"Lor' yes, child, it's one of Joel's winter stockin's. I was up attic yesterday huntin' over my rag bag, 'n' I came across a lot of his old winter stockin's that I'd 'bout decided to throw away, 'n' I says to myself, 'Sophrony Hodgkins, that's downright wasteful,' 'n' I've just set myself a task to foot 'em down 'fore winter." Her needles clicked furiously, and she knit around several times before she spoke again. With her brows contracted she worked until she felt sure that her knitting was "straightened out," then she paused for a chat.

"Did you know," she commenced, "that Phoebe Small was a beggin' an' a teasin' her pa to send her to boardin' school? Well, she is, 'n' none of the girls could find out what put it in her head ter want ter go 'til Jemima Babson teased it out of her. Seems at the picnic Miss Dayton, in some story she was tellin' the children, let out that she went away from home ter school, 'n' Phoebe got the idee that ter go away ter school would jest be the makin' of her. Jemima don't care what she says, an' she up an' told Phoebe that it 'would take more 'n boardin' school to make her as sweet as Miss Dayton,' all of which was true, but not ter Phoebe's likin'."

"Is she going to boarding school?" asked Randy.

"Land, no! Her ma told her to wait 'til she'd learned all there was ter learn at our deestric' school 'fore she talked 'bout goin' anywhere else; and that 'bout finished it."

Here Mrs. Hodgkins, who had said all this without stopping, paused to take breath. "I shouldn't like my girls to be away at boardin' school," said Mrs. Weston, "and I think Mrs. Small would feel 'bout as I do."

"An' there's Mrs. Buffum," continued Mrs. Hodgkins, "with all her children, 'n' she says they've got to be where she can see ter them, an' git their larnin' ter home, and now I'll tell yer the joke. It seems Miss Dayton laughed when she heard about it, for she wasn't at boardin' school at all; she was at school, and was boardin' at a big hotel with her aunt, 'n' the hotel was near the school. But there, ye know Phoebe Small never gits anything more 'n half right.

"But I'll tell ye somethin' worth tellin'. Old Sandy McLeod's comin' to meetin'!"

"You don't say!" ejaculated Mrs. Weston, lifting her hands, and letting them fall upon her lap, thereby showing the surprise which Mrs. Hodgkins thought this piece of news deserved.

"Well, you see, it was this way," continued the bearer of this pleasant bit of gossip; "it commenced with Miss Dayton's doin' a few little things fer him. Nobody b'lieved fer a minute that he'd come to Mrs. Gray's, to the entertainment; but Miss Dayton asked him in her pretty way, and he hadn't the heart ter refuse ter come, 'n' he had such a nice evenin', and heard her sing that Scotch song, and all, 'n' he says now he's made a great mistake stayin' off by himself so long. An' he's been to Parson Spooner and, ef you'll believe it, hired a whole pew, sayin' he could well afford to; en' he says that as there's only one in his family, any one that wants ter can sit in his pew, any time.

"He says he always went ter church, though he calls it 'kirk,' or something like that, when he was a young man and lived in Scotland; an' he says, rain or shine, we'll see him in his place every Sunday, after this. When somebody asked him what made him think of goin' ter church again, he drew that great rough hand of his across his eyes, and jist said, 'It's all the doin' of that lass,' meanin' Miss Dayton. And let me tell yer somethin' queerer than that! Did ye notice old Nathan Lawton the other night?

"My! how his eyes twinkled when the children were singin'. Ye know he's dreadful fond of children; but ye know, too, ef ye know anything, that he's tighter 'n the bark of a tree. Well, Miss Dayton heard say what a bad room fer heatin' that schoolroom was, and how the little buildin' was kind er fer off fer most of the children.

"Wal', after we'd seen all the pictures, or what yer call 'ems, and she'd sung her song so sweetly, old Nathan spoke ter her, an' thanked her for the pleasant evenin', sayin' he'd do most anythin' ter obleege her, in return, as ye might say, fer his enjoyment; and I had ter laugh softly ter myself when she put her little white hand on his arm and said she thought nothin' would please her so much as ter think, when she went home, that the children here would start ter school in a comfortable, warm room, 'specially ef it could be one that was handy for them all; and she asked him, as one of the see-lect-men, ter manage it some way.

"He just took one look at the smilin' face lookin' up at him, and then and there offered the use of that front room of his'n, and promised ter keep it roastin' warm all winter, from his own woodpile. His house is just about the handiest ter every one of any house in town, and I do say that was a han'some offer.

"Any other folks might have asked him 'til they got tired askin'; but he couldn't refuse her, 'n' I don't wonder. She's just done us a world of good this summer, 'n' in such an easy, pretty way that we've just enjoyed it.

"And now I've come ter what fetched me here ter day. Mrs. Gray said ter me that Miss Dayton never went to an apple-bee; and I was thinkin' she got up that picnic, and that splendid evenin' with the music,"-"and tab things," said Prue,-"an' I've been thinkin' it's 'bout time we got up somethin' fer her," said good Mrs. Hodgkins, and she beamed upon Mrs. Weston and Randy as she waited for their approval.

"I think so too," said Randy and her mother together; "but do you think that she would enjoy an apple-bee?"

"Well, we couldn't get up anything fine," said Mrs. Hodgkins; "but they do say that our apple-bees are 'bout the best that they have anywhere 'round here."

Mrs. Weston thought a moment, then said: "Our house is the biggest in the neighborhood, an' Miss Dayton has been so kind to Randy and Prue that I'll say we'll have the apple-bee here, and I think we'll try extry hard to make it a pleasant one. I'm real glad you thought of it, Mrs. Hodgkins. I think we'll all enjoy it, an' if Miss Dayton does, that's all we'll ask for."

"Well, ef here ain't Joel," said Mrs. Hodgkins, "an' I'll have ter be goin'; but I'll come over an' help ye git ready for the apple-bee, so good-by 'til I see ye again," and she hastily took her departure, puffing down the walk like a small engine, and clambering into the wagon beside her husband. "Good-by, I'll be over ter help ye," she cried, looking back; then they jogged off down the road.

Randy and her mother turned from the doorway and walked back into the kitchen. "Look at that clock, Randy!" exclaimed Mrs. Weston; "I guess it'll be a funny dinner to-day," and she commenced to make hasty preparations for the noon meal.

Mr. Weston laughed good-naturedly when he heard of the forenoon caller, and in consequence the "picked-up dinner." "Lots of folks haven't as good a dinner as this, mother," said he, "and I must say, I'm glad she came in ter talk ter ye and so make ye stop workin' a spell. Where is Prue?"

Sure enough, the little girl who was always eager to tell a part of any happening was, for once, not in evidence. So busy had Randy and her mother been, preparing the dinner, that Prue had not been missed.

"She went out when Mrs. Hodgkins went, don't you remember, mother?" said Randy. "She ran down the path, waving her hand and saying good-by when they drove away."

"Well, Randy, run out and find her, and tell her ter come in ter dinner. Dear me! I hope she hasn't got inter some scrape. She's been out of sight long enough fer anything." Out rushed Randy, calling loudly, "Prue! Prue! where are you?"

"I'm right here, and I'm very busy," came an answering shout from behind the house.

Around the house ran Randy, and such a funny sight she saw!

"Why, Prue Weston, you naughty girl!" said Randy in dismay.

"I ain't naughty," said the child.

"You are, too," responded Randy, "to plague kitty like that. You just take her out of that rain-water tub this minute! If she wasn't the best old cat in the world, she would have scratched you well for ducking her like that."

Prue tried to lift pussy out, and Randy ran to help her.

Poor pussy! If Randy had been a few minutes later, she must surely have been drowned, for, just as Randy arrived, Prue was holding Tabby's head under water "to let it soak," she said.

"What ever made you do such a thing?" questioned Randy, when the cat was once more on dry land; "don't you know that in a few minutes more you would have drowned her?"

"Drowned!" said Prue in a horrified whisper, "drowned, did you say, Randy?"

"Why, of course," said Randy, impatiently; "don't you know she'd drown with her head under water?"

"Why, Randy, that's awful!" said Prue. "I didn't mean to hurt Tabby. I only meant to help her. She comed down from the field what's been burned over, and she was all smutty, and I thought I'd give her a good washing; so I put her in the tub, but the smut sticked awful, and I thought I'd soak her and p'rhaps she'd wash easier; and, Randy, whatever you say, she isn't drowned one mite. Just see her washing herself dry in the sun."

"Oh, Prue, Prue!" said Randy, "what shall I do with you? You do the queerest things! Go tell Tabby you're sorry this minute. If kitty had died, just think how you'd felt."

"Now, don't you make me cry, Randy," said Prue, "'cause you know I love Tabby, and I didn't mean to hurt her."

The cat was an unusually placid animal, or she never would have permitted a little girl to do such a thing. Prue had always used her for a doll, dressing her up in all sorts of things, and sometimes dragging her about in a wooden box which she called a "carriage." This alleged vehicle was an old soap box, beautifully padded with a woollen shawl. It had neither wheels nor springs, and as little Prue dragged it along, it thumped over twigs and stones with the most surprising jolts. Pussy, however, seemed to have a species of lethargy, for she slept through it all; so Prue insisted that she liked the ride. The family declared the cat to be absolutely without vim; but that deficiency in her make-up made her a delightful plaything for Prue.

After dinner Mrs. Weston talked long and seriously with her little daughter, telling her that as pussy was so gentle and willing to be played with, she ought to be very kind to her and never do anything that Tabby would not like.

"But I wanted Tabby to be clean in time for the folks to see her when we have the apple-bee," said Prue.

"Oh, she'll be clean as clean can be by that time," said her mother, smiling. "She'll have a whole week to wash in. I think that when you wish to do something to kitty different from what you've done before, you'd better come and ask me first."

"I will," said the little girl, promptly, and Mrs. Weston knew that pussy was safe from any new torment, for Prue always kept her word, and she loved Tabby dearly.

Early in the afternoon, as Mrs. Weston sat by the window mending, another wagon stopped at the door; and this time a tall, angular woman came up the path with nervous haste. The door was open, and without waiting to knock, the caller walked in and seated herself.

"There, I guess you're s'prised to see me, Mis' Weston, but I jest had ter come."

"Well, I am surprised," responded Mrs. Weston; "but I'm just as pleased ter see ye. Take off yer bunnit."

"I'll take it off jest ter show it ter ye," said Mrs. Jenks. "I thought I'd had a change of heart years an' years ago, but I guess I've jest got it now."

"Do tell! Why, Mrs. Jenks, how ye talk," and in blank amazement Mrs. Weston stopped mending, the stocking, however, still drawn over her hand.

"Well, ye might as well stop mendin' an' listen, fer I've come ter tell ye quite a story. It all began with this bunnit. I stepped over ter Mis' Gray's one mornin' of an arrant, an' I chanced to say something about not havin' a decent bunnit fer Sunday, an' I said I had a bunnit I'd bought down ter Barnses and quite a lot of old ribbon that was plenty good enough to trim it with; but, says I, I've no more idee how to trim it than a cat. Miss Dayton was just comin' in the door with a lot of wild flowers and green stuff, and she offered, so sweetly, to call over in the afternoon and jest tack the ribbons on fer me that, some way, I had ter let her do it.

"Well, she came over and I got out my ribbon-it was that I had on a blue dress of mine once-and she sat down to trim it. It took some time, and to this day I don't know how it came about, but the first thing I knew she was a-makin' me see how much better it was to give rather than receive. Now I've been pretty 'near' and savin', but I never meant ter be mean; but she led me to talk of the time when Reuben was little, and 'fore I knew it I was tellin' that girl how I used to leave my work jist ter look at him in the old wooden cradle. I told her what I'd most forgot myself: how I could never let him lay there, but jest had ter take him up and hug him jest a minute an' then go on with my work. I've never meant ter be hard with the boy, but p'r'aps I forgit sometimes that he's pretty young still.

"Well, Miss Dayton looked up from the bows she was makin' pretty, and says she, 'Reuben's a nice little fellow, and I think, if you were to try it, you'd find he liked petting still. I've talked with him many times since I've been here, and I find that his one idea seems to be to grow up as fast as possible so as to be able to help father and mother.'

"I tell ye, Mis' Weston, I was all took back to find a sweet young girl who was 'most a stranger to us had learned my boy's good traits 'fore I had. Well, when Reuben came in jist 'fore supper-time with his jacket with a big tear in it, I was jist ready ter say somethin'. He took the jacket off and hung it on my chair ter be mended; and layin' his hand on my shoulder, he said, 'I wish I didn't get my things tore quite so often, mother, but this time I couldn't help it.'

"It took lots er resolution, but I jest kissed him on his forehead, and the s'prised look on his face made me realize how long it had been sence I'd kissed him before.

"'Reuben,' says I, 'no matter what I say when I speak hasty, just remember that yer mother thinks the world of ye!'

"'F you'll believe me, that boy flew at me, and puttin' his arms round my neck he said, 'Why, mother, a minute ago I was awful sorry, and now I'm almost glad I tore my jacket.'

"'So be I,' says I, and then we both laughed, but we were jest as near cryin', and I tell you, Mis' Weston, I ain't never goin' ter have such a distance, so to speak, between my boy and me as there has been; I guess we understand each other now."

"Well, I don't know when I've heard any better news," said Mrs. Weston, taking off her glasses and slowly wiping them. "I think pretty well of little Reuben, and I b'lieve, properly encouraged, he'll make a good man."

"Well, now, it beats all how Miss Dayton does things," said Mrs. Jenks. "Some folks would have blundered about it in a way that would have made me mad, but to this day, I do say, I don't know how she done it. And look at that bunnit," continued enthusiastic Mrs. Jenks, "didn't she make them bows pretty? I declare, there ain't a prettier bunnit in the meetin'-house than that."

"'Tis pretty," assented Mrs. Weston; "just as pretty as it can be."

"So I say," said Mrs. Jenks, "and now this mornin' I met Mis' Hodgkins and her husband. 'They'd just come from here,' they said, 'and,' says Mis' Hodgkins, 'we're goin' ter have the first apple-bee ter Mis' Weston's and,' says she, sorter smilin', 'I ain't sure's you'll be very anxious ter help, but we're all goin' ter do our part ter help make a grand time fer Miss Dayton;' and says I, 'If it's fer Miss Dayton, I'll agree to contribute anything you like toward the supper, and I'll go right over now an' tell Mis' Weston so.' My, but didn't she look at me! I laughed ter myself, an' I said right out loud, as I drove off, 'Matilda Jenks, this is the last time any one will have a chance ter call ye stingy.'

"I commenced this mornin' by givin' Reuben a lot of maple sugar to treat the boys with, and I tell you Miss Dayton's 'bout right, it does feel good to give. We've been prospered, and from this time forth I ain't goin' ter be foolish with this world's goods; but I vow I won't be mean; so I've come ter say that if there's anythin' I can offer ter help make the bee a success, jest say the word an' you shall have it."

"Mrs. Jenks," said Mrs. Weston, kindly, "I always said ye hadn't but one fault, and now you've overcome that, seems to me you're pretty near perfect."

"I guess there's room fer improvement," said Mrs. Jenks, grasping her friend's extended hand, "but I've started in the right direction. Now, I must be goin', and remember I'll do anything ter help along that bee."

Mrs. Weston promised to remember, and as rapidly as she came Matilda Jenks strode down the path and drove away.

A few minutes later Randy came running in at the door. "Oh, mother," said she, "I ran out to look for Prue again, while Mrs. Jenks was talking, and, mother, she's doing the cunningest thing. She's playing read. She's lying on the grass back of the house, with the fairy book in front of her. She's making b'lieve read to Tabby. Do come and see her."

Softly they made their way around the house and, sure enough, there lay Prue, the wonderful fairy book before her, her elbows on the book, and her chin in her hands. Soon they were near enough to hear what she was reading, and yet not to be observed.

Prue and Tabby reading the Fairy Book

"Now, Tabby," she was saying, "you mustn't go to sleep when I'm reading to you. Now you listen: The princess-that's Miss Dayton, Tabby-is very beautiful, and so I know there must be a prince, somewhere, that she knows; 'cause, Tabby, in the fairy tales the princesses always has princes; and, Tabby, I'll tell you truly, Miss Dayton is prettier than any picture in this book. And, Tabby, she loves little girls and big girls, like my Randy, and she loves big womens and old womens and old mens, like Sandy McLeod; and, Tabby, I b'lieve, I most b'lieve she loves you, and I'm going to ask her.

"She prob'ly does love you; she seems to love everybody. This isn't all in the book, Tabby, but what I tell you that isn't in the book is true. I'm most glad the fairy stories ain't true; for if things did happen like what's in the book, maybe you'd turn into a frog, and then, Tabby, I couldn't hug you."

Here Tabby rubbed her head against Prue's little arm. "There," said the child, "you knew what I said, didn't you?" and she sprang up, catching Tabby in her arms to "love her," as she called it.

"Oh, did you hear me reading to my kitty?" shouted Prue, as she caught sight of her smiling audience.

"We heard ye, and I guess some of it was full as pretty as what was in the book," said Mrs. Weston, and together the three wended their way back to the house, followed by Tabby.



Chapter X. The Apple-Bee


The apple-bee was to occur on Thursday evening, and Mrs. Weston and Randy, with little Prue for "errand boy," had been busily employed in preparation for the delightful event. Prue made a fine little page, so delighted was she to be useful.

"Bring me the yellow mixin' bowl, Prue," called Mrs. Weston. Into the closet darted Prue, and over to the table with the big bowl she hastened. "Now what shall I do to help the apple-bee?" said she.

"Perhaps the apple-bee would like to have you pull all the stems off these raisins," said her mother, laughing. So Prue sat down upon the large braided rug near the door and began to stem the raisins with all her might. Soon Mrs. Hodgkins arrived and imperiously ordered her husband to "lug in that crock from the wagon."

"For mercy's sake!" ejaculated Mrs. Weston, "whatever have you got there?" as, puffing and blowing, Joel Hodgkins landed an immense stone crock upon the kitchen table.

"Well, I'll tell ye," said Mrs. Hodgkins; "I know this is no donation party, but I had this big crock er doughnuts, and I says, says I, 'Somebody will eat 'em ef I take 'em over,' so here they be."

"Sophrony wouldn't think she was takin' part in the bee if some of her prize doughnuts wasn't in the treat."

Every one laughed at Joel Hodgkins's speech, and the doughnuts were very kindly received.

"We all know that your doughnuts are the best in town," said Mrs. Weston, "and I guess everybody'll be glad to have one, I'm sure-" but the remark was left incomplete as she hastened to the door to admit Mrs. Jenks.

"How are ye, Mrs. Weston? I had Reuben drive me over, and I've brought a lot of those big red apples, ef ye don't mind havin' 'em. Reuben an' I have rubbed and polished 'em 'til they shine like everything. I thought maybe they'd make the table look pretty," and she flushed as she offered this first contribution of her life.

"They will look handsome," said Mrs. Weston. "I declare it was real thoughtful in you to bring them. Why, for goodness' sake! How many did ye bring?" as Reuben arrived with basket after basket, which he placed in a row upon the table, and then commenced to make another row upon the swing table on the opposite side of the room.

"I've no idee how many there is," said Mrs. Jenks. "Reuben an' I commenced rubbin' and polishin' 'em right after breakfast, and we never stopped rubbin' 'til we was ready to start. Then we packed in the baskets, and here we be."

Meanwhile the neighbors had removed bonnets and shawls, and three energetic housekeepers, with the help of Randy and little Prue, succeeded in "keeping things moving," as Mrs. Jenks had expressed it.

Suddenly, Jotham Potts's dark face peeped in at the door, with, "Say, Mrs. Weston, I'm a master hand at chopping, so any time I can help, just give me a chopping knife and tray, and I'll work like a major."

"I'll bear ye in mind, and call ye when I want ye," answered Mrs. Weston, and Prue rushed to the door to offer him a handful of raisins, saying, "I give them to you, Jotham, 'cause you're the biggest and the nicest boy I know."

"Thank you, pussy. Hey! where are you now?" and he swung the child lightly up on his shoulder.

"May I go with Jotham 'stead of picking any more raisins?"

"Yes, run along," said her mother, glad to have her in the care of some one whom she could trust to keep her out of mischief.

So busily did every one work that by Wednesday night the cooking for the spread was completed. Old and young had helped with a will to make the evening a success, and at last Thursday arrived, although Prue confided to Randy that she "b'lieved it never would."

When the final decorations for the apple-bee were in place, everything needed for the sumptuous spread ready, there was absolutely nothing to do but wait patiently for the evening to come.

The apples were to be cut, cored, and strung in the kitchen, the spread was to be in the "settin' room," and all the rooms were decorated so gayly that they appeared festive indeed. Randy had decorated the "best room," making it gay with branches of autumn leaves, in gorgeous colors, and sprays of scarlet privet berries.

The Babson girls had had a bright idea in regard to trimming the "settin' room."

"What's the reason we can't tie the corn husks together at the tip ends, and keep on tying 'til we get enough to go around the room, and then hang up the long string of ears and husks just above the pictures?" queried Belinda Babson.

"Oh, Belinda!" screamed Randy, "that's such a bright idea, what ever made you think of it?"

"I just did think of it, that's all," said Belinda, much pleased that her design for decoration met with approval. So the girls rushed out to the barn to find Mr. Weston and ask permission to use the corn.

"Land, yes," he said when approached, "use anything within reach, I say, so long as it helps to make the house look pooty;" so, laughing gayly, the girls filled their aprons with corn, and running to the house commenced, in furious haste, to tie the husks together.

All the young friends had called that morning in a body to offer their help to Randy, and she had most gladly accepted it.

While the girls were tying the corn husks, Jotham Potts and Reuben Jenks were making themselves very useful, for by this time the girls had discovered that it required a great many ears of corn with which to garland or festoon the room. The boys brought the corn in wheelbarrow loads and then offered to help do the tying.

"Oh, boys couldn't do this," said Phoebe Small, who was much piqued to see that whenever Jotham sat down to rest, he sat near Randy.

"That's one of your pleasant speeches, Phoebe," said Reuben Jenks, before his friend Jotham could reply; whereat Phoebe tied a hard knot in a corn husk with such unnecessary vim that it broke.

Reuben laughed slyly; and Randy with her usual kindness, appearing not to notice the tilt, praised Phoebe's pretty arrangement of red and yellow ears, and thus smoothed "ruffled feathers."

Jotham looked at Randy with real admiration. "I b'lieve she always does the right thing," thought the boy; so Phoebe's spite only strengthened the admiration of Randy's young cavalier.

"I think I've got a first-rate notion for decorating," said Jotham, "and if you'll let me and Reuben do it I tell you we can make that front walk as light as day, and as handsome as a picture for to-night, Randy," and Jotham looked at the girl with eyes that sparkled with enthusiasm.

"Of course I'll let you do it, if it's fine," said Randy.

"Now you needn't ask questions, for it's a secret; and Reuben an' me'll do it, without telling anybody but your pa," said Jotham, and out rushed the boys to hold a whispered conclave on the back stairs.

"My, won't that be prime!" ejaculated Reuben, amazed at the brilliancy of Jotham's plan, and proud to be taken into a secret by a boy three years older than himself.

Mr. Weston laughed long and loudly when the boys unfolded their plan, and declared that he'd do his part of it now. Accordingly, he soon appeared in the path which led from the road to the door, and began to drive long stakes into the ground on either side of the walk.

"What are you doing, father?" called Randy.

"Drivin' stakes, ain't I?" he responded, and with that she was obliged to be contented. The boys were out of sight, and the girls wondered what they were doing; but when at night a line of brilliant lights glowed on each side of the walk, they willingly declared the decoration a success.

Mr. Weston had driven the stakes quite near together and every one was capped with a jack-o'-lantern made from a great golden pumpkin, so that, from road to doorway, a line of grinning goblins served to give a flaming welcome.

At last everything was in readiness and the guests began to arrive. Reuben's mother had listened with much interest to the boy's scheme, and had insisted on donating all the pumpkins required.

And now the wagons began to arrive, and great praise was bestowed upon the boys for their novel lighting of the walk. The pumpkins made very fine lamps, and one giant of its kind, fastened high above the door, smiled broadly upon each new arrival.

Team after team drove up to the door, and shouts and laughter rang out on the crisp evening air as the guests first saw the gleaming lantern rows.

At last nearly every one had arrived, and the rooms were bright with happy faces. In one corner a group of old ladies were chatting about the bees and huskings which they had enjoyed in their youth.

The farmers and their wives were buzzing away over the latest bit of village gossip, the women telling it as they "b'lieved it was," and the men using convincing arguments to show that they had heard it "straight" at the store at the four corners.

Girls and boys tried to out-talk each other, and everywhere the children ran in and out, playing "hide-and-seek" behind the sturdy forms of their elders.

Helen had coaxed Randy to refrain from brushing back every curling lock, telling her that her hair was made to curl; and thus convinced, Randy appeared at the bee with a soft fluff of her light brown hair making a halo about her face.

"I must say Miss Dayton's right; I like the looks of it," said Mrs. Weston, when Randy appeared before her with her hair dressed in the manner which Miss Dayton had suggested; so with much impatience Randy waited to see the look of approval on Helen's face when she should arrive. And others were looking for Helen in whose honor this festival was planned.

At last a resounding "Whoa! Be still, can't ye?" announced the arrival of old Sandy McLeod, and great was the surprise when, as Randy opened the door, Helen-smiling, radiant Helen-came in, saying, "Good evening, friends," and followed by her ancient cavalier, old Sandy.

"The lass is late because too many lads wanted to bring her," said Sandy, his old eyes twinkling.

"That is true," said Helen, laughing, "too many lads, so I gave my choice to the eldest. Now for my bundle," and stepping out into the centre of the room Sandy showed, for the first time, that he held a large parcel.

"I have a little surprise for you, dear friends," said Helen; "I wished to offer my mite toward the evening's pleasure, so I will ask Mrs. Weston to allow Mr. McLeod-"

"Call me Sandy, lass," said the old man, gently.

"To allow Sandy," corrected the girl, "to place this box on the centre of the supper table, to be opened when we are all seated around the spread."

So the big box held its place of honor, and great was the curiosity concerning it.

The children now commenced to play "the needle's eye," an old game popular among the country children, which is very similar to "London Bridge."

"The needle's eye it doth comply With the thread which runs so true. It has caught many a very fine lass, And now it has caught you."

Little Hitty Buffum found herself a prisoner. However, she was soon kissed and released, and through the arch formed by clasped hands and uplifted arms trooped the children, keeping time to the sing-song chant of the queer verse. They saw nothing funny in the verse, however, and played the game with great enthusiasm.

Meanwhile the apples were being pared by industrious hands and soon the "stringing" began. Merrily the work went on with jokes and lively chatter, and before it seemed possible the task was completed.

The boys now gathered up the parings, carried them away, and once more the room was in order.

"Now, friends," said Randy's father, "let's all have supper." No one waited for a second invitation, and a cheery, happy party made a complete circle around the long table. What a spread that was! Hot baked beans and brown bread, mince pies, pumpkin pies, gingerbread and doughnuts, nuts and apples, made a "treat for a king," said old Sandy McLeod.

"Now, Mr. Weston," said Helen, "please open my box;" and when the cover was removed a chorus of "Ohs" and "Ahs" greeted the sight disclosed. Helen had sent to Boston for an immense box of bonbons, and to those simple country people, who knew naught but home-made confections, the rose and violet tinted dainties looked like a fairy gift. But if they were unacquainted with such candies, it took a fabulously short time to learn to like them, and soon the bottom of the box appeared.

Happy Helen, to have given so much pleasure! And now the table which had been so bountifully spread was beginning to look bare, for everybody had had a most excellent appetite, and had done full justice to the meal. The chairs were pushed back and old Sandy asked to have a bit of music. "The little lassies who sang the other night, canna they sing?" said he, looking kindly at Prue and Katie, who were playing "bean porridge hot" together.

"Ain't any pi-ano here," said Katie.

"Never mind that," said Helen; "I think if you and Prue sing the little songs which you sang the other evening so sweetly, Sandy will, in return, make some music for you."

"That I will," responded the old man, heartily; "but there's naught so blithe as the sound of a bairnie's voice."

So wee Katie was mounted upon a chair, in lieu of a platform, and she sang the little solo, "Once there was a little mouse," giving all the verses, and even remembering to make a little bow as Helen had taught her. Indeed, she bowed so vigorously that she barely escaped losing her balance. Then she hopped down, and little Prue sprang up in her place, singing, "Sometimes I am a daisy bloom," just as she had sung it at Mrs. Gray's on the evening of the tableaux. When she had finished the last lines,

"And next to those I love the best I love each one of you,"

she kissed her little finger tips to her admiring audience, as Helen had taught her to do.

Every one applauded, and old Sandy called the children to him, saying, "I'll make the music for ye now, I wad na hae the heart to refuse," and rising hastily he left the room. Every one was surprised at this abrupt movement and wondered if the childish voice had moved him too deeply, awakening the memories of his Scottish home and friends.

Silent he had ever been in regard to home and kindred, answering questions in a manner which invited no further queries; but since Helen's stay in the village he had warmed wonderfully toward his neighbors, and seemed quite unlike the silent old man whom they had known.

But while they were wondering about his absence, Sandy reappeared. What a change! Arrayed in all the bravery of a Scottish chieftain, old Sandy stood before them, a picture indeed.

Over a kilt of tartan he wore the red coat and plaid, and on his head, crowning his white locks, sat a genuine Scotch "bonnet," with an eagle feather black as night. In his hands he carried the bagpipes, and while the children stared, open-mouthed, Sandy commenced to play. "Scots Wha Hae" rang out with a wonderful skirl, followed by "Bonnie Prince Charlie," "Jock o' Hazeldean," and a half dozen more, until old Nathan Lawton declared that there was no keeping still with such music, and when at his request the pipes commenced to play a rollicking reel, old Nathan remarked that he used to cut "pigeon wings" and he guessed he could now, took his position in the centre of the floor, and proceeded to cut them in a wonderful manner.

If the children were delighted, so were their elders, for was this not a treat of which they had not dreamed? and, best of all, two old people who had been so cold and forbidding now were warmed and charmed into a friendly feeling with all their neighbors.

When Sandy and Nathan Lawton stopped to rest and regain their breath, the young people crowded around them to thank them and to examine the fine Scotch costume which Sandy wore.

"That's a pretty dress and jacket," said little Prue, admiringly, "and you've got such a long sash, too."

The child's admiration for his costume pleased the old man, and it was of small consequence to him that she called his kilt a dress. Lifting Prue upon his knee, he stroked her short fair curls, telling her how like the little lass she was who used to be his playmate in bonnie Scotland.

"'Why don't you send the Little Girl a Letter?'"

"Is she big as me?" asked the little girl, all unmindful that Sandy's child mate had had many years in which to grow.

A moment the old man hesitated, then, very gently, he told the child upon his knee of that other child away in bonnie Scotland; told her that when his little mate was a child, he had been a child too; that he had known her all his young life; that she had grown old as he had, and now-but here he paused, and practical little Prue, looking up at him, asked, "Is it far to Scotland?" Sandy told her that it was very far indeed.

"Too far to send letters?" was the next question.

"No," he assured her; "it was not as far as that."

"Then why don't you send the little girl a letter?" questioned Prue.

Those who had heard the question were fearful that the old Scotchman would be displeased.

For a moment a look of amazement rested on Sandy's face as he stared at the innocent questioner; then, as with an effort, he said, "I will, little lass, I will."

"I would," said little Prue, "and tell her there's another little girl, what you know, sends her love to her, will you, Sandy?"

"Bless the bairn! Ye hae mair wisdom than ye ken;" adding under his breath, "a deal mair wisdom than Sandy McLeod."

It was Helen, who, while walking by his house, had heard Sandy playing the pipes ever so softly, and looking in, had seen him playing, and, at the same time, looking lovingly at the old Scotch costume as it lay spread out upon the wooden chest in which it was usually kept. She had coaxed a part of his story from him that day, and he had declared he felt better for the telling.

The costume was one which his father had worn as chief of his clan when Sandy was a young man. There had been a dispute in which he and his father had been equally obstinate.

When the old man died, Sandy had left Scotland, taking with him the suit of tartan, the bagpipes, and, dearer than all, a letter in which his father forgave him for his part in the dispute. Further than this he refused to talk, saying nothing whatever as to living kinsmen or friends.

Having told a part of his story to Helen, to which she listened with ready interest and sympathy, it needed but a hit of judicious coaxing to get him to promise to play at the apple-bee.

And now the gayety, which had lulled while every one had listened to the music, revived, and each one present seemed to be trying his best to out-talk his neighbor.

"Isn't Miss Dayton's blue dress the very handsomest dress you ever saw?" said Jemima Babson.

"Yes, and isn't she the handsomest person you ever saw in any dress?" said Phoebe Small, looking sharply at Randy, who was looking unusually pretty with her hair dressed to show its curls and ripples.

"Miss Dayton's splendid, we all know that," said Jotham, blushing furiously; "but it don't make it out that Randy Weston isn't amazing pretty."

And here another voice chimed in, "Did yer ever taste anything like that candy in yer life?"

"It was just splendid, and I do b'lieve-"

"Have ye noticed Mrs. Jenks? I do declare, she's as much different from what she used ter be as possible. Why, she sent them fine apples, and gave the hull of them pumpkins, and-"

Just at this point Mrs. Buffum ejaculated, "Well, as I live! ef it ain't half-past ten o'clock," and she commenced at once to collect her brood. All were loath to leave the joyous scene, but the lateness of the hour made it imperative. Some one proposed a song before saying good night, and soon old and young voices chimed sweetly together as they sang:-

"All the year round, all the year round, What are the seasons to you or to me? Summer may go, bleak winds may blow, Roses crown winter if cheery we be. Sounds of the glad spring, pleasures the birds bring, These live in loving hearts where'er they're found; Sweet is the May time, sweet is the hay time, So sweet are loving lips, all the year round."

"Hooray for the apple-bee! Hooray for Miss Dayton!" shouted Reuben Jenks, "Hooray for the bagpipes and the dance!" Every one cheered, and Jotham, laughing at his friend's enthusiasm, shouted, "Hooray for every one and everything!" and they even cheered that; so, laughing and cheering, with lively chatter and snatches of song, wraps were donned and good nights said.

After the last guest had departed, Randy turned from the doorway, and going back into the house she sat down opposite her father, a happy smile upon her lips.

"Well, Randy," said her father, kindly, as he saw she had something to say.

"Oh, father," she said, "doesn't it make you happy to see every one having a good time?"

"Yes, indeed, it does," said father and mother together.

"I mean to try always to make people happy," said Randy.

"So do I," said little Prue; "but now let's go to bed."

Randy laughed, and saying, "You've done bravely, Prue, to keep your eyes open to-night," led her little sister up the stairs to their tiny chamber, where soon they were fast asleep.

The Babson girls talked until after midnight over the evening's entertainment, declaring it to be the "very greatest bee they ever went to."

Phoebe Small, having no sister to talk it over with, kept the candle burning until late that night, while she wrote in her diary a lengthy description of the event. Phoebe had heard her mother tell of keeping a diary when she was young, so, of course, Phoebe, who ardently admired her mother, immediately commenced to keep one.

Old Sandy McLeod, as he gallantly helped Helen Dayton to alight at Mrs. Gray's door, thanked her over and over again for the pleasure she had given him in allowing him to be her escort, telling her that he was glad enough that she had urged him to play the pipes, since the music had given such pleasure; adding, "Old Nathan and old Sandy hae' na been the best of friends and neighbors, but to-night we hae shaken hands an' we're to be friends forever."

"Oh, I'm so glad," said Helen.

"And ane thing mair, lass," he interrupted, "about that letter the little lass was talking of, I'll write it to-night!"

"It is late, now," said Helen.

"None too late to write. I'll do it to-night and sen' it to-morrow, as sure as I'm Sandy McLeod."

True to his word, Sandy sat at his table until late into the night, writing a long, long letter. The candle flickered as his hand moved back and forth across the pages.

Many times he paused while writing, and with his head resting upon his hand, he seemed to be thinking how best to express himself, so that his message might find favor with his old friend and playmate.

At last, apparently, the letter was completed satisfactorily; for as the old man arose from the table, a faint smile flitted across his face.

Crossing the room to the old chest by the window, he fumbled about until he brought from its depths a little package; then, walking to the table, he placed the tiny parcel between the folded pages of the letter, put the letter into its envelope, and with utmost care addressed it, reading the address over three times to make sure that it was correct. Under his pillow he placed the letter, saying, "With the light o' day I'll start ye on the journey." And of all the merry party who laughed and sang away the hours at the apple-bee, not one possessed a happier heart than Sandy.

And Helen murmured, softly, as she lay half awake and half asleep, "Every one was happy to-night."



Chapter XI. An Unexpected Visitor


The sun rose in golden splendor one morning to find that a curtain of purple haze prevented his sunship from showing all his dazzling glory.

It was indeed a typical October morning in New England. For a time the haze prevailed, holding her own bravely against the sun, who struggled for supremacy; but at last he rose triumphant, the mist softly melting away beneath his warm rays.

How fair and tall the slender birches looked as the bright rays gilded their white trunks! How cool and deep the little pool which reflected the birches and brakes which overhung its edge; and far away across the field a great black crow flew, cawing as he winged his way, then perched upon a slender twig which swayed beneath his weight. Tiny sparrows twittered and chirped as they hopped about among the dried weeds, searching among the seed vessels for a possible breakfast.

Truly, all things were beautiful that morning; and Randy, from her chamber window, looked out upon the lovely scene, and on her face a smile and tear appeared,-a smile on the sweet lips in memory of the summer's pleasure; a tear at the thought of Helen's departure.

"It has been the nicest summer I have ever known," mused Randy, softly. "Everything has looked prettier since she taught me how to look at things. How sweetly she thanked me for the rose I cut for her without spilling one of the dewdrops. 'Twas only a little thing, yet she thanked me as if the dewdrops were diamonds. Why, she just made me wild to find something to give to every one, if giving made such pleasure. I remember that I said I often wished I had more to give, and she showed me, oh, so plainly, that a smile or a pleasant word was worth the giving that I felt at once as if I were rich; for any one can say a pleasant word and all of us can smile. Oh, she's done us 'a world of good,' as the parson's wife said."

While Randy dreamed at her window, Helen stood in the doorway at Mrs. Gray's, and she, too, was thinking of the summer so happily spent.

Soon she would be at home, and in a few months the winter season would bring a round of social engagements.

Why had the days so quietly spent seemed so charming? What was the secret of their charm? Happy she had been,-very, very happy,-and so swiftly had the weeks sped that it seemed impossible that October had arrived. She had chosen to spend the summer, contrary to her usual custom, in a little country village, with no other thought than that in such a place she could be sure of rest and quiet.

She was a girl of generous impulses, and after becoming acquainted with the people of the neighborhood of the Gray homestead, many an opportunity for a gracious word or a generous action presented itself. How gently and with what ready tact she had made herself a friend to young and old, was proven by the genuine regret manifested whenever her departure was mentioned.

Helen had a host of friends of whom to take leave, and all were charmed and gladdened to hear that they would see her sweet face again sometime during the winter. She had called to see old Sandy once more before her departure, and he had had a wonderful bit of news to tell.

The letter which he had written after his return from the apple-bee he had posted early on the following morning. It was addressed to Miss Margaret McLean, and Sandy explained that, as her father had been a prominent manufacturer in the little Scottish town in which they had lived for years, holding large business interests and owning a number of mills which bore his name, the daughter, his only child, must be well known there; so he had trusted that the letter, written after so many years' delay, might be promptly delivered.

Strangely enough, it had never occurred to Sandy to wonder if his old playmate were still living. To his great joy, an answer to the letter came sooner than he had expected. She was still waiting for him, she said, as she had ever waited, hoping that the time would come when he would forgive her for teasing him,-it had been but a girlish freak,-and tell her that he loved her as of old.

Her father had lost much of his money before he died, but she had a "bit of property," she said, and she had sold her little cottage and would leave on the next steamer for America. She would bring with her a little Scotch lass, an orphan whom she had befriended and trained to be a little maid-servant; and, insisting that Sandy should meet her and go at once to some kirk to be married, she closed her letter with love to Sandy and a blessing for Helen and the wee lass, Prue. To Helen's congratulations he would only say, "It's your doing, lass, yours and the bairnie's."

Sandy confided to Helen that he had been afraid that Margaret might doubt that he and the Sandy McLeod of her youth were one and the same; but, he added: "I had a proof, I had a proof, lass! I had a lock o' her bonnie hair tied wi' a knot o' blue ribbon. I knew she'd na forget gi'en' it to me, and I put it in the letter."

"That was clever," said Helen.

"An' she said she'd bring it back wi' her when she sailed for America," added the old Scotchman, joyously; and Helen left him happy in the thought that although her farewell saddened him, there soon would be a dearer friend to greet him.

Farmer Gray had driven to the village early that morning, and when he returned he greeted Helen cheerily, at the same time handing her a letter, saying, "I hope it is full of good news, Miss Dayton."

It proved to be a letter from her aunt, urging Helen to start at once for home, as an uncle who had not seen her since she was a very little girl was making a short stay in Boston, and wished very much to see his niece before he returned to his home in a western city.

"I am proud of you, Helen, as you know," wrote the dear old lady, "and I so earnestly wish Robert to see you that I wish you would start as soon as you receive this letter."

Helen left for Boston early that morning, asking Mrs. Gray to tell Randy that she would write to her as soon as she reached home. Helen's departure was only a day earlier than she had intended, yet she regretted to leave in such haste. She had wished to bid Randy and dear little Prue an affectionate good-by and reiterate her promise of a flying visit sometime during the winter months.

As she sat looking out of the car window and watched the little town receding, she thought of Randy's sweet face, and like a vision it appeared before her with grieved eyes and quivering lips, just as she knew the girl would look when Mrs. Gray told her of her friend's departure. Then a bright thought occurred to her, and a happy smile played about her lips.

Opening her little bag she took from it a block of paper, such as she had used for memoranda, and with a pencil she commenced a note to Randy. She would obtain an envelope and stamp as soon as she reached Boston. Helen possessed a merry wit, and leaf after leaf of the little block she filled with a breezy account of her journey. She described at length the man with three immense leather bags, who tried in vain to walk down the aisle with all that baggage, and was at last compelled to make three separate trips; the old lady with a box containing a cat which mewed dismally all the way; the woman with four children, who seemed to have an endless supply of lunches, yet cried for more; the boy peddling prize candy, and any number of small happenings.

The writing served to make the long ride less tedious, and she knew that the letter would make Randy smile through her tears.

*    *    *    *    *

When Randy and Prue appeared at breakfast time they were amazed to find Aunt Prudence at the table.

"Why, when did you come?" questioned Prue, abruptly, staring at her aunt as if that lady had been an apparition instead of a very tangible reality.

"I came last night, after you children was in bed," said Aunt Prudence, "and I guess your father was 'bout as s'prised as you be."

"Wal', I guess I was," said Mr. Weston. "Ye was the last person I expected to see when I stopped near the depot to talk with neighbor Gray, but I was jest as glad to see ye as ef ye'd sent word ye was comin'."

Mrs. Weston also hastened to assure her that her unexpected arrival was a pleasant surprise, but the children could not say a word. Prue was filled with a dread of Aunt Prudence's sharp eyes, which would be sure to detect any sign of plotted mischief; and Randy, knowing Prue's intense dislike of supervision, realized that careful watching, amounting almost to strategy, would be necessary to keep the little girl from vexing Aunt Prudence, thereby actually showing her how intensely she disliked her.

Although the morning hours were fully occupied, Randy was aware of a subtle sense of change in Aunt Prudence. She looked as angular and austere as before, but her voice seemed less shrill, and her sharp eyes behind her glasses looked out with a softened light.

"Perhaps we didn't really know her before," said Randy to Prue.

"P'r'aps maybe we didn't," answered Prue. "She calls me Prudence same's she did before, but she says it diffe'nt."

"That's it," said Randy, "her voice is pleasanter."

"And her eyes isn't always looking at me, so I don't darest to move," said Prue.

Randy turned away quickly, that Prue need not see her laughing. The idea that any one could prevent her little sister from indulging in almost perpetual motion, seemed utterly funny to her.

Half an hour later Randy chanced to hear Prue talking to Tabby, just under the kitchen window.

"Now, Tabby," she was saying, "if you lie real still while I drag you 'round, you'll get a lovely ride and nobody'll ever know it; but if you squirm and act naughty, I'll put the basket right back in Aunt Prudence's room, and I won't give you any ride at all."

Randy waited to hear no more, for upon looking out over the wide window-sill she espied naughty little Prue dragging Miss Prudence's best cap basket around the dooryard. She had made Tabby lie in the basket, then pressing down the cover she had fastened the little straw loop and thus locked Tabby into a very close carriage. Out rushed Randy, to rescue Tabby and the pretty basket at the same time.

"What makes you think to do such naughty things, Prue Weston?" said indignant Randy; "don't you know you're plaguing Tabby and Aunt Prudence at the same time?"

"Tabby likes to ride," asserted Prue, "and I don't care if I do plague-" but the mischievous little elf did not finish the sentence, for on looking up, there stood Aunt Prudence in the doorway.

Randy's face was suffused with hot blushes, and Prue, naughty little Prue, looked completely abashed.

Aunt Prudence was the first to speak. "Bring my basket to me," said she, abruptly, but not unkindly.

Slowly Prue unfastened the cover of the pretty, round cap basket, and with even more moderation Tabby stepped out, stopping to yawn and stretch while her hind legs were still in the basket.

Prue stooped and energetically lifted her out upon the ground. Randy watched Aunt Prudence while Prue walked very slowly toward her, the forefinger of her left hand in her mouth, while with the right hand she reluctantly handed the basket to its owner.

Did Aunt Prudence smile? Randy thought she espied a twinkle in the sharp eyes behind the glasses.

"Now," said Aunt Prudence, "s'pose you come into my room while I show you something worth looking at."

Into the house, slowly following Aunt Prudence, went Prue and Randy, filled with mingled curiosity and dread of the thing which they were soon to see.

Aunt Prudence bent over her little hair-covered trunk, lifting aside this parcel and that until, oh, could it be true, a cunning little wooden cradle, painted bright red, made Prue utter a shrill cry of delight.

"Oh! oh! is it for me?" cried Prue. "Oh, I am so sorry I was naughty!"

Aunt Prudence put the cradle into Prue's chubby hands, who at once held it up for Randy to admire.

"It's a beauty," said Randy. "Oh, Prue, you'd ought to be good now."

"I will," said Prue; then, turning to Aunt Prudence, she said, "I guess I almost love you now, and I won't ever plague you."

"Well, I guess my basket ain't hurt much this time; but don't borry it again, child. I guess the cradle will 'bout fit Tabby."

"Oh, I do b'lieve it will! I'll go and 'medjure' her in it," said Prue, and away she scampered in search of her kitty.

Left alone with her aunt, Randy hesitated a moment, then venturing a step nearer, she said, "I think you were very good to give the pretty cradle to Prue just when she'd been so naughty; but," added Randy, as usual anxious to shield her little sister, "she isn't always naughty, and now I'm 'most sure she'll try to please you." She looked up wistfully, hoping for a kindly word for Prue whom she loved so dearly.

"Children will be children," said Aunt Prudence, with a grim smile. "I guess she's no wuss'n the average."

"Father says you never had days of being naughty when you were a little girl, so I should think Prue'd seem extra naughty to you," said Randy, slowly moving the toe of her shoe back and forth along the cracks in the floor. As she glanced shyly at her aunt, hoping for one more consoling word in regard to Prue, she was much surprised and relieved to see Aunt Prudence actually smiling.

"I guess your father's forgot about the time I threw his hat down the well to see if it would float."

"Did you do that?" asked Randy, in surprise.

"Yes," said Aunt Prudence, "and what's more, I did it on purpose to plague him. He was goin' fishin', and I wanted to go, too. He said girls wus no good at fishin' and went to the shed to get his rod and line, whistlin' in a way that provoked me. His hat was on the grass near where I was standing, and, quick as a flash, I snatched it up and threw it down the well, thinkin' it would delay his fishin' trip for one while. It didn't, though. He went bare-headed; and soon's 'twas found out what I'd done, I got punished for spoilin' his hat. Yes, your father remembers my good days, an' it's just like him to forget that I ever had naughty ones. But, Randy," she said abruptly, "ye don't ask if I brought anything in my trunk for you."

"Why, I never thought of it," said Randy.

"Like enough," said Aunt Prudence; "it seems to me ye nearly always think of somebody besides yourself, Randy. I must say, I approve of ye. Yer father, every time he writes me, has something ter tell of you children; and now you jest help me unpack my trunk, an' I'll show ye something that, ef I ain't mistaken, will please ye mightily."

"Indeed, I'll help you. I'll like to," said Randy, and soon the contents of the trunk were spread upon the bed. Those garments which could be hung up were placed upon hooks in the closet, and other articles were neatly folded in the bureau drawers. One puffy-looking package remained; this Aunt Prudence placed in Randy's hands, saying, "There, Randy, there's the material for making some Christmas presents; and if it makes ye happy, I'll be glad of it."

Very eagerly Randy untied the parcel, and uttered a little cry of delight when the open wrapping disclosed some beautiful colored worsteds of various hues.

"I'll teach ye ter knit while I'm here," said Aunt Prudence. "And now the evenings are beginning to be cool, ye might begin ter make a pretty little shawl for yer mother out of that deep red worsted; I guess there's enough of it. That blue yarn will make some mittens for little Prudence, and the rest of it ye can do what ye like with."

Randy's delight knew no bounds, and she could hardly wait to hunt for needles and have her first lesson in knitting.

That night, in their little chamber under the eaves, the children talked of Aunt Prudence.

"I always said Aunt Prudence might be nice, if we really knew her," said Randy.

"Yes," said Prue, "you said that when she was here before, I 'member it; but, Randy," she added, "that was when I was a little girl."

Randy stifled a laugh, "Why, Prue, what are you now?" said she.

"Now, Randy, you do know you medjured me last Saturday, and you said I'd growed most a inch."

"Well, so you have," said Randy, gently, "and it's likely you'll grow a lot more this winter."

"Course I will," said Prue, "and, oh, Randy, mustn't Aunt Prudence have growed awful fast when she was a little girl? Just think how big she is now! She's growed good awful fast, too, Randy," she continued, "for she wouldn't have gived me that little cradle for anything the last time she was here, would she, Randy?"

Randy ignored this question.

"We ought to be going to sleep, Prue," she said; "but I'll tell you something first: I mean to be just as nice to Aunt Prudence as I can, while she stays here."

"So do I," said little Prue. "I told her to-day when her needle plagued her, I told her I'd fred all her needles when she was sewing, and you'd never guess what she said, Randy. She said I was a good little girl,-she did, truly."

The patter of raindrops on the roof soon lulled the children to sleep, and in their dreams Aunt Prudence figured as the Goddess of Plenty, distributing gifts with lavish hands.



Chapter XII. A Wedding Feast


Sunday morning Randy and Prue were early at church, and as they leaned back against the pew, in expectation of one of Parson Spooner's long sermons, Randy put her hand in her pocket and lovingly caressed a square envelope which she had placed there before starting for church.

"Got any candy in your pocket, Randy?" eagerly questioned Prue, as she leaned toward her sister. Randy shook her head.

"Didn't Jotham give you some when he speaked to you at the door?" she asked in such a loud whisper that Randy ejaculated "sh-sh," and again shook her head.

"Then what's in your pocket?" persisted Prue.

Randy drew Helen's precious letter from her pocket, showing just enough of the envelope to satisfy Prue's curiosity. Then the little girl took a hymn book from the rack, and with her wee forefinger commenced to point out, and at the same time name those letters which she knew. She found every O upon the page, then every S, and Randy thought best to let her thus amuse herself as, at least, she was quiet-a most unusual thing.

Helen had mailed the letter at once upon reaching Boston, and Mr. Weston had brought it from the village on the following day and placed it in Randy's hand as she sat listening to Mrs. Gray, who had called to deliver Helen's message.

"A letter for me, father?" questioned Randy in surprise. "Why, who's it from?"

Mr. Weston laughed. "Shouldn't wonder if ye had to open it to find out, Randy," said he.

Randy opened it and laughed with delight when she found it was from Helen. She had read it three times and had taken it to church with her, because she said she "just couldn't leave it at home."

So Sunday morning Randy kept her mind upon the sermon, and her hand upon the letter. The sermon had been less lengthy than usual, and when the good old pastor had closed the Bible, he removed his spectacles; and as he slowly wiped them, he said: "Dear friends, I have a notice to give to-day, or perhaps I should say an invitation, and there could be no better time or place for what I have to say.

"A quiet wedding ceremony took place at a little church in New York City, the contracting parties being our friend and neighbor, Mr. Sandy McLeod,-or, as the papers have it, Alexander McLeod,-and Miss Margaret McLean of Scotland, an old playmate and friend, from whom our friend has been separated many years. I have received a delightful letter from him in which I am asked to make this announcement, and to say that they will be at home on Wednesday evening. They extend an invitation to all the good people of this town to be present, and an especially urgent request that all the children be there."

What a stir that announcement made! What a great event!

Sandy's farm was one of the finest in the neighborhood, and his house the largest and most substantial in the place; but Helen and Parson Spooner were the only people who had ever entered it, save Sandy himself and the men who worked for him.

Fabulous tales the men had told of the fine things which the house contained; so curiosity was rife regarding it, and now every one, even the little ones of the parish, were bidden welcome.

After church Randy stopped a moment to speak to the Babson girls and Phoebe Small, to tell them of the letter from Helen, promising to read it to them if they would call on Monday afternoon.

The girls promised, saying, "You can read us the letter, and then we'll talk over the party, or whatever it is to be, at Sandy McLeod's."

Promptly, on Monday afternoon, the girls arrived, and the letter was produced and read. How they laughed at Helen's bright description of the events of her homeward journey. Phoebe Small felt that in receiving the letter Randy had been especially favored. A little twinge of jealousy caused her to part her lips to make a sharp little speech; but, remembering a promise to Helen, and her own resolution, she said pleasantly, "You must have been pleased to receive it, Randy; I'm glad she wrote it to you."

It was so unlike her usual remarks that the Babson girls looked at each other; but Randy slipped her arm around Phoebe as they stood by the window, and Phoebe felt rewarded.

They talked earnestly over the event of Wednesday evening, and all were enthusiastically expectant.

As the afternoon waned, the girls took leave of Randy, looking back as they went down the road to call to her, "We'll see you Wednesday night."

Wednesday proved to be a lovely day, and the evening sky was bright with stars, the air cold and crisp when the merry party drove up to Sandy's door. As no one wished to be the first to arrive, a large party met at Mrs. Weston's house and together they drove to the McLeod farm.

The large house was ablaze with lights, and as the teams stopped, the door was opened wide and a cheery voice shouted, "It's glad we are to see ye, friends, come in, come in," and Sandy led the way proudly to a silver-haired little woman, who stood waiting to greet her husband's friends and neighbors.

Such a sweet-faced little woman, who had a gentle, gracious word for every new friend, and a kiss for each one of the children.

When Sandy brought Prue to her, saying, "This is the little lass, Margaret, wha said 'write the letter,'" she took the child upon her lap and put her arms about her, saying, "Bless the bairn, will ye come sometimes to see me? it wad gae me much pleasure."

"Oh, yes, I will come," answered Prue, "if I may bring Randy. She's my big sister, and there's no one like her anywhere."

Prue was assured that Randy would be more than welcome. Every one was charmed with the gentle little Scotch woman, who seemed equally pleased with her new friends.

They sometimes found it a bit difficult to understand her. Sandy had been so long in America, and had tried so earnestly to be like his neighbors, that he expressed himself in very good English, with here and there a bit of his old dialect appearing. His wife, however, had lived in a little town some miles distant from the city, and used many words which, while in common use in the Scottish village, were utterly unknown to her new friends. But her manner could not be misunderstood. It was unmistakably the manner of a gentle, lovely character, bearing good-will to all.

"At the Head of a Long Table stood Helen Dayton"

The hum of conversation rose to a din as the young people laughed and chatted. All had been admiring the furnishings, which were indeed charming. There were some quaint old chairs which had belonged to Sandy's father; a large family portrait hung on the wall above the fireplace; some beautiful old candlesticks in which bright tapers burned; and the evident delight of their guests charmed Sandy and his dear old wife.

"Now, friends," said Sandy, stepping forward, "ye ha' all seen my Margaret, noo will ye walk this way and I'll gie ye another surprise," and he led the way to the end of the parlor, where he opened a door, and there at the head of a long table, spread with a feast such as no one in the village had ever seen, stood Helen Dayton.

With a sharp cry of delight Randy ran to greet her, and was folded in Helen's arms. Then every one crowded about Miss Dayton, and many were the questions with which she was plied.

"I cannot answer all these questions," she said with a merry laugh; "but I'll tell you how I happened to be here again so soon. I hastened home, as many of you know, to see my Uncle Robert, who was to be in Boston but a few days, and on the day of his departure for the West I received the glad news of the wedding in a most delightful letter, which also contained a cordial invitation for me to be present and surprise you all to-night."

"We're glad enough to see you again," said Jotham Potts, and a chorus of voices echoed the boy's frank speech.

Then the feast began. Such a treat it was to Sandy's neighbors and friends. The children were fairly wild with excitement. A giant wedding cake graced the centre of the table, and the beautiful frosting, with its garlands of flowers and little sugar cupids, delighted the children, who thought it the finest thing which they had ever seen.

A huge platter of roast turkey on one end of the table, and one of roast goose on the other, proved very tempting; and a chicken pie with its fluted crust was not to be ignored.

When these were removed, Sandy filled their places with huge fancy baskets of fruit; and still the candles burned and flickered, and the hum of merry voices filled the old house with gladness. At a late hour the happy party left, the neighbors, one and all, wishing the dear old couple every blessing, and promising to be as neighborly as their busy lives would permit.

To Randy, Helen said: "I shall not run away this time without saying good-by. I will come to-morrow and spend a little time with you, and then you may go with me to the village, where I must take the train for home."

Bright and early on the following day, Randy was up, singing as she moved about the kitchen, as usual, trying to help.

"She's coming to-day, she's coming to-day," sang Prue, as she skipped about the room, and Randy's heart joined gladly in the song.

At that very moment Helen was coming up the walk, and as she tapped lightly at the door, Prue ran to let her in.

How bright she looked in her cloth gown and trim jacket, her feather collar and bewitching hat. She took off her wraps, as Mrs. Weston suggested, and sat down to chat with Randy.

"What is the news?" said Helen. "What has happened during my absence, Randy?"

"Very little has happened," said Randy, "only a few things. School is to open next week; that's a week earlier than last year, and Mr. Lawton says he'll keep his best room warm enough for us if it takes his whole woodpile."

"And I'm going to school," said Prue, and she looked at Helen as if she expected to see that young lady stunned by such an announcement.

"I'm going to study reading and rifm-tic," she added, hoping to produce even more of an impression.

Helen and Randy laughed, "I hope they will reserve 'rifm-tic,'" said Helen, "until a little later."

"When there is snow," said Randy, "we can coast on our sled down to Mr. Lawton's house, without stopping; and although I'm pretty tall this winter, I think I shall coast just as I did last season, only this year Prue will sit behind me."

"And Jotham 'most always drags her home, so she don't have to walk 't all," said Prue, anxious to tell all the particulars.

"Randy is fortunate to have such an accommodating friend," said Helen, "and now I have something to tell you. I have been helping my aunt to make some plans for the winter, and I have really found three days at the Christmas holidays for which I have made no engagements, and, if it will please you, Randy, I will give those days to you."

Mrs. Weston paused in her work to say, "We shall all be pleased to have you with us, and Randy will be wild until you come."

Helen had taken leave of Sandy and his wife at their home, so when Randy's father brought the old horse and wagon to the door, she said good-by to Mrs. Weston and little Prue, and with Randy and her father rode to the depot at the centre.

They arrived just a few moments before the train was due, and Helen and Randy walked up and down the platform, talking earnestly over the promised visit and the winter schooldays so soon to commence.

"I shall think of you every day," said Randy, "and I mean to study so hard this winter that some day, when I write, I shall be able to tell you that I am at the head of my class."

"That is right," said Helen; "ambition and hard work will accomplish wonders."

Just then the whistle sounded, and soon the train came around the curve and stopped at the little station.

Very gently Helen kissed Randy, saying, "Remember I shall soon be here again."

Then the train started, and through her tears Randy saw Helen's beautiful, smiling face at the window. When the last car was out of sight, Randy turned toward her father a face which was a combination of smiles and tears.

"Well, Randy," said he, "which is it, laughing or crying?"

"Both," said Randy, "crying because I am sorry to have her go, and smiling because I know just when she will come again. And, now, father, I am going to tell you something. I mean to be the best scholar in school this year. I'd like to be able to talk and write as well as Miss Dayton does. I don't suppose I could do that, but I will come as near as I can," and Randy looked to her father for his approval.

"That's right, Randy, that's right," said her father, heartily, "and now, I'll tell you something. Sandy McLeod says that if Nathan Lawton gives the use of his best room for a schoolroom to the children, he isn't going to have Nathan outdo him, so he's offered a prize of a five-dollar gold piece to be given to the best scholar at the school this winter. I am glad that you spoke your mind before you knew about the prize. I'm willing you should try for it, but I'm glad to know that you intended to study before you had any idea of a prize to be won."

"I'll make myself a good scholar," said Randy, "and I'll get the prize, too." Randy never forgot that morning.

Years after, the scene, in all its completeness, would rise before her with a perfection of detail that would for a moment startle her; the old mare leisurely crawling up the road toward home; the stone walls along the sides of the road, still covered with blackberry vines, their foliage russet-colored against the cold gray stones, and their thorny stems red in the October sunshine.

Across the roads the fields were dry and dun-colored, but in places the grass was still green, and over all the bright blue sky with its floating clouds. Birds twittered in the tree-tops or flew in swirling lines above the sunny fields, and everywhere, although the trees were bare and the flowers gone, a feeling of gladness and cheer seemed present.

Randy turned to speak to her father and found that he was looking curiously at her. "Oh, father," said she, "I was just thinking that it seems as if everything was glad for some reason this morning. I don't know how to tell you just how I feel, but the sky seems so bright, the birds are singing, and when I looked at you I thought that you looked glad too."

"Well, Randy, I see just what you mean. It is bright and glad and sunny to-day, and as to my looking glad, I think I ought to. I've got your mother, and Prue, and you, Randy, and I've got something more to be thankful for-something to be thankful to you for."

"Thankful to me!" gasped Randy, in amazement.

"Yes, Randy, yes. I got a letter last night. Ye know I went down to the centre after supper, and I didn't get home 'til after you and Prue was in bed. Well, I wasn't expecting to hear from anybody, special, and I never opened the letter 'til I'd put the cat out and fastened up. Then I thought of the letter and sat down at the table to read it. Yer mother was puttin' the last stitches into a stockin' she was mendin' when I came to a place in the letter that made me hop. Mother came, and looking over my shoulder read the line I put my finger on.

"Randy, do ye remember that day last summer when ye listened at the roadside to what Jason Meade was sayin' 'bout makin' me sell my pasture land to him? Do yer rec'lect how ye run 'til ye was 'bout beat out to reach me 'fore he could, and how ye begged me not to sell?"

"Why, yes," said Randy; then in sudden fear, "he didn't make you, did he, father?"

The girl's wide open eyes looked anxiously up into his face as she grasped his arm and waited for an answer.

"Make me! Well, I guess not! Randy, that letter was from the big railroad company, and, val'ble as I thought the land would be, they've offered me more'n I ever dreamed of. I shan't be what city folks would call wealthy, but I'll be 'stonishin' well off. Your mother and I will be able to take things a little easier; and, Randy, you shall have all the schoolin' ye want, and so shall little Prue. I'd 'bout made up my mind to let Meade have that land, he seemed to have set his mind on it; and I b'lieve I should have let him have it, ef you had gone on ter Mis' Gray's and stopped to tea with Miss Dayton, as you intended. But for you my land would have been in Jason Meade's hands, and I might 'a' whistled fer it. You gave up your pleasure to do the right thing at the right time; as I said that day, I've got a daughter to be thankful for."

"Oh, father," said Randy, "it seemed a little thing to do, but I was so anxious to reach you in time that I forgot everything else, even Miss Dayton and the tea at Mrs. Gray's."

"Well, ye did yer duty, Randy, even when ye feared the men would find ye listening and be angry. Always be brave to do right, as ye did that time, and ye'll make a fine woman."

Small wonder that Randy remembered that morning's ride! The bright sunlight of her father's commendation seemed to outshine nature's sunshine. The thought that she had been instrumental in bringing good fortune to her parents, who had toiled early and late, filled Randy's heart with a gladness which she would have found difficult to describe.

Mr. Weston accepted the company's offer for his land, and with their good fortune he and his wife seemed to have regained a bit of their youth; and they were never happier than when making plans for Randy and Prue or lending a helping hand to some friend or neighbor less fortunate than themselves.

Randy still indulges in day-dreams which, at present, are filled with anticipations of schooldays so near at hand, and the winter's pleasures which the boys and girls of the village are already planning; and when next we meet Randy and Prue, it will be in "Randy's Winter."

<eob>

Our American Holidays: Christmas - Its Origin, Celebration And Significance As Related In Prose And Verse

By

Robert Haven Schauffler



I

Origin



Is There A Santa Claus?

The following, reprinted from the editorial page of the New York Sun, was written by the late Mr. Frank P. Church:


We take pleasure in answering at once and thus prominently the communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of The Sun:

Dear Editor: I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says "If you see it in The Sun it's so." Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus? Virginia O'Hanlon.

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the scepticism of a sceptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

*    *    *    *    *

O Little Town Of Bethlehem

Phillips Brooks

O little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie! Above thy deep and dreamless sleep The silent stars go by; Yet in thy dark streets shineth The everlasting Light; The hopes and fears of all the years Are met in thee to-night.

For Christ is born of Mary, And, gathered all above, While mortals sleep, the angels keep Their watch of wondering love. O morning stars, together Proclaim the holy birth! And praises sing to God the King, And peace to men on earth. How silently, how silently, The wondrous gift is given! So God imparts to human hearts The blessings of His heaven. No ear may hear His coming, But in this world of sin, Where meek souls will receive Him still, The dear Christ enters in.

O holy Child of Bethlehem! Descend to us, we pray; Cast out our sin, and enter in, Be born in us to-day. We hear the Christmas angels The great glad tidings tell; Oh, come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel!

*    *    *    *    *

The Glad Evangel

Kate Douglas Wiggin

When the Child of Nazareth was born, the sun, according to the Bosnian legend, "leaped in the heavens, and the stars around it danced. A peace came over mountain and forest. Even the rotten stump stood straight and healthy on the green hill-side. The grass was beflowered with open blossoms, incense sweet as myrrh pervaded upland and forest, birds sang on the mountain top, and all gave thanks to the great God."

It is naught but an old folk-tale, but it has truth hidden at its heart, for a strange, subtle force, a spirit of genial good-will, a new-born kindness, seem to animate child and man alike when the world pays its tribute to the "heaven-sent youngling," as the poet Drummond calls the infant Christ.

When the Three Wise Men rode from the East into the West on that "first, best Christmas night," they bore on their saddle-bows three caskets filled with gold and frankincense and myrrh, to be laid at the feet of the manger-cradled babe of Bethlehem. Beginning with this old, old journey, the spirit of giving crept into the world's heart. As the Magi came bearing gifts, so do we also; gifts that relieve want, gifts that are sweet and fragrant with friendship, gifts that breathe love, gifts that mean service, gifts inspired still by the star that shone over the City of David nearly two thousand years ago.

Then hang the green coronet of the Christmas-tree with glittering baubles and jewels of flame; heap offerings on its emerald branches; bring the Yule log to the firing; deck the house with holly and mistletoe,

"And all the bells on earth shall ring On Christmas day in the morning."

*    *    *    *    *

The Shepherds

William Drummond, Of Hawthornden

O than the fairest day, thrice fairer night! Night to blest days in which a sun doth rise Of which that golden eye which clears the skies Is but a sparkling ray, a shadow-light! And blessed ye, in silly pastor's sight, Mild creatures, in whose warm crib now lies That heaven-sent youngling, holy-maid-born wight, Midst, end, beginning of our prophecies!

Blest cottage that hath flowers in winter spread, Though withered -- blessed grass that hath the grace To deck and be a carpet to that place! Thus sang, unto the sounds of oaten reed, Before the Babe, the shepherds bowed on knees; And springs ran nectar, honey dropped from trees.

*    *    *    *    *

A Christmas Carol

James Russell Lowell

"What means this glory round our feet," The Magi mused, "more bright than morn?" And voices chanted clear and sweet, "To-day the Prince of Peace is born!"

"What means that star," the Shepherds said, "That brightens through the rocky glen?" And angels, answering overhead, Sang, "Peace on earth, good-will to men!"

'Tis eighteen hundred years and more Since those sweet oracles were dumb; We wait for Him, like them of yore; Alas, He seems so slow to come!

But it was said, in words of gold, No time or sorrow e'er shall dim, That little children might be bold In perfect trust to come to Him.

All round about our feet shall shine A light like that the wise men saw, If we our loving wills incline To that sweet Life which is the Law.

So shall we learn to understand The simple faith of shepherds then, And, clasping kindly hand in hand, Sing, "Peace on earth, good-will to men!"

But they who do their souls no wrong, But keep at eve the faith of morn, Shall daily hear the angel-song, "To-day the Prince of Peace is born!"

*    *    *    *    *

A Christmas Hymn

Alfred Domett

It was the calm and silent night! Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might, And now was Queen of land and sea. No sound was heard of clashing wars; Peace brooded o'er the hush'd domain; Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars, Held undisturb'd their ancient reign, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago.

'T was in the calm and silent night! The senator of haughty Rome Impatient urged his chariot's flight, From lordly revel rolling home. Triumphal arches gleaming swell His breast with thoughts of boundless sway; What reck'd the Roman what befell A paltry province far away, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago!

Within that province far away Went plodding home a weary boor: A streak of light before him lay, Fall'n through a half-shut stable door Across his path. He pass'd -- for nought Told what was going on within; How keen the stars! his only thought; The air how calm and cold and thin, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago!

O strange indifference! -- low and high Drows'd over common joys and cares: The earth was still -- but knew not why; The world was listening -- unawares. How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world for ever! To that still moment none would heed, Man's doom was link'd, no more to sever, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago.

It is the calm and solemn night A thousand bells ring out, and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness, charm'd and holy now. The night that erst no name had worn, To it a happy name is given; For in that stable lay new-born The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago.

*    *    *    *    *

Brightest And Best Of The Sons Of The Morning

Reginald Heber

Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid! Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid!

Cold on His cradle the dewdrops are shining, Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall; Angels adore Him in slumber reclining, Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all!

Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, Odors of Edom and offerings divine? Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean, Myrrh from the forest, or gold from the mine?

Vainly we offer each ample oblation; Vainly with gifts would His favor secure: Richer by far is the heart's adoration; Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.

Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid! Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid!

*    *    *    *    *

God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen

Dinah Maria Mulock

God rest ye, merry gentlemen; let nothing you dismay, For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas-day. The dawn rose red o'er Bethlehem, the stars shone through the gray, When Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas-day.

God rest ye, little children; let nothing you affright, For Jesus Christ, your Saviour, was born this happy night; Along the hills of Galilee the white flocks sleeping lay, When Christ, the child of Nazareth, was born on Christmas-day.

God rest ye, all good Christians; upon this blessed morn The Lord of all good Christians was of a woman born: Now all your sorrows He doth heal, your sins He takes away; For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas-day.

*    *    *    *    *

The Christmas Silence

Margaret Deland

Hushed are the pigeons cooing low On dusty rafters of the loft; And mild-eyed oxen, breathing soft, Sleep on the fragrant hay below.

Dim shadows in the corner hide; The glimmering lantern's rays are shed Where one young lamb just lifts his head, Then huddles 'gainst his mother's side.

Strange silence tingles in the air; Through the half-open door a bar Of light from one low-hanging star Touches a baby's radiant hair.

No sound: the mother, kneeling, lays Her cheek against the little face. Oh human love! Oh heavenly grace! 'Tis yet in silence that she prays!

Ages of silence end to-night; Then to the long-expectant earth Glad angels come to greet His birth In burst of music, love, and light!

*    *    *    *    *

A Christmas Lullaby

John Addington Symonds

Sleep, baby, sleep! The Mother sings: Heaven's angels kneel and fold their wings. Sleep, baby, sleep!

With swathes of scented hay Thy bed By Mary's hand at eve was spread. Sleep, baby, sleep!

At midnight came the shepherds, they Whom seraphs wakened by the way. Sleep, baby, sleep!

And three kings from the East afar, Ere dawn came, guided by the star. Sleep, baby, sleep!

They brought Thee gifts of gold and gems, Pure orient pearls, rich diadems. Sleep, baby, sleep!

Thou who liest slumbering there, Art King of Kings, earth, ocean, air. Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep! The shepherds sing: Through heaven, through earth, hosannas ring. Sleep, baby, sleep!

*    *    *    *    *

Hymn For The Nativity

Edward Thring

Happy night and happy silence downward softly stealing, Softly stealing over land and sea, Stars from golden censors swing a silent eager feeling Down on Judah, down on Galilee; And all the wistful air, and earth, and sky, Listened, listened for the gladness of a cry.

Holy night, a sudden flash of light its way is winging: Angels, angels, all above, around; Hark, the angel voices, hark, the angel voices singing; And the sheep are lying on the ground. Lo, all the wistful air, and earth, and sky, Listen, listen to the gladness of the cry.

Happy night at Bethlehem; soft little hands are feeling, Feeling in the manger with the kine: Little hands, and eyelids closed in sleep, while angels kneeling, Mary mother, hymn the Babe Divine. Lo, all the wistful air, and earth, and sky, Listen, listen to the gladness of the cry.

Wide, as if the light were music, flashes adoration: "Glory be to God, nor ever cease," All the silence thrills, and speeds the message of salvation: "Peace on earth, good-will to men of peace." Lo, all the wistful air, and earth, and sky, Listen, listen to the gladness of the cry.

Holy night, thy solemn silence evermore enfoldeth Angels songs and peace from God on high: Holy night, thy watcher still with faithful eye beholdeth Wings that wave, and angel glory nigh, Lo, hushed is strife in air, and earth, and sky, Still thy watchers hear the gladness of the cry.

Praise Him, ye who watch the night, the silent night of ages: Praise Him, shepherds, praise the Holy Child; Praise Him, ye who hear the light, O praise Him, all ye sages; Praise Him, children, praise Him meek and mild. Lo, peace on Earth, glory to God on high, Listen, listen to the gladness of the cry.

*    *    *    *    *

Masters In This Hall

Anonymous

"To Bethlem did they go, the shepherds three; To Bethlem did they go to see whe'r it were so or no, Whether Christ were born or no To set men free."

Masters, in this hall, Hear ye news to-day Brought over sea, And ever I you pray.

Nowell! Nowell! Nowell! Nowell! Sing we clear! Holpen are all folk on earth, Born is God's Son so dear.

Going over the hills, Through the milk-white snow, Heard I ewes bleat While the wind did blow. Nowell, &c.

Shepherds many an one Sat among the sheep; No man spake more word Than they had been asleep. Nowell, &c.

Quoth I 'Fellows mine, Why this guise sit ye? Making but dull cheer, Shepherds though ye be? Nowell, &c.

'Shepherds should of right Leap and dance and sing; Thus to see ye sit Is a right strange thing.' Nowell, &c.

Quoth these fellows then 'To Bethlem town we go, To see a Mighty Lord Lie in manger low.' Nowell, &c.

'How name ye this Lord, Shepherds?' then said I. 'Very God' they said, 'Come from Heaven high.' Nowell, &c. Then to Bethlem town We went two and two, And in a sorry place Heard the oxen low. Nowell, &c.

Therein did we see A sweet and goodly May, And a fair old man; Upon the straw she lay. Nowell, &c.

And a little CHILD On her arm had she; 'Wot ye who this is?' Said the hinds to me. Nowell, &c.

Ox and ass him know, Kneeling on their knee: Wondrous joy had I This little BABE to see. Nowell, &c.

This is CHRIST the Lord, Masters, be ye glad! Christmas is come in, And no folk should be sad. Nowell, &c.

*    *    *    *    *

The Adoration Of The Wise Men

Cecil Frances Alexander

Saw you never in the twilight, When the sun had left the skies, Up in heaven the clear stars shining, Through the gloom like silver eyes? So of old the wise men watching, Saw a little stranger star, And they knew the King was given, And they follow'd it from far.

Heard you never of the story, How they cross'd the desert wild, Journey'd on by plain and mountain, Till they found the Holy Child? How they open'd all their treasure, Kneeling to that Infant King, Gave the gold and fragrant incense, Gave the myrrh in offering?

Know ye not that lowly Baby Was the bright and morning star, He who came to light the Gentiles, And the darken'd isles afar? And we too may seek his cradle, There our heart's best treasures bring, Love, and Faith, and true devotion, For our Saviour, God, and King.

*    *    *    *    *

The Shepherds In Judea

Mary Austin

Oh, the Shepherds in Judea, They are pacing to and fro, For the air grows chill at twilight And the weanling lambs are slow!

Leave, O lambs, the dripping sedges, quit the bramble and the brier, Leave the fields of barley stubble, for we light the watching fire; Twinkling fires across the twilight, and a bitter watch to keep, Lest the prowlers come a-thieving where the flocks unguarded sleep.

Oh, the Shepherds in Judea, They are singing soft and low --  Song the blessed angels taught them All the centuries ago!

There was never roof to hide them, there were never walls to bind; Stark they lie beneath the star-beams, whom the blessed angels find, With the huddled flocks upstarting, wondering if they hear aright, While the Kings come riding, riding, solemn shadows in the night.

Oh, the Shepherds in Judea, They are thinking, as they go, Of the light that broke their watching On the hillside in the snow! -- 

Scattered snow along the hillside, white as springtime fleeces are, With the whiter wings above them and the glory-streaming star --  Guiding-star across the housetops; never fear the Shepherds felt Till they found the Babe in manger where the kindly cattle knelt.

Oh, the Shepherds in Judea! --  Do you think the Shepherds know How the whole round earth is brightened In the ruddy Christmas glow?

How the sighs are lost in laughter, and the laughter brings the tears, As the thoughts of men go seeking back across the darkling years Till they find the wayside stable that the star-led Wise Men found, With the Shepherds, mute, adoring, and the glory shining round!

*    *    *    *    *

Christmas Carol

James S. Park

So crowded was the little town On the first Christmas day, Tired Mary Mother laid her down To rest upon the hay. (Ah, would my door might have been thrown Wide open on her way!)

But when the Holy Babe was born In the deep hush of night, It seemed as if a Sabbath morn Had come with sacred light. Child Jesus made the place forlorn With his own beauty bright.

The manger rough was all his rest; The cattle, having fed, Stood silent by, or closer pressed, And gravely wonderèd. (Ah, Lord, if only that my breast Had cradled Thee instead!)

*    *    *    *    *

Neighbors Of The Christ Night

Nora Archibald Smith

Deep in the shelter of the cave, The ass with drooping head Stood weary in the shadow, where His master's hand had led. About the manger oxen lay, Bending a wide-eyed gaze Upon the little new-born Babe, Half worship, half amaze. High in the roof the doves were set, And cooed there, soft and mild, Yet not so sweet as, in the hay, The Mother to her Child. The gentle cows breathed fragrant breath To keep Babe Jesus warm, While loud and clear, o'er hill and dale, The cocks crowed, "Christ is born!" Out in the fields, beneath the stars, The young lambs sleeping lay, And dreamed that in the manger slept Another white as they.

 --   -  -  -

These were Thy neighbors, Christmas Child; To Thee their love was given, For in Thy baby face there shone The wonder-light of Heaven.

*    *    *    *    *

Cradle Hymn

Isaac Watts

Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber; Holy angels guard thy bed; Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head.

Sleep, my babe, thy food and raiment, House and home, thy friends provide; All without thy care, or payment, All thy wants are well supplied.

How much better thou'rt attended Than the Son of God could be, When from heaven He descended, And became a child like thee!

Soft and easy is thy cradle; Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, When His birthplace was a stable, And His softest bed was hay.

See the kindly shepherds round him, Telling wonders from the sky! When they sought Him, there they found Him, With his Virgin-Mother by.

See the lovely babe a-dressing; Lovely infant, how He smiled! When He wept, the mother's blessing Soothed and hushed the holy child.

Lo, He slumbers in His manger, Where the honest oxen fed;  -- Peace, my darling! here's no danger! Here's no ox a-near thy bed!

Mayst thou live to know and fear Him, Trust and love Him all thy days; Then go dwell forever near Him, See His face, and sing His praise!

I could give thee thousand kisses, Hoping what I most desire; Not a mother's fondest wishes Can to greater joys aspire.

*    *    *    *    *

An Ode On The Birth Of Our Saviour

Robert Herrick

In numbers, and but these few, I sing thy birth, O Jesu! Thou pretty baby, born here With sup'rabundant scorn here; Who for thy princely port here, Hadst for thy place Of birth, a base Out-stable for thy court here.

Instead of neat enclosures Of interwoven osiers, Instead of fragrant posies Of daffodils and roses, Thy cradle, kingly stranger, As gospel tells, Was nothing else But here a homely manger.

But we with silks, not crewels, With sundry precious jewels, And lily work will dress thee, And, as we dispossess thee Of clouts, we'll make a chamber, Sweet babe, for thee Of ivory, And plaster'd round with amber.

*    *    *    *    *

Christmas Song

Edmund Hamilton Sears

Calm on the listening ear of night Come heaven's melodious strains, Where wild Judea stretches far Her silver-mantled plains; Celestial choirs from courts above Shed sacred glories there; And angels with their sparkling lyres Make music on the air.

The answering hills of Palestine Send back the glad reply, And greet from all their holy heights The day-spring from on high: O'er the blue depths of Galilee There comes a holier calm, And Sharon waves, in solemn praise, Her silent groves of palm.

"Glory to God!" The lofty strain The realm of ether fills: How sweeps the song of solemn joy O'er Judah's sacred hills! "Glory to God!" The sounding skies Loud with their anthems ring; "Peace on the earth; good-will to men, From heaven's eternal King!"

Light on thy hills, Jerusalem! The Saviour now is born: More bright on Bethlehem's joyous plains Breaks the first Christmas morn; And brighter on Moriah's brow, Crowned with her temple-spires, Which first proclaim the new-born light, Clothed with its Orient fires.

This day shall Christian lips be mute, And Christian hearts be cold? Oh, catch the anthem that from heaven O'er Judah's mountains rolled! When nightly burst from seraph-harps The high and solemn lay, --  "Glory to God! on earth be peace; Salvation comes to-day!"

*    *    *    *    *

A Hymn On The Nativity Of My Saviour

Ben Jonson

I sing the birth was born to-night The author both of life and light; The angels so did sound it. And like the ravished shepherds said, Who saw the light, and were afraid, Yet searched, and true they found it.

The Son of God, th' eternal king, That did us all salvation bring, And freed the soul from danger; He whom the whole world could not take, The Word, which heaven and earth did make, Was now laid in a manger.

The Father's wisdom willed it so, The Son's obedience knew no No, Both wills were in one stature; And as that wisdom had decreed, The Word was now made flesh indeed, And took on him our nature.

What comfort by him do we win, Who made himself the price of sin, To make us heirs of glory! To see this babe all innocence; A martyr born in our defence: Can man forget the story?

*    *    *    *    *

The Shepherd's Song

Edmund Bolton

Sweet music, sweeter far Than any song is sweet: Sweet music, heavenly rare, Mine ears, O peers, doth greet. You gentle flocks, whose fleeces pearled with dew, Resemble heaven, whom golden drops make bright, Listen, O listen, now, O not to you Our pipes make sport to shorten weary night: But voices most divine Make blissful harmony: Voices that seem to shine, For what else clears the sky? Tunes can we hear, but not the singers see, The tunes divine, and so the singers be.

Lo, how the firmament Within an azure fold The flock of stars hath pent, That we might them behold, Yet from their beams proceedeth not this light, Nor can their crystals such reflection give. What then doth make the element so bright? The heavens are come down upon earth to live But hearken to the song, Glory to glory's King, And peace all men among, These quiristers do sing. Angels they are, as also (shepherds) He Whom in our fear we do admire to see.

Let not amazement blind Your souls, said he, annoy: To you and all mankind My message bringeth joy. For lo! the world's great Shepherd now is born, A blessed Babe, an Infant full of power: After long night uprisen is the morn, Renowning Bethlem in the Saviour. Sprung is the perfect day, By prophets seen afar: Sprung is the mirthful May, Which winter cannot mar. In David's city doth this Sun appear Clouded in flesh, yet, shepherds, sit we here!

*    *    *    *    *

A Christmas Carol

Aubrey De Vere

They leave the land of gems and gold, The shining portals of the East; For Him, the woman's Seed foretold, They leave the revel and the feast.

To earth their sceptres they have cast, And crowns by kings ancestral worn; They track the lonely Syrian waste; They kneel before the Babe new born.

O happy eyes that saw Him first; O happy lips that kissed His feet: Earth slakes at last her ancient thirst; With Eden's joy her pulses beat.

True kings are those who thus forsake Their kingdoms for the Eternal King; Serpent, her foot is on thy neck; Herod, thou writhest, but canst not sting.

He, He is King, and He alone Who lifts that infant hand to bless; Who makes His mother's knee His throne, Yet rules the starry wilderness.

*    *    *    *    *

A Christmas Hymn

Anon

Written in the Chapel of the Manger, in the Convent Church of Bethlehem, Palestine:

In the fields where, long ago, Dropping tears, amid the leaves, Ruth's young feet went to and fro, Binding up the scattered sheaves, In the field that heard the voice Of Judea's shepherd King, Still the gleaners may rejoice, Still the reapers shout and sing.

For each mount and vale and plain Felt the touch of holier feet. Then the gleaners of the grain Heard, in voices full and sweet, "Peace on earth, good will to men," Ring from angel lips afar, While, o'er every glade and glen, Broke the light of Bethlehem's star.

Star of hope to souls in night, Star of peace above our strife, Guiding, where the gates of death Ope to fields of endless life. Wanderer from the nightly throng Which the eastern heavens gem; Guided, by an angel's song, To the Babe of Bethlehem.

Not Judea's hills alone Have earth's weary gleaners trod, Not to heirs of David's throne Is it given to "reign with God." But where'er on His green earth Heavenly faith and longing are, Heavenly hope and life have birth, 'Neath the smile of Bethlehem's star.

In each lowly heart or home, By each love-watched cradle-bed, Where we rest, or where we roam, Still its changeless light is shed. In its beams each quickened heart, Howe'er saddened or denied, Keeps one little place apart For the Hebrew mother's Child.

And that inner temple fair May be holier ground than this, Hallowed by the pilgrim's prayer, Warmed by many a pilgrim's kiss. In its shadow still and dim, Where our holiest longings are, Rings forever Bethlehem's hymn, Shines forever Bethlehem's star.

*    *    *    *    *

Christmas Day

Charles Wesley

Hark! the herald angels sing Glory to the new-born King! Peace on earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled.

Joyful all ye nations rise, Join the triumph of the skies, With the angelic host proclaim Christ is born in Bethlehem!

Hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace! Hail the Sun of Righteousness! Light and life to all he brings, Risen with healing in his wings.

Mild, he lays his glory by; Born, that man no more may die, Born to raise the sons of earth, Born to give them second birth.

*    *    *    *    *

Christmas

Anon

Once in Royal David's city Stood a lowly cattle shed, Where a mother laid her baby In a manger for His bed. Mary was that mother mild, Jesus Christ that little child.

He came down to earth from Heaven, Who is God and Lord of all. And his shelter was a stable, And his cradle was a stall. With the poor and mean and lowly, Lived on earth our Saviour Holy.

And our eyes at last shall see Him Through His own redeeming love, For that child so dear and gentle Is our Lord in Heaven above; And He leads His children on To the place where He is gone.

Not in that poor, lowly stable, With the oxen standing by, We shall see Him; but in Heaven, Set at God's right hand on high, When, like stars, His children crowned All in white, shall wait around.

*    *    *    *    *

Christmas

Nahum Tate

While shepherds watch'd their flocks by night, All seated on the ground, The angel of the Lord came down, And glory shone around.

"Fear not," said he (for mighty dread Had seized their troubled mind); "Glad tidings of great joy I bring To you and all mankind.

"To you, in David's town, this day Is born of David's line The Saviour who is Christ the Lord; And this shall be the sign:

"The heavenly Babe you there shall find To human view display'd, All meanly wrapt in swathing bands, And in a manger laid."

Thus spake the Seraph; and forthwith Appear'd a shining throng Of angels, praising God, and thus Address'd their joyful song:

"All glory be to God on high, And to the earth be peace; Good-will henceforth from heaven to men Begin, and never cease!"

*    *    *    *    *

"While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Night"

Margaret Deland

Like small curled feathers, white and soft, The little clouds went by, Across the moon, and past the stars, And down the western sky: In upland pastures, where the grass With frosted dew was white, Like snowy clouds the young sheep lay, That first, best Christmas night.

The shepherds slept; and, glimmering faint, With twist of thin, blue smoke, Only their fire's crackling flames The tender silence broke --  Save when a young lamb raised his head, Or, when the night wind blew, A nesting bird would softly stir, Where dusky olives grew -- 

With finger on her solemn lip, Night hushed the shadowy earth, And only stars and angels saw The little Saviour's birth; Then came such flash of silver light Across the bending skies, The wondering shepherds woke, and hid Their frightened, dazzled eyes!

And all their gentle sleepy flock Looked up, then slept again, Nor knew the light that dimmed the stars Brought endless Peace to men --  Nor even heard the gracious words That down the ages ring --  The Christ is born! the Lord has come, Good-will on earth to bring!

Then o'er the moonlit, misty fields, Dumb with the world's great joy, The shepherds sought the white-walled town, Where lay the baby boy --  And oh, the gladness of the world, The glory of the skies, Because the longed-for Christ looked up In Mary's happy eyes!

*    *    *    *    *

Colonial Christmases

Alice Morse Earle

[From "Customs and Fashions in Old New England."]

The first century of colonial life saw few set times and days for pleasure. The holy days of the English Church were as a stench to the Puritan nostrils, and their public celebration was at once rigidly forbidden by the laws of New England. New holidays were not quickly evolved, and the sober gatherings for matters of Church and State for a time took their place. The hatred of "wanton Bacchanallian Christmasses" spent throughout England, as Cotton said, in "revelling, dicing, carding, masking, mumming, consumed in compotations, in interludes, in excess of wine, in mad mirth," was the natural reaction of intelligent and thoughtful minds against the excesses of a festival which had ceased to be a Christian holiday, but was dominated by a lord of misrule who did not hesitate to invade the churches in time of service, in his noisy revels and sports. English Churchmen long ago revolted also against such Christmas observance.

Of the first Pilgrim Christmas we know but little, save that it was spent, as was many a later one, in work....

By 1659 the Puritans had grown to hate Christmas more and more; it was, to use Shakespeare's words, "the bug that feared them all." The very name smacked to them of incense, stole, and monkish jargon; any person who observed it as a holiday by forbearing of labor, feasting, or any other way was to pay five shillings fine, so desirous were they to "beate down every sprout of Episcopacie." Judge Sewall watched jealously the feeling of the people with regard to Christmas, and noted with pleasure on each succeeding year the continuance of common traffic throughout the day. Such entries as this show his attitude: "Dec. 25, 1685. Carts come to town and shops open as usual. Some somehow observe the day, but are vexed I believe that the Body of people profane it, and blessed be God no authority yet to compel them to keep it." When the Church of England established Christmas services in Boston a few years later, we find the Judge waging hopeless war against Governor Belcher over it, and hear him praising his son for not going with other boy friends to hear the novel and attractive services. He says: "I dehort mine from Christmas keeping and charge them to forbear."

Christmas could not be regarded till this century as a New England holiday, though in certain localities, such as old Narragansett -- an opulent community which was settled by Episcopalians -- two weeks of Christmas visiting and feasting were entered into with zest by both planters and slaves for many years previous to the revolution.

*    *    *    *    *

The Angels

William Drummond

Run, shepherds, run where Bethlehem blest appears. We bring the best of news; be not dismayed: A Saviour there is born more old than years, Amidst heaven's rolling height this earth who stayed.

In a poor cottage inned, a virgin maid, A weakling did him bear, who all upbears; There is he poorly swaddled, in manger laid, To whom too narrow swaddlings are our spheres: Run, shepherds, run, and solemnize his birth.

This is that night -- no, day, grown great with bliss, In which the power of Satan broken is: In heaven be glory, peace unto the earth! Thus singing, through the air the angels swarm, And cope of stars re-echoèd the same.

Or say, if this new Birth of ours Sleeps, laid within some ark of flowers, Spangled with dew-light; thou canst clear All doubts, and manifest the where.

Declare to us, bright star, if we shall seek Him in the morning's blushing cheek, Or search the beds of spices through, To find him out?

Star. -- No, this ye need not do; But only come and see Him rest, A princely babe, in's mother's breast.

*    *    *    *    *

Hymn For Christmas

Felicia Hemans

Oh! lovely voices of the sky Which hymned the Saviour's birth, Are ye not singing still on high, Ye that sang, "Peace on earth"? To us yet speak the strains Wherewith, in time gone by, Ye blessed the Syrian swains, Oh! voices of the sky!

Oh! clear and shining light, whose beams That hour Heaven's glory shed, Around the palms, and o'er the streams, And on the shepherd's head. Be near, through life and death, As in that holiest night Of hope, and joy, and faith --  Oh! clear and shining light!

*    *    *    *    *

New Prince, New Pomp

Robert Southwell

Behold a simple, tender Babe, In freezing winter night, In homely manger trembling lies; Alas! a piteous sight.

The inns are full; no man will yield This little Pilgrim bed; But forced he is with silly beasts In crib to shroud his head.

Despise him not for lying there; First what he is inquire: An Orient pearl is often found In depth of dirty mire.

Weigh not his crib, his wooden dish, Nor beasts that by him feed; Weigh not his mother's poor attire, Nor Joseph's simple weed.

This stable is a Prince's court, The crib his chair of state; The beasts are parcel of his pomp, The wooden dish his plate.

The persons in that poor attire His royal liveries wear; The Prince himself is come from heaven: This pomp is praisèd there.

With joy approach, O Christian wight! Do homage to thy King; And highly praise this humble pomp, Which he from heaven doth bring.

*    *    *    *    *

The Three Kings

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Three Kings came riding from far away, Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar; Three Wise Men out of the East were they, And they traveled by night and they slept by day, For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.

The star was so beautiful, large and clear, That all the other stars of the sky Became a white mist in the atmosphere; And by this they knew that the coming was near Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, Three caskets of gold with golden keys; Their robes were of crimson silk, with rows Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.

And so the Three Kings rode into the West, Through the dusk of night over hill and dell, And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, With the people they met at some wayside well.

"Of the child that is born," said Baltasar, "Good people, I pray you, tell us the news; For we in the East have seen his star, And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, To find and worship the King of the Jews."

And the people answered, "You ask in vain; We know of no king but Herod the Great!" They thought the Wise Men were men insane, As they spurred their horses across the plain Like riders in haste who cannot wait.

And when they came to Jerusalem, Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem, And bring me tidings of this new king."

So they rode away, and the star stood still, The only one in the gray of morn; Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will, Right over Bethlehem on the hill, The city of David where Christ was born.

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, Through the silent street, till their horses turned And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard; But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, And only a light in the stable burned.

And cradled there in the scented hay, In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, The little child in the manger lay, The Child that would be King one day Of a kingdom not human, but divine.

His mother, Mary of Nazareth, Sat watching beside his place of rest, Watching the even flow of his breath, For the joy of life and the terror of death Were mingled together in her breast.

They laid their offerings at his feet: The gold was their tribute to a King; The frankincense, with its odor sweet, Was for the Priest, the Paraclete; The myrrh for the body's burying.

And the mother wondered and bowed her head, And sat as still as a statue of stone; Her heart was troubled yet comforted, Remembering what the angel had said Of an endless reign and of David's throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, With a clatter of hoofs in proud array; But they went not back to Herod the Great, For they knew his malice and feared his hate, And returned to their homes by another way.

*    *    *    *    *

Hymn On The Nativity

John Milton

It was the winter wild, While the heaven-born child All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature, in awe of him, Had doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize: It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.

Only with speeches fair She wooes the gentle air, To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden-white to throw; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

But he, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyed Peace: She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; And, waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.

No war or battle's sound Was heard the world around: The idle spear and shield were high uphung; The hookèd chariot stood Unstained with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovereign lord was by.

But peaceful was the night, Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began: The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kissed, Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave.

The stars, with deep amaze, Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence; And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer had often warned them thence: But in their glimmering orbs did glow, Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

And, though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame. As his inferior flame The new-enlightened world no more should need; He saw a greater sun appear Than his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear.

The shepherds on the lawn, Or ere the point of dawn, Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they then That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal fingers strook, Divinely warbled voice Answering the stringèd noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took: The air, such pleasure loath to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.

Nature, that heard such sound, Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region thrilling, Now was almost won, To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union.

At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, That with long beams the shame-faced night arrayed; The helmèd cherubim, And sworded seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, Harping in loud and solemn quire, With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born heir.

Such music as 'tis said Before was never made, But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator great His constellations set, And the well-balanced world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.

Ring out, ye crystal spheres, Once bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ blow; And, with your ninefold harmony, Make up full concert to the angelic symphony.

For, if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; And speckled Vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould; And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.

Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between, Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.

But wisest Fate says no, This must not yet be so; The babe yet lies in smiling infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss, So both himself and us to glorify: Yet first, to those chained in sleep, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep,

With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang, While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake; The aged earth aghast, With terror of that blast, Shall from the surface to the centre shake; When, at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.

And then at last our bliss, Full and perfect is, But now begins; for, from this happy day, The old dragon, underground, In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.

The oracles are dumb; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the archèd roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathèd spell, Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

The lonely mountains o'er, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring and dale, Edged with poplar pale, The parting Genius is with sighing sent; With flower-inwoven tresses torn, The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, The Lars and Lemures mourn with midnight plaint. In urns and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat.

Peor and Baaelim Forsake their temples dim With that twice-battered God of Palestine; And moonèd Ashtaroth Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; The Libyac Hammon shrinks his horn; In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

And sullen Moloch, fled, Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue: In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue: The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.

Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud; Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest, Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrelled anthems dark The sable-stolèd sorcerers bear his worshipped ark.

He feels from Judah's land The dreaded infant's hand, The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine; Our babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damnèd crew.

So, when the sun in bed, Curtained with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail, Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave; And the yellow-skirted fays Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.

But see, the Virgin blest Hath laid her babe to rest; Time is our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest-teèmed star Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable.

*    *    *    *    *



II

Celebration



Christmas Eve At Mr. Wardle's

From "Pickwick Papers"

Charles Dickens

From the center of the ceiling of this kitchen, old Wardle had just suspended with his own hands a huge branch of mistletoe, and this same branch of mistletoe instantaneously gave rise to a scene of general and most delightful struggling and confusion; in the midst of which Mr. Pickwick with a gallantry which would have done honour to a descendant of Lady Trollimglower herself, took the old lady by the hand, led her beneath the mystic branch, and saluted her in all courtesy and decorum. The old lady submitted to this piece of practical politeness with all the dignity which befitted so important and serious a solemnity, but the younger ladies not being so thoroughly imbued with a superstitious veneration of the custom, or imagining that the value of a salute is very much enhanced if it cost a little trouble to obtain it, screamed and struggled, and ran into corners, and threatened and remonstrated, and did everything but leave the room, until some of the less adventurous gentlemen were on the point of desisting, when they all at once found it useless to resist any longer, and submitted to be kissed with a good grace. Mr. Winkle kissed the young lady with the black eyes, and Mr. Snodgrass kissed Emily; and Mr. Weller, not being particular about the form of being under the mistletoe, kissed Emma and the other female servants, just as he caught them. As to the poor relations, they kissed everybody, not even excepting the plainer portion of the young-lady visitors, who, in their excessive confusion, ran right under the mistletoe, directly it was hung up, without knowing it! Wardle stood with his back to the fire, surveying the whole scene, with the utmost satisfaction; and the fat boy took the opportunity of appropriating to his own use, and summarily devouring, a particularly fine mince-pie, that had been carefully put by for somebody else.

Now the screaming had subsided, and faces were in a glow and curls in a tangle, and Mr. Pickwick, after kissing the old lady as before mentioned, was standing under the mistletoe, looking with a very pleased countenance on all that was passing around him, when the young lady with the black eyes, after a little whispering with the other young ladies, made a sudden dart forward, and, putting her arm around Mr. Pickwick's neck, saluted him affectionately on the left cheek; and before Mr. Pickwick distinctly knew what was the matter, he was surrounded by the whole body, and kissed by every one of them.

It was a pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick in the centre of the group, now pulled this way, and then that, and first kissed on the chin and then on the nose, and then on the spectacles, and to hear the peals of laughter which were raised on every side; but it was a still more pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick, blinded shortly afterwards with a silk-handkerchief, falling up against the wall, and scrambling into corners, and going through all the mysteries of blind-man's buff, with the utmost relish of the game, until at last he caught one of the poor relations; and then had to evade the blind-man himself, which he did with a nimbleness and agility that elicited the admiration and applause of all beholders. The poor relations caught just the people whom they thought would like it; and when the game flagged, got caught themselves. When they were all tired of blind-man's buff, there was a great game at snapdragon, and when fingers enough were burned with that, and all the raisons gone, they sat down by the huge fire of blazing logs to a substantial supper, and a mighty bowl of wassail, something smaller than an ordinary washhouse copper, in which the hot apples were hissing and bubbling with a rich look, and a jolly sound, that were perfectly irresistible.

"This," said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him, "this is, indeed, comfort."

"Our invariable custom," replied Mr. Wardle. "Everybody sits down with us on Christmas eve, as you see them now -- servants and all; and here we wait till the clock strikes twelve, to usher Christmas in, and wile away the time with forfeits and old stories. Trundle, my boy, rake up the fire."

Up flew the bright sparks in myriads as the logs were stirred, and the deep red blaze sent forth a rich glow, that penetrated into the furthest corner of the room, and cast its cheerful tint on every face.

"Come," said Wardle, "a song -- a Christmas song. I'll give you one, in default of a better."

"Bravo," said Mr. Pickwick.

"Fill up," cried Wardle. "It will be two hours good, before you see the bottom of the bowl through the deep rich colour of the wassail; fill up all round, and now for the song."

Thus saying, the merry old gentleman, in a good, round, sturdy voice, commenced without more ado -- 

A Christmas Carol

I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing Let the blossoms and buds be borne: He woos them amain with his treacherous rain, And he scatters them ere the morn. An inconstant elf, he knows not himself, Or his own changing mind an hour, He'll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace, He'll wither your youngest flower.

Let the summer sun to his bright home run, He shall never be sought by me; When he's dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud, And care not how sulky he be; For his darling child is the madness wild That sports in fierce fever's train; And when love is too strong, it don't last long, As many have found to their pain.

A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light Of the modest and gentle moon, Has a far sweeter sheen for me, I ween, Than the broad and unblushing noon, But every leaf awakens my grief, As it lieth beneath the tree; So let Autumn air be never so fair, It by no means agrees with me.

But my song I troll out, for Christmas stout, The hearty, the true, and the bold; A bumper I drain, and with might and main Give three cheers for this Christmas old. We'll usher him in with a merry din That shall gladden his joyous heart, And we'll keep him up while there's bite or sup, And in fellowship good, we'll part.

In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide One jot of his hard-weather scars; They're no disgrace, for there's much the same trace On the cheeks of our bravest tars. Then again I sing 'till the roof doth ring, And it echoes from wall to wall --  To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night, As the King of the Seasons all!

*    *    *    *    *

A Visit From St. Nicholas

Clement C. Moore

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads; And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, --  When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave a lustre of midday to objects below; When what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled and shouted and called them by name: "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall! Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!" As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With a sleigh full of toys, -- and St. Nicholas too. And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof, As I drew in my head and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. He had a broad face, and a little round belly That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump, -- a right jolly old elf --  And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. A wink of his eye and a twist of his head Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle; But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight: "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

*    *    *    *    *

A Christmas Piece

Of garnered rhyme, from hidden stores of olden time that since the language did begin, have welcomed merry Christmas in, and made the winter nights so long, fleet by on wings of wine and song; for when the snow is on the roof, the house within is sorrow proof, if yule log blazes on the hearth, and cups and hearts o'er-brim with mirth. Then bring the wassail to the board, with nuts and fruit -- the winter's hoard; and bid the children take off shoe, to hang their stockings by the flue; and let the clear and frosty sky, set out its brightest jewelry, to show old Santa Claus the road, so he may ease his gimcrack load. And with the coming of these times, we'll add some old and lusty rhymes, that suit the festive season well, and sound as sweet as Christmas bell.

Now just bethink of castle gate, where humble midnight mummers wait, to try if voices, one and all, can rouse the tipsy seneschal, to give them bread and beer and brawn, for tidings of the Christmas morn; or bid each yelper clear his throat, with water of the castle moat, for thus they used, by snow and torch, to rear their voices at the porch:

Fred S. Cozzens.

*    *    *    *    *

Wassailer's Song

Robert Southwell

Wassail! wassail! all over the town, Our toast it is white, and our ale it is brown; Our bowl is made of a maplin tree; We be good fellows all; -- I drink to thee.

Here's to our horse, and to his right ear, God send master a happy new year; A happy new year as e'er he did see, --  With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.

Here's to our mare, and to her right eye, God send our mistress a good Christmas pie; A good Christmas pie as e'er I did see, --  With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.

Here's to our cow, and to her long tail, God send our measter us never may fail Of a cup of good beer: I pray you draw near, And our jolly wassail it's then you shall hear.

Be here any maids? I suppose here be some; Sure they will not let young men stand on the cold stone! Sing hey O, maids! come trole back the pin, And the fairest maid in the house let us all in.

Come, butler, come, bring us a bowl of the best; I hope your soul in heaven will rest; But if you do bring us a bowl of the small, Then down fall butler, and bowl and all.

 --   -  -  -

And here's a Christmas carol meant for children, and most excellent, and though the monk that wrote it was hung, yet still his verses may be sung.

A Carol

As I in a hoarie winter's night Stood shivering in the snow, Surpriz'd I was with sudden heat, Which made my heart to glow; And lifting up a fearefull eye To view what fire was neere, A prettie babe, all burning bright, Did in the aire appeare; Who, scorchèd with excessive heat, Such flouds of teares did shed, As though his flouds should quench his flames, Which with his teares were bred:

Alas! (quoth he) but newly borne, In fierie heats I frie, Yet none approach to warm their hearts, Or feele my fire, but I; My faultless brest the furnace is, The fuell, wounding thornes: Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, The ashes, shames and scornes; The fuell justice layeth on, And mercy blows the coales, The metalls in this furnace wrought, Are Men's defiled soules: For which, as now on fire I am, To work them to their good, So will I melt into a bath, To wash them in my blood. With this he vanisht out of sight, And swiftly shrunke away, And straight I called unto minde That it was Christmasse Day.

*    *    *    *    *

Christmas Eve

Hamilton Wright Mabie

[From "My Study Fire."]

The world has been full of mysteries to-day; everybody has gone about weighted with secrets. The children's faces have fairly shone with expectancy, and I enter easily into the universal dream which at this moment holds all the children of Christendom under its spell. Was there ever a wider or more loving conspiracy than that which keeps the venerable figure of Santa Claus from slipping away, with all the other oldtime myths, into the forsaken wonderland of the past? Of all the personages whose marvelous doings once filled the minds of men, he alone survives. He has outlived all the great gods, and all the impressive and poetic conceptions which once flitted between heaven and earth; these have gone, but Santa Claus remains by virtue of a common understanding that childhood shall not be despoiled of one of its most cherished beliefs, either by the mythologist, with his sun myth theory, or the scientist, with his heartless diatribe against superstition. There is a good deal more to be said on this subject, if this were the place to say it; even superstition has its uses, and sometimes, its sound heart of truth. He who does not see in the legend of Santa Claus a beautiful faith on one side, and the naive embodiment of a divine fact on the other, is not fit to have a place at the Christmas board. For him there should be neither carol, nor holly, nor mistletoe; they only shall keep the feast to whom all these things are but the outward and visible signs of an inward and spiritual grace.

Rosalind and myself are thoroughly orthodox when it comes to the keeping of holidays; here at least the ways of our fathers are our ways also. Orthodoxy generally consists in retaining and emphasizing the disagreeable ways of the fathers, and as we are both inclined to heterodoxy on these points, we make the more prominent our observance of the best of the old-time habits. I might preach a pleasant little sermon just here, taking as my text the "survival of the fittest," and illustrating the truth from our own domestic ritual; but the season preaches its own sermon, and I should only follow the example of some ministers and get between the text and my congregation if I made the attempt. For weeks we have all been looking forward to this eventful evening, and the still more eventful morrow. There have been hurried and whispered conferences hastily suspended at the sound of a familiar step on the stair; packages of every imaginable size and shape have been surreptitiously introduced into the house, and have immediately disappeared in all manner of out-of-the-way places; and for several weeks past one room has been constantly under lock and key, visited only when certain sharp-sighted eyes were occupied in other directions. Through all this scene of mystery Rosalind has moved sedately and with sealed lips, the common confidant of all the conspirators, and herself the greatest conspirator of all. Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of love!

After dinner, eaten, let it be confessed, with more haste and less accompaniment of talk than usual, the parlor doors were opened, and there stood the Christmas tree in a glow of light, its wonderful branches laden with all manner of strange fruits not to be found in the botanies. The wild shouts, the merry laughter, the cries of delight as one coveted fruit after another dropped into long-expectant arms still linger in my ears now that the little tapers are burnt out, the boughs left bare, and the actors in the perennial drama are fast asleep, with new and strange bedfellows selected from the spoils of the night. Cradled between a delightful memory and a blissful anticipation, who does not envy them?

After this charming prelude is over, Rosalind comes into the study, and studies for the fortieth time the effect of the new design of decoration which she had this year worked out, and which gives these rather somber rows of books a homelike and festive aspect. It pleases me to note the spray of holly that obscures the title of Bacon's solemn and weighty "Essays," and I get half a page of suggestions for my notebook from the fact that a sprig of mistletoe has fallen on old Burton's "Anatomy of Melancholy." Rosalind has reason to be satisfied, and if I read her face aright she has succeeded even in her own eyes in bringing Christmas, with its fragrant memories and its heavenly visions, into the study. I cannot help thinking, as I watch her piling up the fire for a blaze of unusual splendor, that if more studies had their Rosalinds to bring in the genial currents of life there would be more cheer and hope and large-hearted wisdom in the books which the world is reading to-day.

When the fire has reached a degree of intensity and magnitude which Rosalind thinks adequate to the occasion, I take down a well-worn volume which opens of itself at a well-worn page. It is a book which I have read and re-read many times, and always with a kindling sympathy and affection for the man who wrote it; in whatever mood I take it up there is something in it which touches me with a sense of kinship. It is not a great book, but it is a book of the heart, and books of the heart have passed beyond the outer court of criticism before we bestow upon them that phrase of supreme regard. There are other books of the heart around me, but on Christmas Eve it is Alexander Smith's "Dreamthorp" which always seems to lie at my hand, and when I take it up the well-worn volume falls open at the essay on "Christmas." It is a good many years since Rosalind and I began to read together on Christmas Eve this beautiful meditation on the season, and now it has gathered about itself such a host of memories that it has become part of our common past. It is, indeed, a veritable palimpsest, overlaid with tender and gracious recollections out of which the original thought gains a new and subtle sweetness. As I read it aloud I know that she sees once more the familiar landscape about Dreamthorp, with the low, dark hill in the background, and over it "the tender radiance that precedes the moon"; the village windows are all lighted, and the "whole place shines like a congregation of glowworms." There are the skaters still "leaning against the frosty wind"; there is the "gray church tower amid the leafless elms," around which the echoes of the morning peal of Christmas bells still hover; the village folk have gathered, "in their best dresses and their best faces"; the beautiful service of the church has been read and answered with heartfelt responses, the familiar story has been told again simply and urgently, with applications for every thankful soul, and then the congregation has gone to its homes and its festivities.

All these things, I am sure, lie within Rosalind's vision, although she seems to see nothing but the ruddy blaze of the fire; all these things I see, as I have seen them these many Christmas Eves agone; but with this familiar landscape there are mingled all the sweet and sorrowful memories of our common life, recalled at this hour that the light of the highest truth may interpret them anew in the divine language of hope. I read on until I come to the quotation from the "Hymn to the Nativity," and then I close the book, and take up a copy of Milton close at hand. We have had our commemoration service of love, and now there comes into our thought, with the organ roll of this sublime hymn, the universal truth which lies at the heart of the season. I am hardly conscious that it is my voice which makes these words audible: I am conscious only of this mighty-voiced anthem, fit for the choral song of the morning stars:

"Ring out, ye crystal spheres, And bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow; And, with your ninefold harmony, Make up full concert to the angelic symphony.

"For, if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back and fetch the age of gold; And speckled vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous sin will melt from earthly mold; And hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.

 --   -  -  -

"The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the archéd roof in words deceiving; Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving, No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

"The lonely mountains o'er, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale Edgéd with poplars pale, The parting genius is with sighing sent; With flower-enwoven tresses torn, The nymphs in twilight shades of tangled thickets mourn."

 --   -  -  -

Like a psalm the great Hymn fills the air, and like a psalm it remains in the memory. The fire has burned low, and a soft and solemn light fills the room. Neither of us speaks while the clock strikes twelve. I look out of the window. The heavens are ablaze with light, and somewhere amid those circling constellations I know that a new star has found its place, and is shining with such a ray as never before fell from heaven to earth.

*    *    *    *    *

Christmas In The Olden Time

Walter Scott

On Christmas-eve the bells were rung; The damsel donned her kirtle sheen; The hall was dressed with holly green; Forth to the wood did merry men go, To gather in the mistletoe. Thus opened wide the baron's hall To vassal, tenant, serf and all; Power laid his rod of rule aside And ceremony doffed his pride. The heir, with roses in his shoes, That night might village partner choose; The lord, underogating, share The vulgar game of "Post and Pair." All hailed, with uncontrolled delight, And general voice, the happy night That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down.

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, Went roaring up the chimney wide; The huge hall-table's oaken face, Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord. Then was brought in the lusty brawn By old blue-coated serving man; Then the grim boar's head frowned on high, Crested with bays and rosemary. Well can the green-garbed ranger tell How, when and where the monster fell; What dogs before his death he tore, And all the baitings of the boar. The wassal round, in good brown bowls, Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls. There the huge sirloin reeked: hard by Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pye; Nor failed old Scotland to produce, At such high-tide, her savory goose.

Then came the merry maskers in, And carols roared with blithesome din. If unmelodious was the song, It was a hearty note, and strong; Who lists may in their murmuring see Traces of ancient mystery; White shirts supplied the masquerade, And smutted cheeks the visors made; But O, what maskers richly dight, Can boast of bosoms half so light! England was "merry England" when Old Christmas brought his sports again; 'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale, 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; A Christmas gambol oft would cheer The poor man's heart through half the year.

*    *    *    *    *

Sly Santa Claus

Mrs. C.S. Stone

All the house was asleep, And the fire burning low, When, from far up the chimney, Came down a "Ho! ho!" And a little, round man, With a terrible scratching, Dropped into the room With a wink that was catching. Yes, down he came, bumping, And thumping, and jumping, And picking himself up without sign of a bruise!

"Ho! ho!" he kept on, As if bursting with cheer. "Good children, gay children, Glad children, see here! I have brought you fine dolls, And gay trumpets, and rings, Noah's arks, and bright skates, And a host of good things! I have brought a whole sackful, A packful, a hackful! Come hither, come hither, come hither and choose!

"Ho! ho! What is this? Why, they all are asleep! But their stockings are up, And my presents will keep! So, in with the candies, The books, and the toys; All the goodies I have For the good girls and boys. I'll ram them, and jam them, And slam them, and cram them; All the stockings will hold while the tired youngsters snooze."

All the while his round shoulders Kept ducking and ducking; And his little, fat fingers Kept tucking and tucking; Until every stocking Bulged out, on the wall, As if it were bursting, And ready to fall.

And then, all at once, With a whisk and a whistle, And twisting himself Like a tough bit of gristle, He bounced up again, Like the down of a thistle, And nothing was left but the prints of his shoes.

*    *    *    *    *

The Waits

Margaret Deland

At the break of Christmas Day, Through the frosty starlight ringing, Faint and sweet and far away, Comes the sound of children, singing, Chanting, singing, "Cease to mourn, For Christ is born, Peace and joy to all men bringing!"

Careless that the chill winds blow, Growing stronger, sweeter, clearer, Noiseless footfalls in the snow Bring the happy voices nearer; Hear them singing, "Winter's drear, But Christ is here, Mirth and gladness with Him bringing!"

"Merry Christmas!" hear them say, As the East is growing lighter; "May the joy of Christmas Day Make your whole year gladder, brighter!" Join their singing, "To each home Our Christ has come, All Love's treasures with Him bringing!"

*    *    *    *    *

The Knighting Of The Sirloin Of Beef By Charles The Second

Anon

The Second Charles of England Rode forth one Christmas tide, To hunt a gallant stag of ten, Of Chingford woods the pride.

The winds blew keen, the snow fell fast, And made for earth a pall, As tired steeds and wearied men Returned to Friday Hall.

The blazing logs, piled on the dogs, Were pleasant to behold! And grateful was the steaming feast To hungry men and cold.

With right good-will all took their fill, And soon each found relief; Whilst Charles his royal trencher piled From one huge loin of beef.

Quoth Charles, "Odd's fish! a noble dish! Ay, noble made by me! By kingly right, I dub thee knight --  Sir Loin henceforward be!"

And never was a royal jest Received with such acclaim: And never knight than good Sir Loin More worthy of the name.

*    *    *    *    *

The Christmas Goose At The Cratchits'

Charles Dickens

You might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course; and in truth, it was something like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready before-hand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner, at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all around the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried hurrah!

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by the apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone on the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular were steeped in sage and onion to the eye-brows! But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone -- too nervous to bear witnesses -- to take the pudding up, and bring it in.

Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the backyard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose; a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors were supposed.

Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastry cook's next door to each other, with a laundress next door to that! That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered, flushed, but smiling proudly, with the pudding like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.

Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for so large a family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovelful of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass -- two tumblers, and a custard-cup without a handle.

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed:

"A merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!"

Which all the family re-echoed.

"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

*    *    *    *    *

God Bless Us Every One

James Whitcomb Riley

[From "Sketches in Prose."]

"God bless us every one!" prayed Tiny Tim, Crippled, and dwarfed of body, yet so tall Of soul, we tiptoe earth to look on him, High towering over all.

He loved the loveless world, nor dreamed, indeed, That it, at best, could give to him, the while, But pitying glances, when his only need Was but a cheery smile.

And thus he prayed, "God bless us every one!" Enfolding all the creeds within the span Of his child-heart; and so, despising none, Was nearer saint than man.

I like to fancy God, in Paradise, Lifting a finger o'er the rhythmic swing Of chiming harp and song, with eager eyes Turned earthward, listening -- 

The Anthem stilled -- the angels leaning there Above the golden walls -- the morning sun Of Christmas bursting flower-like with the prayer, "God bless us Every One!"

*    *    *    *    *

Bells Across The Snows

Frances Ridley Havergal

O Christmas, merry Christmas! Is it really come again, With its memories and greetings, With its joy and with its pain? There's a minor in the carol, And a shadow in the light, And a spray of cypress twining With the holly wreath to-night. And the hush is never broken By laughter light and low, As we listen in the starlight To the "bells across the snow."

O Christmas, merry Christmas! 'Tis not so very long Since other voices blended With the carol and the song! If we could but hear them singing As they are singing now, If we could but see the radiance Of the crown on each dear brow; There would be no sigh to smother, No hidden tear to flow, As we listen in the starlight To the "bells across the snow."

O Christmas, merry Christmas! This never more can be; We cannot bring again the days Of our unshadowed glee. But Christmas, happy Christmas, Sweet herald of good-will, With holy songs of glory Brings holy gladness still. For peace and hope may brighten, And patient love may glow, As we listen in the starlight To the "bells across the snow."

*    *    *    *    *

Christmas Bells

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom Had rolled along The unbroken song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, swinging on its way, The world revolved from night to day A voice, a chime, A chant sublime Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursèd mouth The cannon thundered in the South And with the sound The carols drowned Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent The hearth-stones of a continent, And made forlorn The households born Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head; "There is no peace on earth," I said; "For hate is strong And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep. "God is not dead; nor doth He sleep! The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

*    *    *    *    *

Minstrels And Maids

William Morris

Outlanders, whence come ye last? The snow in the street and the wind on the door. Through what green seas and great have ye past? Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

From far away, O masters mine, The snow in the street and the wind on the door. We come to bear you goodly wine, Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

From far away we come to you, The snow in the street and the wind on the door. To tell of great tidings strange and true, Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

News, news of the Trinity, The snow in the street and the wind on the door. And Mary and Joseph from over the sea! Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

For as we wandered far and wide, The snow in the street and the wind on the door. What hap do you deem there should us betide! Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

Under a bent when the night was deep, The snow in the street and the wind on the door. There lay three shepherds tending their sheep. Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

"O ye shepherds, what have ye seen, The snow in the street and the wind on the door. To slay your sorrow, and heal your teen?" Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

"In an ox-stall this night we saw, The snow in the street and the wind on the door. A babe and a maid without a flaw. Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

"There was an old man there beside, The snow in the street and the wind on the door. His hair was white and his hood was wide. Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

"And as we gazed this thing upon, The snow in the street and the wind on the door. Those twain knelt down to the Little One, Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

"And a marvellous song we straight did hear, The snow in the street and the wind on the door. That slew our sorrow and healed our care." Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

News of a fair and marvellous thing, The snow in the street and the wind on the door. Nowell, nowell, nowell, we sing! Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

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Inexhaustibility Of The Subject Of Christmas

Leigh Hunt

So many things have been said of late years about Christmas, that it is supposed by some there is no saying more. O they of little faith! What! do they suppose that every thing has been said that can be said about any one Christmas thing?

About beef, for instance? About plum-pudding? About mince-pie? About holly? About ivy? About rosemary? About mistletoe? (Good Heavens! what an immense number of things remain to be said about mistletoe!) About Christmas Eve? About hunt-the-slipper? About hot cockles? About blind-man's-buff? About shoeing the wild-mare? About thread-the-needle? About he-can-do-little-that-can't-do-this? About puss-in-the-corner? About snap-dragon? About forfeits? About Miss Smith? About the bell-man? About the waits? About chilblains? About carols? About the fire? About the block on it? About school-boys? About their mothers? About Christmas-boxes? About turkeys? About Hogmany? About goose-pie? About mumming? About saluting the apple-trees? About brawn? About plum-porridge? About hobby-horse? About hoppings? About wakes? About "feed-the-dove"? About hackins? About yule-doughs? About going-a-gooding? About loaf-stealing? About Julklaps? (Who has exhausted that subject, we should like to know?) About wad-shooting? About elder-wine? About pantomimes? About cards? About New-Year's Day? About gifts? About wassail? About Twelfth-cake? About king and queen? About characters? About eating too much? About aldermen? About the doctor? About all being in the wrong? About charity? About all being in the right? About faith, hope, and endeavor? About the greatest plum-pudding for the greatest number?

Esto perpetua, -- that is, faith, hope and charity, and endeavor; and plum-pudding enough by and by, all the year round, for everybody that likes it. Why that should not be the case, we cannot see, -- seeing that the earth is big, and human kind teachable, and God very good, and inciting us to do it. Meantime, gravity apart, we ask anybody whether any of the above subjects are exhausted; and we inform everybody, that all the above customs still exist in some parts of our beloved country, however unintelligible they may have become in others. But to give a specimen of the non-exhaustion of any one of their topics.

Beef, for example. Now, we should like to know who has exhausted the subject of the fine old roast Christmas piece of beef, from its original appearance in the meadows as part of the noble sultan of the herd, glorious old Taurus, -- the lord of the sturdy brow and ponderous agility, a sort of thunderbolt of a beast, well chosen by Jove to disguise in, one of Nature's most striking compounds of apparent heaviness and unencumbered activity, -- up to its contribution to the noble Christmas-dinner, smoking from the spit, and flanked by the outposts of Bacchus. John Bull (cannibalism apart) hails it like a sort of relation. He makes it part of his flesh and blood; glories in it; was named after it; has it served up, on solemn occasions, with music and a hymn, as it was the other day at the royal city dinner: -- 

"Oh the roast beef of old England! And oh the old English roast beef!"

"And oh!" observe, not merely "oh!" again; but "and" with it; as if, though the same piece of beef, it were also another, -- another and the same, -- cut, and come again; making two of one, in order to express intensity and reduplication of satisfaction: -- 

"Oh the roast beef of old England! And oh the old English roast beef!"

We beg to assure the reader, that a whole Seer might be written on this single point of the Christmas-dinner; and "shall we be told" (as orators exclaim), "and this, too, in a British land," that the subject is "exhausted"!

Then plum-pudding! What a word is that! how plump and plump again! How round and repeated and plenipotential! (There are two p's, observe, in plenipotential; and so there are in plum-pudding. We love an exquisite fitness, -- a might and wealth of adaptation). Why, the whole round cheek of universal childhood is in the idea of plum-pudding; ay, and the weight of manhood, and the plenitude of the majesty of city dames. Wealth itself is symbolized by the least of its fruity particles. "A plum" is a city fortune, -- a million of money. He (the old boy, who has earned it) -- 

"Puts in his thumb,

videlicet, into his pocket,

And pulls out a plum, And says, What a good man am I!"

Observe a little boy at a Christmas-dinner, and his grandfather opposite him. What a world of secret similarity there is between them! How hope in one, and retrospection in the other, and appetite in both, meet over the same ground of pudding, and understand it to a nicety! How the senior banters the little boy on his third slice! and how the little boy thinks within himself that he dines that day as well as the senior! How both look hot and red and smiling, and juvenile. How the little boy is conscious of the Christmas-box in his pocket! (of which, indeed, the grandfather jocosely puts him in mind); and how the grandfather is quite as conscious of the plum, or part of a plum, or whatever fraction it may be, in his own! How he incites the little boy to love money and good dinners all his life! and how determined the little boy is to abide by his advice, -- with a secret addition in favor of holidays and marbles, -- to which there is an analogy, in the senior's mind, on the side of trips to Hastings, and a game at whist! Finally, the old gentleman sees his own face in the pretty smooth one of the child; and if the child is not best pleased at his proclamation of the likeness (in truth, is horrified at it, and thinks it a sort of madness), yet nice observers, who have lived long enough to see the wonderful changes in people's faces from youth to age, probably discern the thing well enough, and feel a movement of pathos at their hearts in considering the world of trouble and emotion that is the causer of the changes. That old man's face was once like that little boy's! That little boy's will be one day like that old man's! What a thought to make us all love and respect one another, if not for our fine qualities, let at least for the trouble and sorrow which we all go through!

Ay, and joy too; for all people have their joys as well as troubles, at one time or another, -- most likely both together, or in constant alternation: and the greater part of troubles are not the worst things in the world, but only graver forms of the requisite motion of the universe, or workings towards a better condition of things, the greater or less violent according as we give them violence, or respect them like awful but not ill-meaning gods, and entertain them with a rewarded patience. Grave thoughts, you will say, for Christmas. But no season has a greater right to grave thoughts, in passing; and, for that very reason, no season has a greater right to let them pass, and recur to more light ones.

So a noble and merry season to you, my masters; and may we meet, thick and three-fold, many a time and oft, in blithe yet most thoughtful pages! Fail not to call to mind, in the course of the 25th of this month, that the divinest Heart that ever walked the earth was born on that day: and then smile and enjoy yourselves for the rest of it; for mirth is also of Heaven's making, and wondrous was the wine-drinking at Galilee.

*    *    *    *    *

Song Of The Holly

William Shakespeare

Blow, blow thou winter wind --  Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude! Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. Then heigh ho! the holly! This life is most jolly!

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky --  Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot! Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remembered not. Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly, Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. Then heigh ho, the holly! This life is most jolly!

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Under The Holly-Bough

Charles Mackay

Ye who have scorned each other, Or injured friend or brother, In this fast-fading year; Ye who, by word or deed, Have made a kind heart bleed, Come gather here! Let sinned against and sinning Forget their strife's beginning, And join in friendship now. Be links no longer broken, Be sweet forgiveness spoken Under the Holly-Bough.

Ye who have loved each other, Sister and friend and brother, In this fast-fading year: Mother and sire and child, Young man and maiden mild, Come gather here; And let your heart grow fonder, As memory shall ponder Each past unbroken vow; Old loves and younger wooing Are sweet in the renewing Under the Holly-Bough.

Ye who have nourished sadness, Estranged from hope and gladness In this fast-fading year; Ye with o'erburdened mind, Made aliens from your kind, Come gather here. Let not the useless sorrow Pursue you night and morrow, If e'er you hoped, hope now. Take heart, -- uncloud your faces, And join in our embraces Under the Holly-Bough.

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Ceremonies For Christmas

Robert Herrick

Come, bring with a noise, My merry, merry boys, The Christmas log to the firing, While my good dame, she Bids ye all be free, And drink to your heart's desiring.

With the last year's brand Light the new block, and For good success in his spending, On your psalteries play, That sweet luck may Come while the log is a-teending.

Drink now the strong beer, Cut the white loaf here, The while the meat is a-shredding; For the rare mince-pie, And the plums stand by, To fill the paste that's a kneading.

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Santa Claus

Anon

He comes in the night! He comes in the night! He softly, silently comes; While the little brown heads on the pillows so white Are dreaming of bugles and drums. He cuts through the snow like a ship through the foam, While the white flakes around him whirl; Who tells him I know not, but he findeth the home Of each good little boy and girl.

His sleigh it is long, and deep, and wide; It will carry a host of things, While dozens of drums hang over the side, With the sticks sticking under the strings: And yet not the sound of a drum is heard, Not a bugle blast is blown, As he mounts to the chimney-top like a bird, And drops to the hearth like a stone.

The little red stockings he silently fills, Till the stockings will hold no more; The bright little sleds for the great snow hills Are quickly set down on the floor. Then Santa Claus mounts to the roof like a bird, And glides to his seat in the sleigh; Not the sound of a bugle or drum is heard As he noiselessly gallops away.

He rides to the East, and he rides to the West, Of his goodies he touches not one; He eateth the crumbs of the Christmas feast When the dear little folks are done. Old Santa Claus doeth all that he can; This beautiful mission is his; Then, children, be good to the little old man, When you find who the little man is.

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The Ceremonies For Christmas Day

Robert Herrick

Kindle the Christmas brand, and then Till sunset let it burn; Which quench'd, then lay it up again Till Christmas next return.

Part must be kept wherewith to teend The Christmas log next year, And where 'tis safely kept, the fiend Can do no mischief there.

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December

Harriet F. Blodgett

I

Oh! holly branch and mistletoe. And Christmas chimes where'er we go. And stockings pinned up in a row! These are thy gifts, December!

II

And if the year has made thee old, And silvered all thy locks of gold, Thy heart has never been a-cold Or known a fading ember.

III

The whole world is a Christmas tree, And stars its many candles be. Oh! sing a carol joyfully The year's great feast in keeping!

IV

For once, on a December night An angel held a candle bright. And led three wise men by its light To where a child was sleeping.

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The Festival Of St. Nicholas

Mary Mapes Dodge

We all know how, before the Christmas-tree began to flourish in the home-life of our country, a certain "right jolly old elf," with "eight tiny reindeer," used to drive his sleigh-load of toys up to our housetops, and then bound down the chimney to fill the stockings so hopefully hung by the fireplace. His friends called him Santa Claus; and those who were most intimate ventured to say, "Old Nick." It was said that he originally came from Holland. Doubtless he did; but, if so, he certainly, like many other foreigners, changed his ways very much after landing upon our shores. In Holland, St. Nicholas is a veritable saint, and often appears in full costume, with his embroidered robes glittering with gems and gold, his mitre, his crosier, and his jewelled gloves. Here Santa Claus comes rollicking along on the 25th of December, our Holy Christmas morn; but in Holland, St. Nicholas visits earth on the 5th, a time especially appropriated to him. Early on the morning of the 6th, which is St. Nicholas Day, he distributes his candies, toys and treasures, and then vanishes for a year.

Christmas Day is devoted by the Hollanders to church-rites and pleasant family visiting. It is on St. Nicholas Eve that their young people become half wild with joy and expectation. To some of them it is a sorry time; for the saint is very candid, and, if any of them have been bad during the past year, he is quite sure to tell them so. Sometimes he carries a birch-rod under his arm, and advises the parents to give them scoldings in place of confections, and floggings instead of joys.

It was well that the boys hastened to their abodes on that bright winter evening; for, in less than an hour afterwards, the saint made his appearance in half the homes of Holland. He visited the king's palace, and in the self-same moment appeared in Annie Bouman's comfortable home. Probably one of our silver half-dollars would have purchased all that his saintship left at the peasant Bouman's. But a half-dollar's worth will sometimes do for the poor what hundreds of dollars may fail to do for the rich: it makes them happy and grateful, fills them with new peace and love.

Hilda van Gleck's little brothers and sisters were in a high state of excitement that night. They had been admitted into the grand parlor: they were dressed in their best, and had been given two cakes apiece at supper. Hilda was as joyous as any. Why not? St. Nicholas would never cross a girl of fourteen from his list, just because she was tall and looked almost like a woman. On the contrary, he would probably exert himself to do honor to such an august-looking damsel. Who could tell? So she sported and laughed and danced as gayly as the youngest, and was the soul of all their merry games. Father, mother and grandmother looked on approvingly; so did grandfather, before he spread his large red handkerchief over his face, leaving only the top of his skull-cap visible. This kerchief was his ensign of sleep.

Earlier in the evening, all had joined in the fun. In the general hilarity, there had seemed to be a difference only in bulk between grandfather and the baby. Indeed, a shade of solemn expectation, now and then flitting across the faces of the younger members, had made them seem rather more thoughtful than their elders.

Now the spirit of fun reigned supreme. The very flames danced and capered in the polished grate. A pair of prim candles, that had been staring at the astral lamp, began to wink at other candles far away in the mirrors. There was a long bell-rope suspended from the ceiling in the corner, made of glass beads, netted over a cord nearly as thick as your wrist. It generally hung in the shadow, and made no sign; but to-night it twinkled from end to end. Its handle of crimson glass sent reckless dashes of red at the papered wall, turning its dainty blue stripes into purple. Passers-by halted to catch the merry laughter floating through curtain and sash into the street, then skipped on their way with the startled consciousness that the village was wide awake. At last matters grew so uproarious that the grandsire's red kerchief came down from his face with a jerk. What decent old gentleman could sleep in such a racket! Mynheer van Gleck regarded his children with astonishment. The baby even showed symptoms of hysterics. It was high time to attend to business. Mevrouw suggested that, if they wished to see the good St. Nicholas, they should sing the same loving invitation that had brought him the year before.

The baby stared, and thrust his fist into his mouth, as Mynheer put him down upon the floor. Soon he sat erect, and looked with a sweet scowl at the company. With his lace and embroideries, and his crown of blue ribbon and whalebone (for he was not quite past the tumbling age), he looked like the king of babies.

The other children, each holding a pretty willow basket, formed at once in a ring, and moved slowly around the little fellow, lifting their eyes meanwhile; for the saint to whom they were about to address themselves was yet in mysterious quarters.

Mevrouw commenced playing softly upon the piano; soon the voices rose, -- gentle, youthful voices, rendered all the sweeter for their tremor, -- 

"Welcome, friend! St. Nicholas, welcome! Bring no rod for us to-night! While our voices bid thee welcome, Every heart with joy is light.

"Tell us every fault and failing; We will bear thy keenest railing So we sing, so we sing: Thou shalt tell us everything!

"Welcome, friend! St. Nicholas, welcome! Welcome to this merry band! Happy children greet thee, welcome! Thou art gladdening all the land.

"Fill each empty hand and basket; 'T is thy little ones who ask it. So we sing, so we sing: Thou wilt bring us everything!"

During the chorus, sundry glances, half in eagerness, half in dread, had been cast towards the polished folding-doors. Now a loud knocking was heard. The circle was broken in an instant. Some of the little ones, with a strange mixture of fear and delight, pressed against their mother's knee. Grandfather bent forward, with his chin resting upon his hand; grandmother lifted her spectacles; Mynheer van Gleck, seated by the fireplace, slowly drew his meerschaum from his mouth; while Hilda and the other children settled themselves beside him in an expectant group.

The knocking was heard again.

"Come in," said the mevrouw, softly.

The door slowly opened; and St. Nicholas, in full array, stood before them. You could have heard a pin drop. Soon he spoke. What a mysterious majesty in his voice! what kindliness in his tone!

"Karel van Gleck, I am pleased to greet thee, and thy honored vrouw, Kathrine, and thy son, and his good vrouw, Annie.

"Children, I greet ye all, -- Hendrick, Hilda, Broom, Katy, Huygens and Lucretia. And thy cousins, -- Wolfert, Diedrich, Mayken, Voost and Katrina. Good children ye have been, in the main, since I last accosted ye. Diedrich was rude at the Haarlem fair last fall; but he has tried to atone for it since. Mayken has failed, of late, in her lessons; and too many sweets and trifles have gone to her lips, and too few stivers to her charity-box. Diedrich, I trust, will be a polite, manly boy for the future; and Mayken will endeavor to shine as a student. Let her remember, too, that economy and thrift are needed in the foundation of a worthy and generous life. Little Katy has been cruel to the cat more than once. St. Nicholas can hear the cat cry when its tail is pulled. I will forgive her, if she will remember from this hour that the smallest dumb creatures have feeling, and must not be abused."

As Katy burst into a frightened cry, the saint graciously remained silent until she was soothed.

"Master Broom," he resumed, "I warn thee that boys who are in the habit of putting snuff upon the foot-stove of the school-mistress may one day be discovered, and receive a flogging -- "

(Master Broom colored, and stared in great astonishment.)

"But, thou art such an excellent scholar, I shall make thee no further reproof.

"Thou, Hendrick, didst distinguish thyself in the archery match last spring, and hit the doel,[A] though the bird was swung before it to unsteady thine eye. I give thee credit for excelling in manly sport and exercise; though I must not unduly countenance thy boat-racing, since it leaves thee too little time for thy proper studies.

[Footnote A: Bull's-eye.]

"Lucretia and Hilda shall have a blessed sleep to-night. The consciousness of kindness to the poor, devotion in their souls, and cheerful, hearty obedience to household rule, will render them happy.

"With one and all I avow myself well content. Goodness, industry, benevolence and thrift have prevailed in your midst. Therefore, my blessing upon you; and may the New Year find all treading the paths of obedience, wisdom and love! To-morrow you shall find more substantial proofs that I have been in your home. Farewell!"

With these words came a great shower of sugar-plums upon a linen sheet spread out in front of the doors. A general scramble followed. The children fairly tumbled over each other in their eagerness to fill their baskets. Mevrouw cautiously held the baby down upon the sheet till the chubby little fists were filled. Then the bravest of the youngsters sprang up and threw open the closed doors. In vain they searched the mysterious apartment. St. Nicholas was nowhere to be seen.

Soon they all sped to another room, where stood a table, covered with the whitest of linen damask. Each child, in a flutter of pleasure, laid a shoe upon it, and each shoe held a little hay for the good saint's horse. The door was then carefully locked, and its key hidden in the mother's bedroom. Next followed good-night kisses, a grand family procession to the upper floor, merry farewells at bedroom doors, and silence, at last, reigned in the Van Gleck mansion.

Early the next morning, the door was solemnly unlocked and opened in the presence of the assembled household; when, lo! a sight appeared, proving good St. Nicholas to be a saint of his word.

Every shoe was filled to overflowing; and beside each stood a many-colored pile. The table was heavy with its load of presents, -- candies, toys, trinkets, books and other articles. Every one had gifts, from grandfather down to the baby.

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The Christmas Holly

Eliza Cook

The holly! the holly! oh, twine it with bay --  Come give the holly a song; For it helps to drive stern winter away, With his garment so sombre and long;

It peeps through the trees with its berries of red, And its leaves of burnished green, When the flowers and fruits have long been dead, And not even the daisy is seen. Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly, That hangs over peasant and king; While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs, To the Christmas holly we'll sing.

The gale may whistle, the frost may come To fetter the gurgling rill; The woods may be bare, and warblers dumb, But holly is beautiful still. In the revel and light of princely halls The bright holly branch is found; And its shadow falls on the lowliest walls, While the brimming horn goes round.

The ivy lives long, but its home must be Where graves and ruins are spread; There's beauty about the cypress tree, But it flourishes near the dead; The laurel the warrior's brow may wreathe, But it tells of tears and blood; I sing the holly, and who can breathe Aught of that that is not good?

Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly, That hangs over peasant and king; While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs, To the Christmas holly we'll sing.

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To The Fir-Tree

From The German

O Fir-tree green! O Fir-tree green! Your leaves are constant ever, Not only in the summer time, But through the winter's snow and rime You're fresh and green forever.

O Fir-tree green! O Fir-tree green! I still shall love you dearly! How oft to me on Christmas night Your laden boughs have brought delight. O Fir-tree green! O Fir-tree green! I still shall love you dearly.

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The Mahogany-Tree

William Makepeace Thackeray

Christmas is here; Winds whistle shrill, Icy and chill, Little care we; Little we fear Weather without, Sheltered about The Mahogany-Tree.

Once on the boughs Birds of rare plume Sang in its bloom; Night-birds are we; Here we carouse, Singing, like them, Perched round the stem Of the jolly old tree.

Here let us sport, Boys, as we sit --  Laughter and wit Flashing so free. Life is but short --  When we are gone, Let them sing on, Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew, Happy as this; Faces we miss, Pleasant to see. Kind hearts and true, Gentle and just, Peace to your dust! We sing round the tree.

Care like a dun, Lurks at the gate; Let the dog wait; Happy we'll be! Drink, every one; Pile up the coals; Fill the red bowls, Round the old tree!

Drain we the cup. --  Friend, art afraid? Spirits are laid In the Red Sea. Mantle it up; Empty it yet; Let us forget, Round the old tree!

Sorrows begone! Life and its ills, Duns and their bills, Bid we to flee. Come with the dawn, Blue-devil sprite; Leave us to-night, Round the old tree!

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Christmas

Washington Irving

But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair on his good, gray, old head and beard left? Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot have more of him.

Hue and Cry after Christmas.


A man might then behold At Christmas, in each hall, Good fires to curb the cold, And meat for great and small. The neighbors were friendly bidden, And all had welcome true, The poor from the gates were not chidden, When this old cap was new. Old Song.



There is nothing in England that exercises a more delightful spell over my imagination than the lingerings of the holiday customs and rural games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only knew the world through books, and believed it to be all that poets had painted it; and they bring with them the flavor of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more homebred, social, and joyous than at present. I regret to say that they are daily growing more and more faint, being gradually worn away by time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture, which we see crumbling in various parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions and alterations of latter days. Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness about the rural game and holiday revel, from which it has derived so many of its themes -- as the ivy winds its rich foliage about the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their support, by clasping together their tottering remains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure.

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the church about this season are extremely tender and inspiring: they dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement; they gradually increase in fervor and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace and good-will to men. I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony.

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from the days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of the religion of peace and love, has been made the season for gathering together of family connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually operating to cast loose; of calling back the children of a family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of the affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing mementos of childhood.

There is something in the very season of the year, that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times, we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of Nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we "live abroad and everywhere." The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn; earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep, delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, -- all fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when Nature lies despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of our landscape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasures of the social circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated; our friendly sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are brought more closely together by dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart, and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of living kindness which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms; and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of domestic felicity.

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, and lights up each countenance with a kindlier welcome. Where does the honest face of hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile -- where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent -- than by the winter fireside? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered security, with which we look around upon the comfortable chamber, and the scene of domestic hilarity?

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habits throughout every class of society, have always been fond of those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life; and they were in former days particularly observant of the religious and social rights of Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry details which some antiquaries have given of the quaint humors, the burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and good fellowship, with which this festival was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every door, unlock every heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles and manor-houses resounded with the harp and the Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with green decorations of bay and holly -- the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting the passenger to raise the latch, and join the gossip knot huddled round the hearth beguiling the long evening with legendary jokes, and oft-told Christmas tales.

One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. It has completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life, and has worn down society into a more smooth and polished, but certainly a less characteristic surface. Many of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, are become matters of speculation and dispute among commentators. They flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigorously: times wild and picturesque, which have furnished poetry with its richest materials, and the drama with its most attractive variety of characters and manners. The world has become more worldly. There is more of dissipation and less enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shallower stream, and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels, where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a more enlightened and elegant tone; but it has lost many of its strong local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its honest fireside delights. The traditionary customs of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly wassailings, have passed away with the baronial castles and stately manor-houses in which they were celebrated. They comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted for the light showy saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa.

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused which holds so powerful a place in every English bosom. The preparations making on every side for the social board that is again to unite friends and kindred -- the presents of good cheer passing and repassing, those tokens of regard and quickeners of kind feelings -- the evergreens distributed about houses and churches, emblems of peace and gladness -- all these have the most pleasing effect in producing fond associations, and kindling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the midwatches of a winter night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been awakened by them in that still and solemn hour "when deep sleep falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed delight, and connecting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost fancied them into another celestial choir, announcing peace and good-will to mankind. How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by these moral influences, turns everything to melody and beauty! The very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes in the profound repose of the country, "telling the night-watches to his feathery dames," was thought by the common people to announce the approach of the sacred festival:

"Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth was celebrated, This bird of dawning singeth all night long: And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad; The nights are wholesome -- then no planets strike, No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm, So hallowed and so gracious is the time."

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can remain insensible? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling -- the season for kindling not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart. The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the sterile waste of years, and the idea of home, fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping spirit -- as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert.

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land -- though for me no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the threshold -- yet I feel the influence of the season beaming into my soul from the happy looks of those around me. Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven; and every countenance bright with smiles, and glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence. He who can turn churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of his fellow-beings, and can sit down darkling and repining in his loneliness when all around is joyful, may have his moments of strong excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants the genial and social sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry Christmas.

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Church Decking At Christmas

William Wordsworth

Would that our scrupulous sires had dared to leave Less scanty measure of those graceful rites And usages, whose due return invites A stir of mind too natural to deceive; Giving the memory help when she could weave A crown for Hope! -- I dread the boasted lights That all too often are but fiery blights, Killing the bud o'er which in vain we grieve. Go, seek, when Christmas snows discomfort bring, The counter Spirit found in some gay church Green with fresh holly, every pew a perch In which the linnet or the thrush might sing, Merry and loud, and safe from prying search, Strains offered only to the genial spring.

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So, Now Is Come Our Joyfulst Feast

George Wither

So, now is come our joyfulst feast, Let every man be jolly; Each room with ivy leaves is drest, And every post with holly. Though some churls at our mirth repine, Round your foreheads garlands twine; Drown sorrow in a cup of wine, And let us all be merry.

Now all our neighbours' chimnies smoke, And Christmas logs are burning; Their ovens they with baked meats choke, And all their spits are turning. Without the door let sorrow lie; And if for cold it hap to die, We'll bury't in a Christmas pie, And evermore be merry.

Now every lad is wondrous trim, And no man minds his labour; Our lasses have provided them A bag-pipe and a tabor; Young men and maids, and girls and boys, Give life to one another's joys; And you anon shall by their noise Perceive that they are merry.

Rank misers now do sparing shun; Their hall of music soundeth; And dogs thence with whole shoulders run, So all things there aboundeth. The country folks themselves advance For crowdy-mutton's[A] come out of France; And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance, And all the town be merry.

[Footnote A: Fiddlers.]

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Fairy Faces

Anon

Out of the mists of childhood, Steeped in a golden glory, Come dreamy forms and faces, Snatches of song and story; Whispers of sweet, still faces; Rays of ethereal glimmer, That gleam like sunny heavens, Ne'er to grow colder or dimmer: Now far in the distance, now shining near, Lighting the snows of the shivering year.

Faces there are that tremble, Bleared with a silent weeping, Weird in a shadowy sorrow, As if endless vigil keeping. Faces of dazzling brightness, With childlike radiance lighted, Flashing with many a beauty, Nor care nor time had blighted. But o'er them all there's a glamour thrown. Bright with the dreamy distance alone.

Aglow in the Christmas halo, Shining with heavenly lustre, These are the fairy faces That round the hearthstone cluster. These the deep, tender records, Sacred in all their meetness, That, wakening purest fancies, Soften us with their sweetness; As, gathered where flickering fagots burn, We welcome the holy season's return.

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Merry Christmas

Anon

In the rush of the merry morning, When the red burns through the gray, And the wintry world lies waiting For the glory of the day; Then we hear a fitful rushing Just without upon the stair, See two white phantoms coming, Catch the gleam of sunny hair.

Are they Christmas fairies stealing Rows of little socks to fill? Are they angels floating hither With their message of good-will? What sweet spell are these elves weaving, As like larks they chirp and sing? Are these palms of peace from heaven That these lovely spirits bring?

Rosy feet upon the threshold, Eager faces peeping through, With the first red ray of sunshine, Chanting cherubs come in view; Mistletoe and gleaming holly, Symbols of a blessed day, In their chubby hands they carry, Streaming all along the way.

Well we know them, never weary Of this innocent surprise; Waiting, watching, listening always With full hearts and tender eyes, While our little household angels, White and golden in the sun, Greet us with the sweet old welcome, --  "Merry Christmas, every one!"

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A Merry Christmas To You

Theodore Ledyard Cuyler

My own boyhood was spent in a delightful home on one of the most beautiful farms in Western New York -- an experience that any city-bred boy might envy. We had no religious festivals except Thanksgiving Day and Christmas, and the latter was especially welcome, not only on account of the good fare but its good gifts. Christmas was sacred to Santa Claus, the patron saint of good boys and girls. We counted the days until its arrival. If the night before the longed-for festival was one of eager expectation in all our houses, it was a sad time in all barn-yards and turkey-coops and chicken-roosts; for the slaughter was terrible, and the cry of the feathered tribes was like "the mourning of Hadadrimmon." As to our experiences within doors, they are portrayed in Dr. Clement C. Moore's immortal lines, "The Night Before Christmas," which is probably the most popular poem for children ever penned in America. As the visits of Santa Claus in the night could only be through the chimney, we hung our stockings where they would be in full sight. Three score and ten years ago such modern contrivances as steam pipes, and those unpoetical holes in the floor called "hot-air registers," were as entirely unknown in our rural regions as gas-burners or telephones. We had a genuine fire-place in our kitchen, big enough to contain an enormous back-log, and broad enough for eight or ten people to form "a circle wide" before it and enjoy the genial warmth.

The last process before going to bed was to suspend our stockings in the chimney jambs; and then we dreamed of Santa Claus, or if we awoke in the night, we listened for the jingling of his sleigh-bells. At the peep of day we were aroused by the voice of my good grandfather, who planted himself in the stairway and shouted in a stentorian tone, "I wish you all a Merry Christmas!" The contest was as to who should give the salutation first, and the old gentleman determined to get the start of us by sounding his greeting to the family before we were out of our rooms. Then came a race for the chimney corner; all the stockings came down quicker than they had gone up. What could not be contained in them was disposed upon the mantelpiece, or elsewhere. I remember that I once received an autograph letter from Santa Claus, full of good counsels; and our colored cook told me that she awoke in the night and, peeping into the kitchen, actually saw the veritable old visitor light a candle and sit down at the table and write it! I believed it all as implicitly as I believed the Ten Commandments, or the story of David and Goliath. Happy days of childish credulity, when fact and fiction were swallowed alike without a misgiving! During my long life I have seen many a day-dream and many an air-castle go the way of Santa Claus and the wonderful "Lamp of Aladdin."

In after years, when I became a parent, my beloved wife and I, determined to make the Christmastide one of the golden days of the twelve months. In mid-winter, when all outside vegetation was bleak and bare, the Christmas-tree in our parlor bloomed in many-colored beauty and bounty. When the tiny candles were all lighted the children and our domestics gathered round it and one of the youngsters rehearsed some pretty juvenile effusion; as "they that had found great spoil." After the happy harvesting of the magic tree in my own home, it was my custom to spend the afternoon or evening in some mission-school and to watch the sparkling eyes of several hundreds of children while a huge Christmas-tree shed down its bounties. Fifty years ago, when the degradation and miseries of the "Five-Points" were first invaded by pioneer philanthropy, it was a thrilling sight to behold the denizens of the slums and their children as they flocked into Mr. Pease's new "House of Industry" and the "Brewery Mission" building. The angelic host over the hills of Bethlehem did not make a more welcome revelation to them "who had sat in darkness and the shadow of death." In these days the squalid regions of our great cities are being explored and improved by various methods of systematic beneficence. "Christian Settlements" are established; Bureaus of Charity are formed and Associations for the relief of the poor are organized. A noble work; but, after all, the most effective "bureau" is one that, in a water-proof and a stout pair of shoes, sallies off on a wintry night to some abode of poverty with not only supplies for suffering bodies, but kind words of sympathy for lonesome hearts. A dollar from a warm hand with a warm word is worth two dollars sent by mail or by a messenger-boy. The secret of power in doing good is personal contact. Our incarnate "Elder Brother" went in person to the sick chamber. He anointed with His own hand the eyes of the blind man and He touched the loathsome leper into health. The portentous chasm between wealth and poverty must be bridged by a span of personal kindness over which the footsteps must turn in only one direction. The personal contact of self sacrificing benevolence with darkness, filth and misery -- that is the only remedy. Heart must touch heart. Benevolence also cannot be confined to calendars. Those good people will exhibit the most of the spirit of our Blessed Master who practice Christmas-giving and cheerful, unselfish and zealous Christmas-living through all the circling year.

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Christmas Bells

Anon

There are sounds in the sky when the year grows old, And the winds of the winter blow --  When night and the moon are clear and cold, And the stars shine on the snow, Or wild is the blast and the bitter sleet That beats on the window-pane; But blest on the frosty hills are the feet Of the Christmas time again! Chiming sweet when the night wind swells, Blest is the sound of the Christmas Bells!

Dear are the sounds of the Christmas chimes In the land of the ivied towers, And they welcome the dearest of festival times In this Western world of ours! Bright on the holly and mistletoe bough The English firelight falls, And bright are the wreathed evergreens now That gladden our own home walls! And hark! the first sweet note that tells, The welcome of the Christmas Bells!

The owl that sits in the ivy's shade, Remote from the ruined tower, Shall start from his drowsy watch afraid When the clock shall strike the hour; And over the fields in their frosty rhyme The cheery sounds shall go, And chime shall answer unto chime Across the moonlit snow! How sweet the lingering music dwells, --  The music of the Christmas Bells.

It fell not thus in the East afar Where the Babe in the manger lay; The wise men followed their guiding star To the dawn of a milder day; And the fig and the sycamore gathered green, And the palm-tree of Deborah rose; 'Twas the strange first Christmas the world had seen --  And it came not in storm and snows. Not yet on Nazareth's hills and dells Had floated the sound of Christmas Bells.

The cedars of Lebanon shook in the blast Of their own cold mountain air; But nought o'er the wintry plain had passed To tell that the Lord was there! The oak and the olive and almond were still, In the night now worn and thin; No wind of the winter-time roared from the hill To waken the guests at the inn; No dream to them the music tells That is to come from the Christmas Bells!

The years that have fled like the leaves on the gale Since the morn of the Miracle-Birth, Have widened the fame of the marvellous tale Till the tidings have filled the earth! And so in the climes of the icy North, And the lands of the cane and the palm, By the Alpine cotter's blazing hearth, And in tropic belts of calm, Men list to-night the welcome swells, Sweet and clear, of Christmas Bells!

They are ringing to-night through the Norway firs, And across the Swedish fells, And the Cuban palm-tree dreamily stirs To the sound of those Christmas Bells! They ring where the Indian Ganges rolls Its flood through the rice-fields wide; They swell the far hymns of the Lapps and Poles To the praise of the Crucified. Sweeter than tones of the ocean's shells Mingle the chimes of the Christmas Bells!

The years come not back that have circled away With the past of the Eastern land, When He plucked the corn on the Sabbath day And healed the withered hand: But the bells shall join in a joyous chime For the One who walked the sea, And ring again for the better time Of the Christ that is to be! Then ring! -- for earth's best promise dwells In ye, O joyous Prophet Bells!

Ring out at the meeting of night and morn For the dawn of a happier day! Lo, the stone from our faith's great sepulchre torn The angels have rolled away! And they come to us here in our low abode, With words like the sunrise gleam, --  Come down and ascend by that heavenly road That Jacob saw in his dream. Spirit of love, that in music dwells, Open our hearts with the Christmas Bells!

Help us to see that the glad heart prays As well as the bended knees; That there are in our own as in ancient days The Scribes and the Pharisees; That the Mount of Transfiguration still Looks down on these Christian lands, And the glorified ones from that holy hill Are reaching their helping hands. These be the words our music tells Of solemn joy, O Christmas Bells!

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The Birth Of Christ

Alfred Tennyson

The time draws near the birth of Christ; The moon is hid -- the night is still; The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist.

Four voices of four hamlets round, From far and near, on mead and moor, Swell out and fail, as if a door Were shut between me and the sound.

Each voice four changes on the wind, That now dilate and now decrease, Peace and good-will, good-will and peace, Peace and good-will to all mankind.

Rise, happy morn! rise, holy morn! Draw forth the cheerful day from night; O Father! touch the east, and light The light that shone when hope was born!

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The Christmas Carol

William Wordsworth

The minstrels played their Christmas tune To-night beneath my cottage eaves; While, smitten by a lofty moon, The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen That overpowered their natural green.

Through hill and valley every breeze Had sunk to rest, with folded wings: Keen was the air, but could not freeze Nor check the music of the strings; So stout and hardy were the band That scraped the chords with strenuous hand!

And who but listened -- till was paid Respect to every inmate's claim: The greeting given, the music played, In honor of each household name, Duly pronounced with lusty call, And "Merry Christmas" wished to all!

How touching, when, at midnight, sweep Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark, To hear, and sink again to sleep! Or, at an earlier call, to mark By blazing fire, the still suspense Of self-complacent innocence;

The mutual nod, -- the grave disguise Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er; And some unbidden tears that rise For names once heard, and heard no more; Tears brightened by the serenade For infant in the cradle laid.

Hail ancient Manners! sure defence, Where they survive, of wholesome laws; Remnants of love whose modest sense Thus into narrow room withdraws; Hail, Usages of pristine mould, And ye that guard them, Mountains old!

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Christmas At Fezziwig's Warehouse

Charles Dickens

"Yo ho! my boys," said Fezziwig. "No more work to-night; Christmas Eve, Dick! Christmas, Ebenezer! Let's have the shutters up," cried old Fezziwig with a sharp clap of his hands, "before a man can say Jack Robinson...."

"Hilli-ho!" cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk with wonderful agility. "Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here! Hilli-ho, Dick! Cheer up, Ebenezer!"

Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life forevermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ball-room as you would desire to see upon a winter's night.

In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the lofty desk and made an orchestra of it and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast, substantial smile. In came the three Misses Fezziwig, beaming and lovable. In came the six followers whose hearts they broke. In came all the young men and women employed in the business In came the housemaid with her cousin the baker. In came the cook with her brother's particular friend the milkman. In came the boy from over the way, who was suspected of not having board enough from his master, trying to hide himself behind the girl from next door but one who was proved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress; in they all came, anyhow and everyhow. Away they all went, twenty couple at once; hands half round and back again the other way; down the middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping, old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them.

When this result was brought about the fiddler struck up "Sir Roger de Coverley." Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top couple, too, with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pairs of partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who would dance and had no notion of walking.

But if they had been thrice as many -- Oh, four times as many -- old Fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig. As to her, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If that's not high praise, tell me higher and I'll use it. A positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig's calves. They shone in every part of the dance like moons. You couldn't have predicted at any given time what would become of them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all through the dance; advance and retire; both hands to your partner, bow and courtesy, corkscrew, thread the needle, and back again to your place; Fezziwig "cut" -- cut so deftly that he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again without a stagger.

When the clock struck eleven the domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and shaking hands with every person individually, as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas!

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Christmas Bells

John Keble

Wake me to-night, my mother dear, That I may hear The Christmas Bells, so soft and clear, To high and low glad tidings tell, How God the Father loved us well; How God the Eternal Son Came to undo what we had done.

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III

Significance And Spirit



A Christmas Carmen

John G. Whittier

I

Sound over all waters, reach out from all lands, The chorus of voices, the clasping of hands; Sing hymns that were sung by the stars of the morn, Sing songs of the angels when Jesus was born! With glad jubilations Bring hope to the nations! The dark night is ending and dawn has begun: Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun, All speech flow to music, all hearts beat as one!

II

Sing the bridal of nations! with chorals of love Sing out the war-vulture and sing in the dove, Till the hearts of the peoples keep time in accord And the voice of the world is the voice of the Lord! Clasp hands of the nations In strong gratulations: The dark night is ending and dawn has begun; Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun, All speech flow to music, all hearts beat as one!

III

Blow, bugles of battle, the marches of peace; East, west, north, and south let the long quarrel cease: Sing the song of great joy that the angels began, Sing of glory to God and of good-will to man! Hark! joining in chorus The heavens bend o'er us! The dark night is ending and dawn has begun; Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun, All speech flow to music, all hearts beat as one!

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The Spirit Of Christmas

From "Pickwick Papers."

Charles Dickens

And numerous indeed are the hearts to which Christmas brings a brief season of happiness and enjoyment. How many families whose members have been dispersed and scattered far and wide, in the restless struggles of life, are then re-united, and meet once again in that happy state of companionship and mutual good-will, which is a source of such pure and unalloyed delight, and one so incompatible with the cares and sorrows of the world, that the religious belief of the most civilized nations, and the rude traditions of the roughest savages, alike number it among the first joys of a future state of existence, provided for the blest and happy! How many old recollections, and how many dormant sympathies, does Christmas time awaken!

We write these words now, many miles distant from the spot at which, year after year, we met on that day, a merry and joyous circle. Many of the hearts that throb so gaily then, have ceased to beat; many of the looks that shone so brightly then, have ceased to glow; the hands we grasped, have grown cold; the eyes we sought, have hid their lustre in the grave; and yet the old house, the room, the merry voices and smiling faces, the jest, the laugh, the most minute and trivial circumstance connected with those happy meetings, crowd upon our mind at each recurrence of the season, as if the last assemblage had been but yesterday. Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childish days, that can recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth, and transport the sailor and the traveller, thousands of miles away, back to his own fireside and his quiet home!

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On Good Wishes At Christmas

Friswell

At Christmas, which is a good holiday for most of us, but especially for that larger and better half of us, the young, there is, as everybody knows, a profusion of good things. The final cause of a great many existences is Christmas Day. How many of that vast flock of geese, which are now peacefully feeding over the long, cold wolds of Norfolk, or are driven gabbling and hissing by the gozzard to their pasture -- how many of those very geese were called into being simply for Christmas Day! In the towns, with close streets and fetid courts, where the flaring gas at the corner of an alley marks the only bright spot, a gin-palace, there a goose-club is held; and there, for a short time, is the resting-place, side by side with a bottle of gin, of one of those wise-looking and self-concentrated gobblers, whose name men have generally, and, as we think, unjustly, applied to the silly one amongst themselves.

But it is only the profusion of good things, of cakes, puddings, spices, oranges, and fruits, from sunny Italy and Spain, from India and from Asia, from America, North and South, and even from distant Australia; it is not that amongst us, as long ago with the Franklin in Chaucer, that at this time -- 

"It snowes in our house Of meate and drinke;"

it is not that we have huge loads of beef chines, ribs, sirloins, legs, necks, breasts, and shoulders of mutton, fillets of veal, whole hogs, and pigs in various stages, from the tender suckling to the stiff-jointed father of a family, whose "back hair" makes good clothes-brushes, and whose head is brought in at college feasts; it is not that the air gives up its choicest fowl, and the waters yield their best fish: plentiful as these are with us, they are nothing in profusion to the kindly greeting and good wishes that fly about in the cold weather, and that circulate from land's end to land's end. The whole coast of England is surrounded by a general "shake hands." The coast-guard on their wintry walks do not greet each other more surely than old friends all over England do: one clasps another, and another a third, till from Dover to London and so on to York, from Yarmouth on the east to Bristol on the west, from John O'Groat's house at the extreme north to the Land's End, the very toe-nail of England on the south -- a kindly greeting, we may be sure, will pass. And a cheerful thing it is, on this day of universal equality, on this day which -- 

"To the cottage and the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down,"

to think that we can touch and hold each other with friendly hands all over our land. We all of us shake hands on Christmas Day. Leigh Hunt had a quaint fancy that he had, as it were, by lineal descent, shaken hands with Milton. He would argue thus: he knew a man who had shaken hands with Dr. Johnson, who had clasped the hand of him who had shaken Dryden's right hand, who himself had thus greeted Andrew Marvell, who knew Master Elwood, the Quaker friend of Milton, who knew Milton himself; and thus, though our Sovereign has her hand kissed, not shaken, by her subjects, yet doubtless she will clasp the hands of her children, who, shaking those of others, will let the greeting and the good wishes descend to the lowest on that ladder of society which we are all trying to climb.

As for hearty good wishes, spoken in all kinds of voices, from the deepest bass to the shrillest treble, we are sure that they circulate throughout the little island, and are borne on the wings of the post all over the seas. Erasmus, coming to England in Henry VIII's time, was struck with the deep heartiness of our wishes -- good, ay, and bad too; but he most admired the good ones. Other nations ask in their greetings how a man carries himself, or how doth he stand with the world, or how doth he find himself; but the English greet with a pious wish that God may give one a good morning or a good evening, good day, or "god'd'en," as the old writers have it; and when we part we wish that "God may be with you," though we now clip it into "Good b'ye."

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A Christmas Song

William Cox Bennett

Blow, wind, blow, Sing through yard and shroud; Pipe it shrilly and loud, Aloft as well as below; Sing in my sailor's ear The song I sing to you, "Come home, my sailor true, For Christmas that comes so near."

Go, wind, go, Hurry his home-bound sail, Through gusts that are edged with hail, Through winter, and sleet, and snow; Song, in my sailor's ear, Your shrilling and moans shall be, For he knows they sing him to me And Christmas that comes so near.

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Sery

Richard Watson Gilder

With wild surprise Four great eyes In two small heads, From neighboring beds Looked out -- and winked --  And glittered and blinked At a very queer sight In the dim starlight.

As plain as can be A fairy tree Flashes and glimmers And shakes and shimmers. Red, green and blue Meet their view; Silver and gold Their sharp eyes behold; Small moon, big stars; And jams in jars, And cakes, and honey And thimbles, and money, Pink dogs, blue cats, Little squeaking rats, And candles, and dolls, And crackers, and polls, A real bird that sings, And tokens and favors, And all sorts of things For the little shavers.

Four black eyes Grow big with surprise; And then grow bigger When a tiny figure, Jaunty and airy, (Is it a fairy?) From the tree-top cries, "Open wide! Black Eyes! Come, children, wake now! Your joys you may take now!"

Quick as you can think Twenty small toes In four pretty rows, Like little piggies pink, All kick in the air --  And before you can wink The tree stands bare!

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A Christmas Song

Tudor Jenks

When mother-love makes all things bright, When joy comes with the morning light, When children gather round their tree, Thou Christmas Babe, We sing of Thee!

When manhood's brows are bent in thought, To learn what men of old have taught, When eager hands seek wisdom's key, Wise Temple Child, We learn of Thee!

When doubts assail, and perils fright, When, groping blindly in the night, We strive to read life's mystery, Man of the Mount, We turn to Thee!

When shadows of the valley fall, When sin and death the soul appall, One light we through the darkness see --  Christ on the Cross, We cry to Thee!

And when the world shall pass away, And dawns at length the perfect day, In glory shall our souls made free, Thou God enthroned, Then worship Thee.

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Christmas

(A Selection from "Dreamthorp")

Alexander Smith

Sitting here, I incontinently find myself holding a levee of departed Christmas nights. Silently, and without special call, into my study of imagination come these apparitions, clad in snowy mantles, brooched and gemmed with frosts. Their numbers I do not care to count, for I know they are the numbers of many years. The visages of two or three are sad enough, but on the whole 'tis a congregation of jolly ghosts. The nostrils of my memory are assailed by a faint odor of plum-pudding and burnt brandy. I hear a sound as of light music, a whisk of women's dresses whirled round in dance, a click as of glasses pledged by friends. Before one of these apparitions is a mound, as of a new-made grave, on which the snow is lying. I know, I know! Drape thyself not in white like the others, but in mourning stole of crape; and instead of dance music, let there haunt around thee the service for the dead! I know that sprig of mistletoe, O Spirit in the midst! Under it I swung the girl I loved -- girl no more now than I am a boy -- and kissed her spite of blush and pretty shriek. And thee, too, with fragrant trencher in hand, over which blue tongues of flame are playing, I do know -- most ancient apparition of them all. I remember thy reigning night. Back to very days of childhood am I taken by the ghostly raisins simmering in a ghostly brandy flame. Where now the merry boys and girls that thrust their fingers in thy blaze? And now, when I think of it, thee also would I drape in black raiment, around thee also would I make the burial service murmur.

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This, then, is Christmas, 1862. Everything is silent in Dreamthorp. The smith's hammer reposes beside the anvil. The weaver's flying shuttle is at rest. Through the clear wintry sunshine the bells this morning rang from the gray church tower amid the leafless elms, and up the walk the villagers trooped in their best dresses and their best faces -- the latter a little reddened by the sharp wind: mere redness in the middle aged; in the maids, wonderful bloom to the eyes of their lovers -- and took their places decently in the ancient pews. The clerk read the beautiful prayers of our Church, which seem more beautiful at Christmas than at any other period. For that very feeling which breaks down at this time the barriers which custom, birth, or wealth have erected between man and man, strikes down the barrier of time which intervenes between the worshipper of to-day and the great body of worshippers who are at rest in their graves. On such a day as this, hearing these prayers, we feel a kinship with the devout generations who heard them long ago. The devout lips of the Christian dead murmured the responses which we now murmur; along this road of prayer did their thoughts of our innumerable dead, our brothers and sisters in faith and hope, approach the Maker, even as ours at present approach Him. Prayers over, the clergyman -- who is no Boanerges, of Chrysostom, golden-mouthed, but a loving, genial-hearted, pious man, the whole extent of his life from boyhood until now, full of charity and kindly deeds, as autumn fields with heavy wheaten ears; the clergyman, I say -- for the sentence is becoming unwieldy on my hands, and one must double back to secure connexion -- read out in that silvery voice of his, which is sweeter than any music to my ear, those chapters of the New Testament that deal with the birth of the Saviour. And the red-faced rustic congregation hung on the good man's voice as he spoke of the Infant brought forth in a manger, of the shining angels that appeared in the mid-air to the shepherds, of the miraculous star that took its station in the sky, and of the wise men who came from afar and laid their gifts of frankincense and myrrh at the feet of the child. With the story every one was familiar, but on that day, and backed by the persuasive melody of the reader's voice, it seemed to all quite new -- at least, they listened attentively as if it were. The discourse that followed possessed no remarkable thoughts; it dealt simply with the goodness of the Maker of heaven and earth, and the shortness of time, with the duties of thankfulness and charity to the poor; and I am persuaded that every one who heard returned to his house in a better frame of mind. And so the service remitted us all to our own homes, to what roast-beef and plum-pudding slender means permitted, to gatherings around cheerful fires, to half-pleasant, half-sad remembrances of the dead and the absent.

From sermon I have returned like the others, and it is my purpose to hold Christmas alone. I have no one with me at table, and my own thoughts must be my Christmas guests. Sitting here, it is pleasant to think how much kindly feeling exists this present night in England. By imagination I can taste of every table, pledge every toast, silently join in every roar of merriment. I become a sort of universal guest. With what propriety is this jovial season, placed amid dismal December rains and snows! How one pities the unhappy Australians, with whom everything is turned topsy-turvy, and who holds Christmas at midsummer! The face of Christmas glows all the brighter for the cold. The heart warms as the frost increases. Estrangements which have embittered the whole year, melt in to-night's hospitable smile. There are warmer handshakings on this night than during the by-past twelve months. Friend lives in the mind of friend. There is more charity at this time than at any other. You get up at midnight and toss your spare coppers to the half-benumbed musicians whiffling beneath your windows, although at any other time you would consider their performance a nuisance, and call angrily for the police. Poverty, and scanty clothing, and fireless grates, come home at this season to the bosoms of the rich, and they give of their abundance. The very red-breast of the woods enjoys his Christmas feast. Good feeling incarnates itself into plum-pudding. The Master's words, "The poor ye have always with you," wear at this time a deep significance. For at least one night on each year over all Christendom there is brotherhood. And good men, sitting amongst their families, or by a solitary fire like me, when they remember the light, that shone over the poor clowns huddling on the Bethlehem plains eighteen hundred years ago, the apparition of shining angels overhead, the song "Peace on earth and good-will toward men," which for the first hallowed the midnight air, -- pray for that strain's fulfilment, that battle and strife may vex the nations no more, that not only on Christmas eve, but the whole year round, men shall be brethren owning one Father in heaven.

 --   -  -  -

Once again, for the purpose of taking away all solitariness of feeling, and of connecting myself, albeit only in fancy, with the proper gladness of the time, let me think of the comfortable family dinners now being drawn to a close, of the good wishes uttered, and the presents made, quite valueless in themselves, yet felt to be invaluable from the feelings from which they spring; of the little children, by sweetmeats lapped in Elysium; and of the pantomime, pleasantest Christmas sight of all, with the pit a sea of grinning delight, the boxes a tier of beaming juvenility, the galleries, piled up to the far-receding roof, a mass of happy laughter which a clown's joke brings down in mighty avalanches. In the pit, sober people relax themselves, and suck oranges, and quaff ginger-pop; in the boxes, Miss, gazing through her curls, thinks the Fairy Prince the prettiest creature she ever beheld, and Master, that to be a clown must be the pinnacle of human happiness: while up in the galleries the hard literal world is for an hour sponged out and obliterated; the chimney-sweep forgets, in his delight when the policeman comes to grief, the harsh call of his master, and Cinderella, when the demons are foiled, and the long parted lovers meet and embrace in a paradise of light and pink gauze, the grates that must be scrubbed to-morrow. All bands and trappings of toil are for one hour loosened by the hands of imaginative sympathy. What happiness a single theatre can contain! And those of maturer years, or of more meditative temperament, sitting at the pantomime, can extract out of the shifting scenes meanings suitable to themselves; for the pantomime is a symbol or adumbration of human life. Have we not all known Harlequin, who rules the roast, and has the pretty Columbine to himself? Do we not all know that rogue of a clown with his peculating fingers, who brazens out of every scrape, and who conquers the world by good humour and ready wit? And have we not seen Pantaloons not a few, whose fate it is to get all the kicks and lose all the halfpence, to fall through all the trap doors, break their shins over all the barrows, and be forever captured by the policeman, while the true pilferer, the clown, makes his escape with the booty in his possession? Methinks I know the realities of which these things are but the shadows; have met with them in business, have sat with them at dinner. But to-night no such notions as these intrude; and when the torrent of fun, and transformation, and practical joking which rushed out of the beautiful fairy world gathered up again, the high-heaped happiness of the theatre will disperse itself, and the Christmas pantomime will be a pleasant memory the whole year through. Thousands on thousands of people are having their midriffs tickled at this moment; in fancy I see their lighted faces, in memory I see their mirth.

By this time I should think every Christmas dinner at Dreamthorp or elsewhere has come to an end. Even now in the great cities the theatres will be dispersing. The clown has wiped the paint off his face. Harlequin has laid aside his wand, and divested himself of his glittering raiment; Pantaloon, after refreshing himself with a pint of porter, is rubbing his aching joints; and Columbine, wrapped up in a shawl, and with sleepy eyelids, has gone home in a cab. Soon, in the great theatre, the lights will be put out, and the empty stage will be left to ghosts. Hark! midnight from the church tower vibrates through the frosty air. I look out on the brilliant heaven, and see a milky way of powdery splendour wandering through it, and clusters and knots of stars and planets shining serenely in the blue frosty spaces; and the armed apparition of Orion, his spear pointing away into immeasurable space, gleaming overhead; and the familiar constellation of the Plough dipping down into the west; and I think when I go in again that there is one Christmas the less between me and my grave.

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Christmas Carol

Phillips Brooks

The earth has grown old with its burden of care, But at Christmas it always is young, The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair, And its soul full of music bursts forth on the air, When the song of the angels is sung.

It is coming, Old Earth, it is coming to-night! On the snowflakes which cover thy sod The feet of the Christ-child fall gentle and white, And the voice of the Christ-child tells out with delight That mankind are the children of God.

On the sad and the lonely, the wretched and poor, The voice of the Christ-child shall fall; And to every blind wanderer open the door Of hope that he dared not to dream of before, With a sunshine of welcome for all.

The feet of the humblest may walk in the field Where the feet of the Holiest trod, This, then, is the marvel to mortals revealed When the silvery trumpets of Christmas have pealed, That mankind are the children of God.

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The End Of The Play

William Makepeace Thackeray

The play is done -- the curtain drops, Slow-falling to the prompter's bell: A moment yet the actor stops, And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task; And, when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes his mask, A face that's anything but gay.

One word, ere yet the evening ends, Let's close it with a parting rhyme; And pledge a hand to all young friends, As fits the merry Christmas time. On life's wide scene you, too, have parts That fate erelong shall bid you play; Good-night! -- with honest, gentle hearts A kindly greeting go alway!

Good-night! -- I'd say the griefs, the joys, Just hinted in this mimic page, The triumphs and defeats of boys, Are but repeated in our age. I'd say your woes were not less keen, Your hopes more vain than those of men, Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen At forty-five played o'er again.

I'd say we suffer and we strive, Not less nor more as men than boys, With grizzled beards at forty-five As erst at twelve in corduroys; And if, in time of sacred youth, We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven that early love and truth May never wholly pass away.

And in the world as in the school I'd say how fate may change and shift, The prize be sometimes to the fool, The race not always to the swift: The strong may yield, the good may fall, The great man be a vulgar clown, The knave be lifted over all, The kind cast pitilessly down.

Who knows the inscrutable design? Blessèd be He who took and gave! Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, Be weeping at her darling's grave? We bow to Heaven that willed it so, That darkly rules the fate of all, That sends the respite or the blow, That's free to give or to recall.

This crowns his feast with wine and wit, --  Who brought him to that mirth and state? His betters, see, below him sit, Or hunger hopeless at the gate! Who bade the mud from Dives's wheel To spurn the rags of Lazarus? Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel, Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus.

So each shall mourn, in life's advance, Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed; Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, And longing passion unfulfilled. Amen! -- whatever fate be sent, Pray God the heart may kindly glow, Although the head with cares be bent, And whitened with the winter snow!

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let young and old accept their part, And bow before the awful will, And bear it with an honest heart. Who misses or who wins the prize, Go, lose or conquer, as you can; But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, pray God, a gentleman!

A gentleman, or old or young! (Bear kindly with my humble lays;) The sacred chorus first was sung Upon the first of Christmas days; The shepherds heard it overhead, --  The joyful angels raised it then: "Glory to Heaven on high," it said, "And peace on earth to gentle men!"

My song, save this, is little worth; I lay the weary pen aside, And wish you health and love and mirth, As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. As fits the holy Christmas birth, Be this, good friends, our carol still: Be peace on earth, be peace on earth To men of gentle will!

*    *    *    *    *

Christ's Nativity

Henry Vaughan

Awake, glad heart! get up and sing! It is the Birthday of thy King. Awake! awake! The sun doth shake Light from his locks, and, all the way Breathing perfumes, doth spice the day.

Awake! awake! hark how th' wood rings, Winds whisper, and the busy springs A concert make! Awake! awake! Man is their high-priest, and should rise To offer up the sacrifice.

I would I were some bird, or star, Fluttering in woods, or lifted far Above this inn, And road of sin! Then either star or bird should be Shining or singing still to thee.

I would I had in my best part Fit rooms for thee! or that my heart Where so clean as Thy manger was! But I am all filth, and obscene; Yet, if thou wilt, thou canst make clean.

Sweet Jesu! will then. Let no more This leper haunt and soil thy door! Cure him, ease him, O release him! And let once more, by mystic birth, The Lord of life be born in earth.

*    *    *    *    *

Christmas Dreams

Christopher North

To-morrow is Merry Christmas; and when its night descends there will be mirth and music, and the light sounds of the merry-twinkling feet within these now so melancholy walls -- and sleep now reigning over all the house save this one room, will be banished far over the sea -- and morning will be reluctant to allow her light to break up the innocent orgies.

Were every Christmas of which we have been present at the celebration, painted according to nature -- what a Gallery of Pictures! True that a sameness would pervade them all -- but only that kind of sameness that pervades the nocturnal heavens. One clear night always is, to common eyes, just like another; for what hath any night to show but one moon and some stars -- a blue vault, with here a few braided, and there a few castellated, clouds? yet no two nights ever bore more than a family resemblance to each other before the studious and instructed eye of him who has long communed with Nature, and is familiar with every smile and frown on her changeful, but not capricious, countenance. Even so with the Annual Festivals of the heart. Then our thoughts are the stars that illumine those skies -- and on ourselves it depends whether they shall be black as Erebus, or brighter than Aurora.

"Thoughts! that like spirits trackless come and go" -- is a fine line of Charles Lloyd's. But no bird skims, no arrow pierces the air, without producing some change in the Universe, which will last to the day of doom. No coming and going is absolutely trackless; nor irrecoverable by Nature's law is any consciousness, however ghostlike; though many a one, even the most blissful, never does return, but seems to be buried among the dead. But they are not dead -- but only sleep; though to us who recall them not, they are as they had never been, and we, wretched ingrates, let them lie for ever in oblivion! How passing sweet when of their own accord they arise to greet us in our solitude! -- as a friend who, having sailed away to a foreign land in our youth, has been thought to have died many long years ago, may suddenly stand before us, with face still familiar and name reviving in a moment, and all that he once was to us brought from utter forgetfulness close upon our heart.

My Father's House! How it is ringing like a grove in spring, with the din of creatures happier, a thousand times happier, than all the birds on earth. It is the Christmas Holidays -- Christmas Day itself -- Christmas Night -- and Joy in every bosom intensifies Love. Never before were we brothers and sisters so dear to one another -- never before had our hearts so yearned towards the authors of our being -- our blissful being! There they sat -- silent in all that outcry -- composed in all that disarray -- still in all that tumult; yet, as one or other flying imp sweeps round the chair, a father's hand will playfully strive to catch a prisoner -- a mother's gentler touch on some sylph's disordered symar be felt almost as a reproof, and for a moment slacken the fairy flight. One old game treads on the heels of another -- twenty within the hour -- and many a new game never heard of before nor since, struck out by the collision of kindred spirits in their glee, the transitory fancies of genius inventive through very delight. Then, all at once, there is a hush, profound as ever falls on some little plat within a forest when the moon drops behind the mountain, and small green-robed People of Peace at once cease their pastime, and vanish. For she -- the Silver-Tongued -- is about to sing an old ballad, words and air alike hundreds of years old -- and sing she doth, while tears begin to fall, with a voice too mournfully beautiful long to breathe below -- and, ere another Christmas shall have come with the falling snows, doomed to be mute on earth -- but to be hymning in Heaven.

Of that House -- to our eyes the fairest of earthly dwellings -- with its old ivyed turrets, and orchard-garden bright alike with fruit and with flowers, not one stone remains. The very brook that washed its foundations has vanished along with them -- and a crowd of other buildings, wholly without character, has long stood where here a single tree, and there a grove, did once render so lovely that small demesne; which, how could we, who thought it the very heart of Paradise, even for one moment have believed was one day to be blotted out of being, and we ourselves -- then so linked in love that the band which bound us altogether was, in its gentle pressure, felt not nor understood -- to be scattered far and abroad, like so many leaves that after one wild parting rustle are separated by roaring wind-eddies, and brought together no more! The old Abbey -- it still survives; and there, in that corner of the burial-ground, below that part of the wall which was last in ruins, and which we often climbed to reach the flowers and nests -- there, in hopes of a joyful resurrection, lie the Loved and Venerated -- for whom, even now that so many grief-deadening years have fled, we feel, in this holy hour, as if it were impiety so utterly to have ceased to weep -- so seldom to have remembered! -- And then, with a powerlessness of sympathy to keep pace with youth's frantic grief, the floods we all wept together -- at no long interval -- on those pale and placid faces as they lay, most beautiful and most dreadful to behold, in their coffins.

We believe that there is genius in all childhood. But the creative joy that makes it great in its simplicity dies a natural death or is killed, and genius dies with it. In favored spirits, neither few nor many, the joy and the might survive; for you must know that unless it be accompanied with imagination, memory is cold and lifeless. The forms it brings before us must be inspired with beauty -- that is, with affection or passion. All minds, even the dullest, remember the days of their youth; but all cannot bring back the indescribable brightness of that blessed season. They who would know what they once were, must not merely recollect but they must imagine, the hills and valleys -- if any such there were -- in which their childhood played, the torrents, the waterfalls, the lakes, the heather, the rocks, the heaven's imperial dome, the raven floating only a little lower than the eagle in the sky. To imagine what he then heard and saw, he must imagine his own nature. He must collect from many vanished hours the power of his untamed heart, and he must, perhaps, transfuse also something of his maturer mind into these dreams of his former being, thus linking the past with the present by a continuous chain, which, though often invisible, is never broken. So is it too with the calmer affections that have grown within the shelter of a roof. We do not merely remember, we imagine our father's house, the fireside, all his features then most living, now dead and buried; the very manner of his smile, every tone of his voice. We must combine with all the passionate and plastic power of imagination the spirit of a thousand happy hours into one moment; and we must invest with all that we ever felt to be venerable such an image as alone can satisfy our filial hearts. It is thus that imagination, which first aided the growth of all our holiest and happiest affections, can preserve them to us unimpaired -- 

"For she can give us back the dead, Even in the loveliest looks they wore."

Then came a New Series of Christmases, celebrated, one year in this family, another year in that -- none present but those whom Charles Lamb the Delightful calleth the "old familiar faces;" something in all features, and all tones of voice, and all manners, betokening origin from one root -- relations all, happy, and with no reason either to be ashamed or proud of their neither high nor humble birth, their lot being cast within that pleasant realm, "the Golden Mean," where the dwellings are connecting links between the hut and the hall -- fair edifices resembling manse or mansion-house, according as the atmosphere expands or contracts their dimensions -- in which Competence is next-door neighbor to Wealth, and both of them within the daily walk of Contentment.

Merry Christmases they were indeed -- one Lady always presiding, with a figure that once had been the stateliest among the stately, but then somewhat bent, without being bowed down, beneath an easy weight of most venerable years. Sweet was her tremulous voice to all her grandchildren's ears. Nor did these solemn eyes, bedimmed into a pathetic beauty, in any degree restrain the glee that sparkled in orbs that had as yet shed not many tears, but tears of joy or pity. Dearly she loved all those mortal creatures whom she was soon about to leave; but she sat in sunshine even within the shadow of death; and the "voice that called her home" had so long been whispering in her ear, that its accents had become dear to her, and consolatory every word that was heard in the silence, as from another world.

Whether we were indeed all so witty as we thought ourselves -- uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, cousins, and "the rest," it might be presumptuous in us, who were considered by ourselves and a few others not the least amusing of the whole set, at this distance of time to decide -- especially in the affirmative; but how the roof did ring with sally, pun, retort, and repartee! Ay, with pun -- a species of impertinence for which we have therefore a kindness even to this day. Had incomparable Thomas Hood had the good fortune to have been born a cousin of ours, how with that fine fancy of his would he have shone at those Christmas festivals, eclipsing us all! Our family, through all its different branches, has ever been famous for bad voices, but good ears; and we think we hear ourselves -- all those uncles and aunts, nephews and nieces, and cousins -- singing now! Easy it is to "warble melody" as to breathe air. But we hope harmony is the most difficult of all things to people in general, for to us it was impossible; and what attempts ours used to be at Seconds! Yet the most woful failures were rapturously encored; and ere the night was done we spoke with most extraordinary voices indeed, every one hoarser than another, till at last, walking home with a fair cousin, there was nothing left it but a tender glance of the eye -- a tender pressure of the hand -- for cousins are not altogether sisters, and although partaking of that dearest character, possess, it may be, some peculiar and appropriate charms of their own; as didst thou, Emily the "Wild-cap!" -- That soubriquet all forgotten now -- for now thou art a matron, nay a Grandam, and troubled with an elf fair and frolicsome as thou thyself wert of yore, when the gravest and wisest withstood not the witchery of thy dancings, thy singings, and thy showering smiles.

On rolled Suns and Seasons -- the old died -- the elderly became old -- and the young, one after another, were wafted joyously away on the wings of hope, like birds almost as soon as they can fly, ungratefully forsaking their nests and the groves in whose safe shadow they first essayed their pinions; or like pinnaces that, after having for a few days trimmed their snow-white sails in the land-locked bay, close to whose shores of silvery sand had grown the trees that furnished timber both for hull and mast, slip their tiny cables on some summer day, and gathering every breeze that blows, go dancing over the waves in sunshine, and melt far off into the main. Or, haply, some were like fair young trees, transplanted during no favorable season, and never to take root in another soil, but soon leaf and branch to wither beneath the tropic sun, and die almost unheeded by those who knew not how beautiful they had been beneath the dews and mists of their own native climate.

Vain images! and therefore chosen by fancy not too plainly to touch the heart. For some hearts grew cold and forbidding with selfish cares -- some, warm as ever in their own generous glow, were touched by the chill of Fortune's frowns, ever worst to bear when suddenly succeeding her smiles -- some, to rid themselves of painful regrets, took refuge in forgetfulness, and closed their eyes to the past -- duty banished some abroad, and duty imprisoned others at home -- estrangements there were, at first unconscious and unintended, yet erelong, though causeless, complete -- changes were wrought insensibly, invisibly, even in the innermost nature of those who being friends knew no guile, yet came thereby at last to be friends no more -- unrequited love broke some bonds -- requited love relaxed others -- the death of one altered the conditions of many -- and so -- year after year -- the Christmas Meeting was interrupted -- deferred -- till finally it ceased with one accord, unrenewed and unrenewable. For when Some Things cease for a time -- that time turns out to be forever.

Survivors of those happy circles! wherever ye be -- should these imperfect remembrances of days of old chance, in some thoughtful pause of life's busy turmoil, for a moment to meet your eyes, let there be towards the inditer a few throbs of revived affection in your hearts -- for his, though "absent long and distant far," has never been utterly forgetful of the loves and friendships that charmed his youth. To be parted in body is not to be estranged in spirit -- and many a dream and many a vision, sacred to nature's best affections, may pass before the mind of one whose lips are silent. "Out of sight out of mind" is rather the expression of a doubt -- of a fear -- than a belief or a conviction. The soul surely has eyes that can see the objects it loves, through all intervening darkness -- and of those more especially dear it keeps within itself almost undimmed images, on which, when they know it not, think it not, believe it not, it often loves to gaze, as on relics imperishable as they are hallowed.

All hail! rising beautiful and magnificent through the mists of morning -- ye Woods, Groves, Towers, and Temples, overshadowing that famous Stream beloved by all the Muses! Through this midnight hush -- methinks we hear faint and far-off sacred music -- 

"Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise!"

How steeped now in the stillness of moonlight are all those pale, pillared Churches, Courts and Cloisters, Shrines and Altars, with here and there a Statue standing in the shade, or Monument sacred to the memory of the pious -- the immortal dead. Some great clock is striking from one of many domes -- from the majestic Tower of St. Mary Magdalen -- and in the deepened hush that follows the solemn sound, the mingling waters of the Cherwell and the Isis soften the severe silence of the holy night.

Remote from kindred, and from all the friendships that were the native growth of the fair fields where our boyhood and our youth had roamed and meditated and dreamed, those were indeed years of high and lofty mood which held us in converse with the shades of great Poets and ages of old in Rhedicyna's hallowed groves, still, serene, and solemn, as that Attic Academe where divine Plato, with all Hybla on his lips, discoursed such excellent music that his life seemed to the imagination spiritualized -- a dim reminiscence of some former state of being. How sank then the Christmas Service of that beautiful Liturgy into our hearts! Not faithless we to the simple worship that our forefathers had loved; but Conscience told us there was no apostasy in the feelings that rose within us when that deep organ began to blow, that choir of youthful voices so sweetly to join the diapason, -- our eyes fixed all the while on that divine Picture over the Altar, of our Saviour

"Bearing his cross up rueful Calvary."

The City of Palaces disappears -- and in the setting sunlight we behold mountains of soft crimson snow! The sun hath set, and even more beautiful are the bright-starred nights of winter, than summer in all its glories beneath the broad moons of June. Through the woods of Windermere, from cottage to cottage, by coppice-pathways winding up to dwellings among the hill-rocks where the birch-trees cease to grow -- 

"Nodding their heads, before us go, The merry minstrelsy."

They sing a salutation at every door, familiarly naming old and young by their Christian names; and the eyes that look upward from the vales to the hanging huts among the plats and cliffs, see the shadows of the dancers ever and anon crossing the light of the star-like window, and the merry music is heard like an echo dwelling in the sky. Across those humble thresholds often did we on Christmas-week nights of yore -- wandering through our solitary silvan haunts, under the branches of trees within whose hollow trunks the squirrel slept -- venture in, unasked perhaps, but not unwelcome, and, in the kindly spirit of the season, did our best to merrify the Festival by tale or song. And now that we behold them not, are all those woods, and cliffs, and rivers, and tarns, and lakes, as beautiful as when they softened and brightened beneath our living eyes, half-creating, as they gazed, the very world they worshipped! And are all those hearths as bright as of yore, without the shadow of our figure! And the roofs, do they ring as mirthfully, though our voice be forgotten. We hang over Westmoreland, an unobserved -- but observant star. Mountains, hills, rocks, knolls, vales, woods, groves, single trees, dwelling -- all asleep! O Lakes! but we are indeed, by far too beautiful! O fortunate Isles! too fair for human habitation, fit abode for the Blest! It will not hide itself -- it will not sink into the earth -- it will rise; and risen, it will stand steady with its shadow in the overpowering moonlight, that ONE TREE! that ONE HOUSE! -- and well might the sight of ye two together -- were it harder -- break our heart. But hard at all it is not -- therefore it is but crushed.

Can it be that there we are utterly forgotten! No star hanging higher than the Andes in heaven -- but sole-sitting at midnight in a small chamber -- a melancholy man are we -- and there seems a smile of consolation, O Wordsworth! on thy sacred Bust.

Alas! how many heavenly days, "seeming immortal in their depth of rest," have died and been forgotten! Treacherous and ungrateful is our memory even of bliss that overflowed our being as light our habitation. Our spirit's deepest intercommunion with nature has no place in her records -- blanks are there that ought to have been painted with imperishable imagery, and steeped in sentiment fresh as the morning on life's golden hills. Yet there is mercy in this dispensation -- for who can bear to behold the light of bliss re-arising from the past on the ghastlier gloom of present misery? The phantoms that will not come when we call on them to comfort us, are too often at our side when in our anguish we could almost pray that they might be reburied in oblivion. Such hauntings as these are not as if they were visionary -- they come and go like forms and shapes still imbued with life. Shall we vainly stretch out our arms to embrace and hold them fast, or as vainly seek to intrench ourselves by thought of this world against their visitation? The soul in its sickness knows not whether it be the duty of love to resign itself to indifference or to despair. Shall it enjoy life, they being dead? Shall we, the survivors, for yet a little while, walk in other companionship out into the day, and let the sunbeams settle on their heads as they used to do, or cover them with dust and ashes, and show to those in heaven that love for them is now best expressed by remorse and penitence?

Sometimes we have fears about our memory -- that it is decaying; for, lately, many ordinary yet interesting occurrences and events, which we regarded at the time with pain or pleasure, have been slipping away almost into oblivion, and have often alarmed us of a sudden by their return, not to any act of recollection, but of themselves, sometimes wretchedly out of place and season, the mournful obtruding upon the merry, and worse, the merry upon the mournful -- confusion, by no fault of ours, of piteous and gladsome faces -- tears where smiles were a duty as well as a delight, and smiles where nature demanded, and religion hallowed, a sacrifice of tears.

For a good many years we have been tied to town in winter by fetters as fine as frost-work filigree, which we could not break without destroying a whole world of endearment. That seems an obscure image; but it means what the Germans would call in English -- our winter environment. We are imprisoned in a net; yet we can see it when we choose -- just as a bird can see, when he chooses, the wires of his cage, that are invisible in his happiness, as he keeps hopping and fluttering about all day long, or haply dreaming on his perch with his poll under his plumes -- as free in confinement as if let loose into the boundless sky. That seems an obscure image too; but we mean, in truth, the prison unto which we doom ourselves no prison is; and we have improved on that idea, for we have built our own -- and are prisoner, turnkey, and jailer all in one, and 'tis noiseless as the house of sleep. Or what if we declare that Christopher North is a king in his palace, with no subjects but his own thoughts -- his rule peaceful over those lights and shadows -- and undisputed to reign over them his right divine.

The opening year in a town, now answers in all things to our heart's desire. How beautiful the smoky air! The clouds have a homely look as they hang over the happy families of houses, and seem as if they loved their birthplace; -- all unlike those heartless clouds that keep stravaiging over mountain-tops, and have no domicile in the sky! Poets speak of living rocks, but what is their life to that of houses? Who ever saw a rock with eyes -- that is, with windows? Stone-blind all, and stone-deaf, and with hearts of stone; whereas who ever saw a house without eyes -- that is, windows? Our own is an Argus; yet the good old Conservative grudges not the assessed taxes -- his optics are as cheerful as the day that lends them light, and they love to salute the setting sun, as if a hundred beacons, level above level, were kindled along a mountain side. He might safely be pronounced a madman who preferred an avenue of trees to a street. Why, trees have no chimneys; and, were you to kindle a fire in the hollow of an oak, you would soon be as dead as a Druid. It won't do to talk to us of sap, and the circulation of sap. A grove in winter, hole and branch -- leaves it has none -- is as dry as a volume of sermons. But a street, or a square, is full of "vital sparks of heavenly flame" as a volume of poetry, and the heart's blood circulates through the system like rosy wine.

But a truce to comparisons; for we are beginning to feel contrition for our crime against the country, and, with humbled head and heart, we beseech you to pardon us -- ye rocks of Pavey-Ark, the pillared palaces of the storms -- ye clouds, now wreathing a diadem for the forehead of Helvellyn -- ye trees, that hang the shadows of your undying beauty over the "one perfect chrysolite," of blessed Windermere!

Our meaning is transparent now as the hand of an apparition waving peace and good-will to all dwellers in the land of dreams. In plainer but not simpler words (for words are like flowers, often rich in their simplicity -- witness the Lily, and Solomon's Song) -- Christian people all, we wish you a Merry Christmas and Happy New-Year, in town or in country -- or in ships at sea.

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Keeping Christmas

Romans, xiv, 6: He that regardeth the day, regardeth it unto the Lord,

Henry Van Dyke

[From "The Spirit of Christmas."]

It is a good thing to observe Christmas day. The mere marking of times and seasons, when men agree to stop work and make merry together, is a wise and wholesome custom. It helps one to feel the supremacy of the common life over the individual life. It reminds a man to set his own little watch, now and then, by the great clock of humanity which runs on sun time.

But there is a better thing than the observance of Christmas day, and that is, keeping Christmas.

Are you willing to forget what you have done for other people, and to remember what other people have done for you; to ignore what the world owes you, and to think what you owe the world; to put your rights in the background, and your duties in the middle distance, and your chances to do a little more than your duty in the foreground; to see that your fellowmen are just as real as you are, and try to look behind their faces to their hearts, hungry for joy; to own that probably the only good reason for your existence is not what you are going to get out of life, but what you are going to give to life; to close your book of complaints against the management of the universe, and look around you for a place where you can sow a few seeds of happiness -- are you willing to do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.

Are you willing to stoop down and consider the needs and the desires of little children; to remember the weakness and loneliness of people who are growing old; to stop asking how much your friends love you, and ask yourself whether you love them enough; to bear in mind the things that other people have to bear in their hearts; to try to understand what those who live in the same house with you really want, without waiting for them to tell you; to trim your lamp so that it will give more light and less smoke, and to carry it in front so that your shadow will fall behind you; to make a grave for your ugly thoughts and a garden for your kindly feelings, with the gate open -- are you willing to do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.

Are you willing to believe that love is the strongest thing in the world -- stronger than hate, stronger than evil, stronger than death -- and that the blessed life which began in Bethlehem nineteen hundred years ago is the image and brightness of the Eternal Love? Then you can keep Christmas.

And if you keep it for a day, why not always?

But you can never keep it alone.

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Mark Well My Heavy Doleful Tale

Anonymous

Mark well my heavy doleful tale, For Twelfth-day now is come, And now I must no longer sing, And say no words but mum; For I perforce must take my leave Of all my dainty cheer, Plum-porridge, roast beef, and minced pies, My strong ale and my beer.

Kind-hearted Christmas, now adieu, For I with thee must part, And for to take my leave of thee Doth grieve me at the heart; Thou wert an ancient housekeeper, And mirth with meat didst keep, But thou art going out of town, Which makes me for to weep.

God knoweth whether I again Thy merry face shall see, Which to good-fellows and the poor That was so frank and free. Thou lovedst pastime with thy heart, And eke good company; Pray hold me up for fear I swoon, For I am like to die.

Come, butler, fill a brimmer up To cheer my fainting heart, That to old Christmas I may drink Before he doth depart; And let each one that's in this room With me likewise condole, And for to cheer their spirits sad Let each one drink a bowl.

And when the same it hath gone round Then fall unto your cheer, For you do know that Christmas time It comes but once a year. But this good draught which I have drunk Hath comforted my heart, For I was very fearful that My stomach would depart.

Thanks to my master and my dame That doth such cheer afford; God bless them, that each Christmas they May furnish thus their board. My stomach having come to me, I mean to have a bout, Intending to eat most heartily; Good friends, I do not flout.

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A Christmas Carol

Christina G. Rossetti

In the bleak mid-winter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak mid-winter Long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold him Nor earth sustain; Heaven and earth shall flee away, When he comes to reign. In the bleak mid-winter A stable-place sufficed The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

Angels and archangels May have gathered there; Cherubim and seraphim Thronged the air. But only His Mother, In her maiden bliss, Worshipped her Beloved With a kiss.

What can I give Him, Poor as I am? If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb; If I were a wise man, I would do my part, --  Yet what I can I give Him, Give my heart.

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The Glorious Song Of Old

Edmund H. Sears

It came upon the midnight clear, That glorious song of old, From angels bending near the earth To touch their harps of gold, "Peace on the earth, good-will to men, From heaven's all-gracious King" --  The world in solemn stillness lay To hear the angels sing.

Still through the cloven skies they come With peaceful wings unfurled, And still their heavenly music floats O'er all the weary world; Above its sad and lowly plains They bend on hovering wing, And ever o'er its Babel-sounds The blessed angels sing.

But with the woes of sin and strife The world has suffered long; Beneath the angel-strain have rolled Two thousand years of wrong. And man at war with man hears not The love-song which they bring; Oh, hush the noise, ye men of strife, And hear the angels sing!

And ye beneath life's crushing load, Whose forms are bending low, Who toil along the climbing way With painful steps and slow, Look now! for glad and golden hours Come swiftly on the wing: --  Oh, rest beside the weary road And hear the angels sing!

For lo! the days the hastening on By prophet-bards foretold, When with the ever-circling years Comes round the age of gold; When peace shall over all the earth Its ancient splendors fling, And the whole world give back the song Which now the angels sing.

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A Christmas Carol For Children

Martin Luther

Good news from heaven the angels bring, Glad tidings to the earth they sing: To us this day a child is given, To crown us with the joy of heaven.

This is the Christ, our God and Lord, Who in all need shall aid afford: He will Himself our Saviour be, From sin and sorrow set us free.

To us that blessedness He brings, Which from the Father's bounty springs: That in the heavenly realm we may With Him enjoy eternal day.

All hail, Thou noble Guest, this morn, Whose love did not the sinner scorn! In my distress Thou cam'st to me: What thanks shall I return to Thee?

Were earth a thousand times as fair, Beset with gold and jewels rare, She yet were far too poor to be A narrow cradle, Lord, for Thee.

Ah, dearest Jesus, Holy Child! Make Thee a bed, soft, undefiled, Within my heart, that it may be A quiet chamber kept for Thee.

Praise God upon His heavenly throne, Who gave to us His only Son: For this His hosts, on joyful wing, A blest New Year of mercy sing.

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On Santa Claus

George A. Baker, Jr.

Brave old times those were. In the first half of the seventeenth century, we mean; before there was any such place as New York and Manhattan Island was occupied mostly by woods, and had a funny little Dutch town, known as New Amsterdam, sprouting out of the southern end of it. Those were the days of solid comfort, of mighty pipes, and unctuous doughnuts. Winter had not yet been so much affected by artificiality as he is now-a-days, and was contented to be what he is, not trying to pass himself off for Spring; and Christmas -- well, it was Christmas. Do you know why? Because in those times Santa Claus used to live in a great old house in the midst of an evergreen forest, just back of the Hudson, and about half-way between New Amsterdam and Albany. A house built out of funny little Dutch bricks, with gables whose sides looked like stair-cases, and a roof of red tiles with more weathercocks and chimneys sticking out of it than you could count. Phew, how cold it was there! The wind roared and shouted around the house, and the snow fell steadily half the year, so that the summers never melted it away till winter came again. And Santa Claus thought that was the greatest pleasure in life: for he loved to have enormous fires in the great fire-places, and the colder it was, the bigger fires he would have, and the louder the winds roared around his chimney. There he sat and worked away all the year round, making dolls, and soldiers, and Noah's arks, and witches, and every other sort of toy you can think of. When Christmas Eve came he'd harness up his reindeers, Dasher, and Prancer, and Vixen, and the rest of them, and wrap himself up in furs, and light his big pipe, and cram his sled full of the doll-babies and Noah's arks, and all the other toys he'd been making, and off he'd go with a great shout and tremendous ringing of sleigh-bells. Before morning he'd be up and down every chimney in New Amsterdam, filling the stout grey yarn stockings with toys, and apples, and ginger-bread, laughing and chuckling so all the while, that the laughs and chuckles didn't get out of the air for a week afterwards.

But the old house has gone to ruin, and Santa Claus doesn't live there any longer. You see he married about forty years ago; his wife was a Grundy, daughter of old Mrs. Grundy, of Fifth Avenue, of whom you've all heard. She married him for his money, and couldn't put up with his plain way of living and his careless jollity. He is such an easy-going, good natured old soul, that she manages him without any trouble. So the first thing she did was to make him change his name to St. Nicholas; then she made him give up his old house, and move into town; then she sent away the reindeers, for she didn't know what Ma would say to such an outlandish turn-out; then she threw away his pipe because it was vulgar, and the first Christmas Eve that he went off and stayed out all night she had hysterics, and declared she'd go home to her Ma, and get a divorce if he ever did such a thing again. She'd have put a stop to his giving away toys every year, too, only she thought it looked well, and as it was, she wouldn't let him make them himself any more, but compelled him to spend enormous sums in bringing them from Paris, and Vienna, and Nuremberg.

So now Santa Claus is St. Nicholas, and lives in a brown stone house on Fifth Avenue, a great deal handsomer than he can afford, and keeps a carriage, not because he wants it, but because Mrs. Shoddy, next door, keeps one; and loves, not to be jolly himself and to make everybody else so, but to please his wife's mother. He has to give an awful pull, what with his wife's extravagance, and the high prices of Parisian and Viennese toys, to make both ends meet, although he does speculate in stocks, and is very lucky. Instead of looking forward to Christmas with pleasure, and thinking what a good time he will have, he pulls out his ledger, and groans, and wonders how on earth he's going to make his presents this year, and thinks he would stop giving them entirely, only he's so mortally afraid of his mother-in-law, and he knows what she'd say if he did. So he borrows money wherever he can, and sends over to Paris for fans, and opera-glasses, and bon-bon boxes, and jewelry, and when they come he sits down in his parlor and lets his wife tell him just what to do with them. So she takes out her list and runs over the names; she has all the rich people down, for she is a religious woman, and the Bible says "unto him that hath, it shall be given." This is the way she talks: "The little Croesuses must have some very elegant things, of course; their mother's a horrid old cat, but Croesus could help you very much in business. And there are the Centlivres; we must pick out something magnificent for them; they give a party Christmas night: of course the presents will be on exhibition, and I shall sink with shame if any one else's are handsomer than ours." So she goes on, until all the rich people are disposed of. Then Santa Claus asks: "How about the Brinkers, my dear?" The Brinkers are great favorites of his. "Good gracious, dearest! How often have I told you, you mustn't manifest such an interest in those Brinkers? What would Ma say if she knew you associated with such common people!" "But, I'm Dutch myself, pet." "Of course you are, darling, but there's no need of letting every one know it!" St. Nicholas hardly dares to do it, but he finally suggests very meekly: "The poor children, my darling." "Bother the poor children, my dear!" They're a most affectionate couple, you know. Then St. Nicholas sighs and sighs, and sends for his messengers, and they all come in with long faces, and take off big packages to the Croesuses and the Centlivres, and the rest of them. The messengers do their work entirely as a matter of business, so there isn't a sign of a laugh, nor a symptom of a chuckle in the air next day. The little Croesuses first cry, because they haven't received more, and then fight over what they have; then they eat too much French candy, and get sick and cross, and the whole house is filled with their noise. So mamma has a headache; and papa longs for his office, and misses the tick-tick of the stock telegraph, and thinks what a confounded nuisance holidays are. That is what Christmas is like in good society.

But I must tell you a secret. Away up in the fourth-story of his grand house, where his wife never goes, St. Nicholas has a little workshop, and there he sits whenever he gets a chance, making the most wonderful dolls, and gorgeous soldiers, and miraculous jumping-jacks, and tin horns -- such quantities of tin horns! Some one ought to speak to him about those tin horns. But after all they please the poor children, so we suppose it's all right. Now do you know what he does with these things? On Christmas Eve he gets his old sled down from the stable away up by the North Pole, and as soon as his wife is fast asleep, he puts on his old furs and gets out from under his shirts in his bureau drawer a Dutch pipe, three times as big as the one his wife threw away, and off he goes. He tumbles down all the poor people's chimneys, and fills up the stockings to overflowing, and plants gorgeous Christmas trees in all the Mission schools.

He has a glorious good time, and laughs and chuckles tremendously, except when, once in a while, he thinks of what would happen if his wife found him out.

So there's a little fun going on after all.

Do you know, if it were not for this performance of his, we should wish with all our heart that St. Nicholas were dead and buried. But we must say, we wish his wife would die, and that all the Grundy family would follow her good example, for between them they've spoiled a good many jolly people besides St. Nicholas.

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A Christmas Carol

Josiah Gilbert Holland

There's a song in the air! There's a star in the sky! There's a mother's deep prayer And a baby's low cry! And the star rains its fire while the Beautiful sing, For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king.

There's a tumult of joy O'er the wonderful birth, For the virgin's sweet boy Is the Lord of the earth, Ay! the star rains its fire and the Beautiful sing, For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king.

In the light of that star Lie the ages impearled; And that song from afar Has swept over the world. Every hearth is aflame, and the Beautiful sing In the homes of the nations that Jesus is King.

We rejoice in the light, And we echo the song That comes down through the night From the heavenly throng. Ay! we shout to the lovely evangel they bring, And we greet in his cradle our Saviour and King!

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An Offertory

Mary Mapes Dodge

Oh, the beauty of the Christ Child, The gentleness, the grace, The smiling, loving tenderness, The infantile embrace! All babyhood he holdeth, All motherhood enfoldeth --  Yet who hath seen his face?

Oh, the nearness of the Christ Child, When, for a sacred space, He nestles in our very homes --  Light of the human race! We know him and we love him, No man to us need prove him --  Yet who hath seen his face?

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Christmas Song

Lydia A.C. Ward

Why do bells for Christmas ring? Why do little children sing?

Once a lovely, shining star, Seen by shepherds from afar, Gently moved until its light Made a manger-cradle bright.

There a darling baby lay Pillowed soft upon the hay. And his mother sang and smiled, "This is Christ, the holy child."

So the bells for Christmas ring, So the little children sing.

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A Christmas Carol

Christian Burke

The trees are hung with crystal lamps, the world lies still and white, And the myriad little twinkling stars are sharp with keener light; The moon sails up the frost-clear sky and silvers all the snow, As she did, perchance, that Christmas night, two thousand years ago! Good people, are you waking? Give us food and give us wine, For the sake of blessed Mary And her Infant Son Divine, Who was born the world's Redeemer --  A Saviour -- yours and mine!

Long ago angelic harpers sang the song we sing to-day, And the drowsy folk of Bethlehem may have listened as they lay! But eager shepherds left their flocks, and o'er the desert wild The kingly sages journeyed to adore the Holy Child! Has any man a quarrel? Has another used you ill? The friendly word you meant to say, Is that unspoken still? --  Then, remember, 'twas the Angels Brought glad tidings of good will!

Of all the gifts of Christmas, are you fain to win the best? Lo! the Christ-child still is waiting Himself to be your guest; No lot so high or lowly but He will take His part, If you do but bid Him welcome to a clean and tender heart. Are you sleeping, are you waking? To the Manger haste away, And you shall see a wond'rous sight Amid the straw and hay. --  'Tis Love Himself Incarnate As on this Christmas Day!

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A Simple Bill Of Fare For A Christmas Dinner

H.H.

All good recipe-books give bills of fare for different occasions, bills of fare for grand dinners, bills of fare for little dinners; dinners to cost so much per head; dinners "which can be easily prepared with one servant," and so on. They give bills of fare for one week; bills of fare for each day in a month, to avoid too great monotony in diet. There are bills of fare for dyspeptics; bills of fare for consumptives; bills of fare for fat people, and bills of fare for thin; and bills of fare for hospitals, asylums, and prisons, as well as for gentlemen's houses. But among them all, we never saw the one which we give below. It has never been printed in any book; but it has been used in families. We are not drawing on our imagination for its items. We have sat at such dinners; we have helped prepare such dinners; we believe in such dinners; they are within everybody's means. In fact, the most marvellous thing about this bill of fare is that the dinner does not cost a cent. Ho! all ye that are hungry and thirsty, and would like so cheap a Christmas dinner, listen to this:

Bill Of Fare For A Christmas Dinner

First Course -- Gladness.

This must be served hot. No two housekeepers make it alike; no fixed rule can be given for it. It depends, like so many of the best things, chiefly on memory; but, strangely enough, it depends quite as much on proper forgetting as on proper remembering. Worries must be forgotten. Troubles must be forgotten. Yes, even sorrow itself must be denied and shut out. Perhaps this is not quite possible. Ah! we all have seen Christmas days on which sorrow would not leave our hearts nor our houses. But even sorrow can be compelled to look away from its sorrowing for a festival hour which is so solemnly joyous at Christ's Birthday. Memory can be filled full of other things to be remembered. No soul is entirely destitute of blessings, absolutely without comfort. Perhaps we have but one. Very well; we can think steadily of that one, if we try. But the probability is that we have more than we can count. No man has yet numbered the blessings, the mercies, the joys of God. We are all richer than we think; and if we once set ourselves to reckoning up the things of which we are glad, we shall be astonished at their number.

Gladness, then, is the first item, the first course on our bill of fare for a Christmas dinner.

Entrées. -- Love garnished with Smiles.

GENTLENESS, with sweet-wine sauce of Laughter.

GRACIOUS SPEECH, cooked with any fine, savory herbs, such as Frollery, which is always in season, or Pleasant Reminiscence, which no one need be without, as it keeps for years, sealed or unsealed.

Second Course -- HOSPITALITY.

The precise form of this also depends on individual preferences. We are not undertaking here to give exact recipes, only a bill of fare.

In some houses Hospitality is brought on surrounded with Relatives. This is very well. In others, it is dished up with Dignitaries of all sorts; men and women of position and estate for whom the host has special likings or uses. This gives a fine effect to the eye, but cools quickly, and is not in the long-run satisfying.

In a third class, best of all, it is served in simple shapes, but with a great variety of Unfortunate Persons, -- such as lonely people from lodging-houses, poor people of all grades, widows and childless in their affliction. This is the kind most preferred; in fact, never abandoned by those who have tried it.

For Dessert. -- MIRTH, in glasses.

GRATITUDE and FAITH beaten together and piled up in snowy shapes. These will look light if run over night in the moulds of Solid Trust and Patience.

A dish of the bonbons Good Cheer and Kindliness with every-day mottoes; Knots and Reasons in shape of Puzzles and Answers; the whole ornamented with Apples of Gold in Pictures of Silver, of the kind mentioned in the Book of Proverbs.

This is a short and simple bill of fare. There is not a costly thing in it; not a thing which cannot be procured without difficulty.

If meat be desired, it can be added. That is another excellence about our bill of fare. It has nothing in it which makes it incongruous with the richest or the plainest tables. It is not overcrowded by the addition of roast goose and plum-pudding; it is not harmed by the addition of herring and potatoes. Nay, it can give flavor and richness to broken bits of stale bread served on a doorstep and eaten by beggars.

We might say much more about this bill of fare. We might, perhaps, confess that it has an element of the supernatural; that its origin is lost in obscurity; that, although, as we said, it has never been printed before, it has been known in all ages; that the martyrs feasted upon it; that generations of the poor, called blessed by Christ, have laid out banquets by it; that exiles and prisoners have lived on it; and the despised and forsaken and rejected in all countries have tasted it. It is also true that when any great king ate well and throve on his dinner, it was by the same magic food. The young and the free and the glad, and all rich men in costly houses, even they have not been well fed without it.

And though we have called it a Bill of Fare for a Christmas Dinner, that is only that men's eyes may be caught by its name, and that they, thinking it a specialty for festival, may learn and understand its secret, and henceforth, laying all their dinners according to its magic order, may "eat unto the Lord."

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A Ballade Of Old Loves

Carolyn Wells

Who is it stands on the polished stair, A merry, laughing, winsome maid, From the Christmas rose in her golden hair To the high-heeled slippers of spangled suède A glance, half daring and half afraid, Gleams from her roguish eyes downcast; Already the vision begins to fade --  'Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past.

Who is it sits in that high-backed chair, Quaintly in ruff and patch arrayed, With a mockery gay of a stately air As she rustles the folds of her old brocade, --  Merriest heart at the masquerade? Ah, but the picture is passing fast Back to the darkness from which it strayed --  'Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past.

Who is it whirls in a ball-room's glare, Her soft white hand on my shoulder laid, Like a radiant lily, tall and fair, While the violins in the corner played The wailing strains of the Serenade? Oh, lovely vision, too sweet to last --  E'en now my fancy it will evade --  'Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past.

L'envoi

Rosamond! look not so dismayed, All of my heart, dear love, thou hast Jealous, beloved? Of a shade? --  'Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past.

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Ballade Of Christmas Ghosts

Andrew Lang

Between the moonlight and the fire In winter twilights long ago, What ghosts we raised for your desire, To make your merry blood run slow! How old, how grave, how wise we grow! No Christmas ghost can make us chill, Save those that troop in mournful row, The ghosts we all can raise at will!

The beasts can talk in barn and byre On Christmas Eve, old legends know. As year by year the years retire, We men fall silent then I trow, Such sights hath memory to show, Such voices from the silence thrill, Such shapes return with Christmas snow, --  The ghosts we all can raise at will.

Oh, children of the village choir, Your carols on the midnight throw, Oh, bright across the mist and mire, Ye ruddy hearths of Christmas glow! Beat back the dread, beat down the woe, Let's cheerily descend the hill; Be welcome all, to come or go, The ghosts we all can raise at will.

Envoy

Friend, sursum corda, soon or slow We part, like guests who've joyed their fill; Forget them not, nor mourn them so, The ghosts we all can raise at will.

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Hang Up The Baby's Stocking

[Emily Huntington Miller]

Hang up the baby's stocking: Be sure you don't forget; The dear little dimpled darling! She ne'er saw Christmas yet; But I've told her all about it, And she opened her big blue eyes, And I'm sure she understood it --  She looked so funny and wise.

Dear! what a tiny stocking! It doesn't take much to hold Such little pink toes as baby's Away from the frost and cold. But then for the baby's Christmas It will never do at all; Why, Santa wouldn't be looking For anything half so small.

I know what will do for the baby. I've thought of the very best plan: I'll borrow a stocking of grandma, The longest that ever I can; And you'll hang it by mine, dear mother, Right here in the corner, so! And write a letter to Santa, And fasten it on to the toe.

Write, "This is the baby's stocking That hangs in the corner here; You never have seen her, Santa, For she only came this year; But she's just the blessedest baby! And now, before you go, Just cram her stocking with goodies, From the top clean down to the toe."

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The Newest Thing In Christmas Carols

Anonymous

God rest you, merry gentlemen! May nothing you dismay; Not even the dyspeptic plats Through which you'll eat your way; Nor yet the heavy Christmas bills The season bids you pay; No, nor the ever tiresome need Of being to order gay;

Nor yet the shocking cold you'll catch If fog and slush hold sway; Nor yet the tumbles you must bear If frost should win the day; Nor sleepless nights -- they're sure to come --  When "waits" attune their lay; Nor pantomimes, whose dreariness Might turn macassar gray;

Nor boisterous children, home in heaps, And ravenous of play; Nor yet -- in fact, the host of ills Which Christmases array. God rest you, merry gentlemen, May none of these dismay!

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A Christmas Letter From Australia

Douglas Sladen

'Tis Christmas, and the North wind blows; 'twas two years yesterday Since from the Lusitania's bows I looked o'er Table Bay, A tripper round the narrow world, a pilgrim of the main, Expecting when her sails unfurled to start for home again.

'Tis Christmas, and the North wind blows; to-day our hearts are one, Though you are 'mid the English snows and I in Austral sun; You, when you hear the Northern blast, pile high a mightier fire, Our ladies cower until it's past in lawn and lace attire.

I fancy I can picture you upon this Christmas night, Just sitting as you used to do, the laughter at its height; And then a sudden, silent pause intruding on your glee, And kind eyes glistening because you chanced to think of me.

This morning when I woke and knew 'twas Christmas come again, I almost fancied I could view white rime upon the pane, And hear the ringing of the wheels upon the frosty ground, And see the drip that downward steals in icy casket bound.

I daresay you'll be on the lake, or sliding on the snow, And breathing on your hands to make the circulation flow, Nestling your nose among the furs of which your boa's made, --  The Fahrenheit here registers a hundred in the shade.

It is not quite a Christmas here with this unclouded sky, This pure transparent atmosphere, this sun mid-heaven-high; To see the rose upon the bush, young leaves upon the trees, And hear the forest's summer hush or the low hum of bees.

But cold winds bring not Christmastide, nor budding roses June, And when it's night upon your side we're basking in the noon. Kind hearts make Christmas -- June can bring blue sky or clouds above; The only universal spring is that which comes of love.

And so it's Christmas in the South as on the North-sea coasts, Though we are staved with summer-drouth and you with winter frosts. And we shall have our roast beef here, and think of you the while, Though all the watery hemisphere cuts off the mother isle.

Feel sure that we shall think of you, we who have wandered forth, And many a million thoughts will go to-day from south to north; Old heads will muse on churches old, where bells will ring to-day --  The very bells, perchance, which tolled their fathers to the clay.

And now, good-night! and I shall dream that I am with you all, Watching the ruddy embers gleam athwart the panelled hall; Nor care I if I dream or not, though severed by the foam, My heart is always in the spot which was my childhood's home.

*    *    *    *    *

Christmas

Rose Terry Cooke

Here comes old Father Christmas, With sound of fife and drums; With mistletoe about his brows, So merrily he comes! His arms are full of all good cheer, His face with laughter glows, He shines like any household fire Amid the cruel snows. He is the old folks' Christmas; He warms their hearts like wine; He thaws their winter into spring, And makes their faces shine. Hurrah for Father Christmas! Ring all the merry bells! And bring the grandsires all around To hear the tale he tells.

Here comes the Christmas angel, So gentle and so calm; As softly as the falling flakes He comes with flute and psalm. All in a cloud of glory, As once upon the plain To shepherd-boys in Jewry, He brings good news again. He is the young folks' Christmas; He makes their eyes grow bright With words of hope and tender thought, And visions of delight. Hail to the Christmas angel! All peace on earth he brings; He gathers all the youths and maids Beneath his shining wings.

Here comes the little Christ-child, All innocence and joy, And bearing gifts in either hand For every girl and boy. He tells the tender story About the Holy Maid, And Jesus in the manger Before the oxen laid. Like any little winter bird He sings his sweetest song, Till all the cherubs in the sky To hear his carol throng. He is the children's Christmas; They come without a call, To gather round the gracious Child, Who bringeth joy to all.

But who shall bring their Christmas Who wrestle still with life? Not grandsires, youths, or little folks, But they who wage the strife --  The fathers and the mothers Who fight for homes and bread, Who watch and ward the living, And bury all the dead? Ah! by their side at Christmas-tide The Lord of Christmas stands: He smooths the furrows from their brow With strong and tender hands. "I take my Christmas gift," He saith, "From thee, tired soul, and he Who giveth to My little ones Gives also unto Me."

*    *    *    *    *



IV

Stories



The Fir Tree

Hans Christian Andersen

Out in the forest stood a pretty little Fir Tree. It had a good place; it could have sunlight, air there was in plenty, and all around grew many larger comrades -- pines as well as firs. But the little Fir Tree wished ardently to become greater. It did not care for the warm sun and the fresh air; it took no notice of the peasant children, who went about talking together, when they had come out to look for strawberries and raspberries. Often they came with a whole pot-full, or had strung berries on a straw; then they would sit down by the little Fir Tree and say, "How pretty and small that one is!" and the Tree did not like to hear that at all.

Next year he had grown a great joint, and the following year he was longer still, for in fir trees one can always tell by the number of rings they have how many years they have been growing.

"Oh, if I were only as great a tree as the others!" sighed the little Fir, "then I would spread my branches far around, and look out from my crown into the wide world. The birds would then build nests in my boughs, and when the wind blew I could nod just as grandly as the others yonder."

He took no pleasure in the sunshine, in the birds, and in the red clouds that went sailing over him morning and evening.

When it was winter, and the snow lay all around, white and sparkling, a hare would often come jumping along, and spring right over the little Fir Tree. Oh! this made him so angry. But two winters went by, and when the third came the little Tree had grown so tall that the hare was obliged to run around it.

"Oh! to grow, to grow, and become old; that's the only fine thing in the world," thought the Tree.

In the autumn woodcutters always came and felled a few of the largest trees; that was done this year too, and the little Fir Tree, that was now quite well grown, shuddered with fear, for the great stately trees fell to the ground with a crash, and their branches were cut off, so that the trees looked quite naked, long, and slender -- they could hardly be recognized. But then they were laid upon waggons, and horses dragged them away out of the wood. Where were they going? What destiny awaited them?

In the spring, when the swallows and the Stork came, the Tree asked them, "Do you know where they were taken? Did you not meet them?"

The swallows knew nothing about it, but the Stork looked thoughtful, nodded his head, and said,

"Yes, I think so. I met many new ships when I flew out of Egypt; on the ships were stately masts; I fancy that these were the trees. They smelt like fir. I can assure you they're stately -- very stately."

"Oh that I were only big enough to go over the sea! What kind of thing is this sea, and how does it look?"

"It would take too long to explain all that," said the Stork, and he went away.

"Rejoice in thy youth," said the Sunbeams; "rejoice in thy fresh growth, and in the young life that is within thee."

And the wind kissed the Tree, and the dew wept tears upon it; but the Fir Tree did not understand that.

When Christmas-time approached, quite young trees were felled, sometimes trees which were neither so old nor so large as this Fir Tree, that never rested but always wanted to go away. These young trees, which were almost the most beautiful, kept all their branches; they were put upon wagons, and horses dragged them away out of the wood.

"Where are they all going?" asked the Fir Tree. "They are not greater than I -- indeed, one of them was much smaller. Why do they keep all their branches? Whither are they taken?"

"We know that! We know that!" chirped the Sparrows. "Yonder in the town we looked in at the windows. We know where they go. Oh! they are dressed up in the greatest pomp and splendor that can be imagined. We have looked in at the windows, and have perceived that they are planted in the middle of the warm room, and adorned with the most beautiful things -- gilt apples, honey-cakes, playthings, and many hundreds of candles."

"And then?" asked the Fir Tree, and trembled through all its branches. "And then? What happens then?"

"Why, we have not seen anything more. But it was incomparable."

"Perhaps I may be destined to tread this glorious path one day!" cried the Fir Tree rejoicingly. "That is even better than traveling across the sea. How painfully I long for it! If it were only Christmas now! Now I am great and grown up, like the rest who were led away last year. Oh, if I were only on the carriage! If I were only in the warm room, among all the pomp and splendor! And then? Yes, then something even better will come, something far more charming, or else why should they adorn me so? There must be something grander, something greater still to come; but what? Oh, I'm suffering, I'm longing! I don't know myself what is the matter with me!"

"Rejoice in us," said Air and Sunshine, "Rejoice in thy fresh youth here in the woodland."

But the Fir Tree did not rejoice at all, but it grew and grew; winter and summer it stood there, green, dark green. The people who saw it said, "That's a handsome tree!" and at Christmas-time it was felled before any one of the others. The axe cut deep into its marrow, and the tree fell to the ground with a sigh: it felt a pain, a sensation of faintness, and could not think at all of happiness, for it was sad at parting from its home, from the place where it had grown up: it knew that it should never again see the dear old companions, the little bushes and flowers all around -- perhaps not even the birds. The parting was not at all agreeable.

The Tree only came to itself when it was unloaded in a yard, with other trees, and heard a man say,

"This one is famous; we only want this one!"

Now two servants came in gay liveries, and carried the Fir Tree into a large beautiful saloon. All around the walls hung pictures, and by the great stove stood large Chinese vases with lions on the covers; there were rocking-chairs, silken sofas, great tables covered with picture-books, and toys worth a hundred times a hundred dollars, at least the children said so. And the Fir Tree was put into a great tub filled with sand; but no one could see that it was a tub, for it was hung round with green cloth, and stood on a large many-colored carpet. Oh, how the Tree trembled! What was to happen now? The servants, and the young ladies also, decked it out. On one branch they hung little nets, cut out of colored paper; every net was filled with sweetmeats; golden apples and walnuts hung down as if they grew there, and more than a hundred little candles, red, white, and blue, were fastened to the different boughs. Dolls that looked exactly like real people -- the Tree had never seen such before -- swung among the foliage, and high on the summit of the Tree was fixed a tinsel star. It was splendid, particularly splendid.

"This evening," said all, "this evening it will shine."

"Oh," thought the Tree, "that it were evening already! Oh that the lights may be soon lit up! When may that be done? I wonder if trees will come out of the forest to look at me? Will the sparrows fly against the panes? Shall I grow fast here, and stand adorned in summer and winter?"

Yes, he did not guess badly. But he had a complete backache from mere longing, and the backache is just as bad for a Tree as the headache for a person.

At last the candles were lighted. What a brilliance, what splendor! The Tree trembled so in all its branches that one of the candles set fire to a green twig, and it was scorched.

"Heaven preserve us!" cried the young ladies; and they hastily put the fire out.

Now the Tree might not even tremble. Oh, that was terrible! It was so afraid of setting fire to some of its ornaments, and it was quite bewildered with all the brilliance. And now the folding doors were thrown open, and a number of children rushed in as if they would have overturned the whole Tree; the older people followed more deliberately. The little ones stood quite silent, but only for a minute; then they shouted till the room rang: they danced gleefully round the Tree, and one present after another was plucked from it.

"What are they about?" laughed the Tree. "What's going to be done?"

And the candles burned down to the twigs, and as they burned down they were extinguished, and then the children received permission to plunder the Tree. Oh! they rushed in upon it, so that every branch cracked again: if it had not been fastened by the top and by the golden star to the ceiling, it would have fallen down.

The children danced about with their pretty toys. No one looked at the Tree except one old man, who came up and peeped among the branches, but only to see if a fig or an apple had not been forgotten.

"A story! a story!" shouted the children: and they drew a little fat man towards the Tree; and he sat down just beneath it, -- "for then we shall be in the green wood," said he, "and the tree may have the advantage of listening to my tale. But I can only tell one. Will you hear the story of Ivede-Avede, or of Klumpey-Dumpey, who fell down stairs, and still was raised up to honor and married the Princess?"

"Ivede-Avede!" cried some, "Klumpey-Dumpey!" cried others, and there was a great crying and shouting. Only the Fir Tree was quite silent, and thought, "Shall I not be in it? shall I have nothing to do in it?" But he had been in the evening's amusement, and had done what was required of him.

And the fat man told about Klumpey-Dumpey, who fell down stairs, and yet was raised to honor and married the Princess. And the children clapped their hands, and cried, "Tell another! tell another!" for they wanted to hear about Ivede-Avede; but they only got the story of Klumpey-Dumpey. The Fir Tree stood quite silent and thoughtful; never had the birds in the wood told such a story as that. Klumpey-Dumpey fell down stairs, and yet came to honor and married the Princess!

"Yes, so it happens in the world!" thought the Fir Tree, and believed it must be true, because that was such a nice man who told it. "Well, who can know? Perhaps I shall fall down stairs too, and marry a Princess!" And it looked forward with pleasure to being adorned again, the next evening, with candles and toys, gold and fruit. "To-morrow I shall not tremble," it thought. "I will rejoice in all my splendor. To-morrow I shall hear the story of Klumpey-Dumpey again, and, perhaps, that of Ivede-Avede too."

And the Tree stood all night quiet and thoughtful.

In the morning the servants and the chambermaid came in.

"Now my splendor will begin afresh," thought the Tree. But they dragged him out of the room, and up stairs to the garret, and here they put him in a dark corner where no daylight shone.

"What's the meaning of this?" thought the Tree. "What am I to do here? What is to happen?"

And he leaned against the wall, and thought, and thought. And he had time enough, for days and nights went by, and nobody came up; and when at length some one came, it was only to put some great boxes in a corner. Now the Tree stood quite hidden away, and the supposition was that it was quite forgotten.

"Now it's winter outside," thought the Tree. "The earth is hard and covered with snow, and people cannot plant me; therefore I suppose I'm to be sheltered here until spring comes. How considerate that is! How good people are! If it were only not so dark here, and so terribly solitary! -- not even a little hare! That was pretty out there in the wood, when the snow lay thick and the hare sprang past; yes, even when he jumped over me; but then I did not like it. It is terribly lonely up here!"

"Piep! piep!" said a little Mouse, and crept forward, and then came another little one. They smelt at the Fir Tree, and then slipped among the branches.

"It's horribly cold," said the two little Mice, "or else it would be comfortable here. Don't you think so, you old Fir Tree?"

"I'm not old at all," said the Fir Tree. "There are many much older than I."

"Where do you come from?" asked the Mice. "And what do you know?" They were dreadfully inquisitive. "Tell us about the most beautiful spot on earth. Have you been there? Have you been in the store-room, where cheeses lie on the shelves, and hams hang from the ceiling, where one dances on tallow candles, and goes in thin and comes out fat?"

"I don't know that!" replied the Tree; "but I know the wood, where the sun shines, and where the birds sing."

And then it told all about its youth.

And the little Mice had never heard anything of the kind; and they listened and said,

"What a number of things you have seen! How happy you must have been!"

"I?" said the Fir Tree; and it thought about what it had told. "Yes, those were really quite happy times." But then he told of the Christmas-eve, when he had been hung with sweetmeats and candles.

"Oh!" said the little Mice, "how happy you have been, you old Fir Tree!"

"I'm not old at all," said the Tree. "I only came out of the wood this winter. I'm only rather backward in my growth."

"What splendid stories you can tell!" said the little Mice.

And next night they came with four other little Mice, to hear what the Tree had to relate; and the more it said, the more clearly did it remember everything, and thought, "Those were quite merry days! But they may come again. Klumpey-Dumpey fell down stairs, and yet he married the Princess. Perhaps I may marry a Princess too!" And then the Fir Tree thought of a pretty little birch tree that grew out in the forest: for the Fir Tree, that birch was a real Princess.

"Who's Klumpey-Dumpey?" asked the little Mice.

And then the Fir Tree told the whole story. It could remember every single word: and the little Mice were ready to leap to the very top of the tree with pleasure. Next night a great many more Mice came, and on Sunday two Rats even appeared; but these thought the story was not pretty, and the little Mice were sorry for that, for now they also did not like it so much as before.

"Do you only know one story?" asked the Rats.

"Only that one," replied the Tree. "I heard that on the happiest evening of my life; I did not think then how happy I was."

"That's a very miserable story. Don't you know any about bacon and tallow candles -- a store-room story?"

"No," said the Tree.

"Then we'd rather not hear you," said the Rats.

And they went back to their own people. The little Mice at last stayed away also; and then the Tree sighed and said,

"It was very nice when they sat round me, the merry little Mice, and listened when I spoke to them. Now that's past too. But I shall remember to be pleased when they take me out."

But when did that happen? Why, it was one morning that people came and rummaged in the garret: the boxes were put away, and the Tree brought out; they certainly threw him rather roughly on the floor, but a servant dragged him away at once to the stairs, where the daylight shone.

"Now life is beginning again," thought the Tree.

It felt the fresh air and the first sunbeams, and now it was out in the courtyard. Everything passed so quickly that the Tree quite forgot to look at itself, there was so much to look at all round. The courtyard was close to a garden, and here everything was blooming; the roses hung fresh and fragrant over the little paling, the linden trees were in blossom, and the swallows cried, "Quinze-wit! quinze-wit! my husband's come!" But it was not the Fir Tree that they meant.

"Now I shall live!" said the Tree, rejoicingly, and spread its branches far out; but, alas! they were all withered and yellow; and it lay in the corner among nettles and weeds. The tinsel star was still upon it, and shone in the bright sunshine.

In the courtyard a couple of the merry children were playing, who had danced round the tree at Christmas-time, and had rejoiced over it. One of the youngest ran up and tore off the golden star.

"Look what is sticking to the ugly old fir tree," said the child, and he trod upon the branches till they cracked again under his boots.

And the Tree looked at all the blooming flowers and the splendor of the garden, and then looked at itself, and wished it had remained in the dark corner of the garret; it thought of its fresh youth in the wood, of the merry Christmas-eve, and of the little Mice which had listened so pleasantly to the story of Klumpey-Dumpey.

"Past! past!" said the old Tree. "Had I but rejoiced when I could have done so! Past! past!"

And the servant came and chopped the Tree into little pieces; a whole bundle lay there, it blazed brightly under the great brewing copper, and it sighed deeply, and each sigh was like a little shot: and the children who were at play there ran up and seated themselves at the fire, looked into it, and cried, "Puff! puff!" But at each explosion, which was a deep sigh, the Tree thought of a summer day in the woods, or of a winter night there, when the stars beamed; he thought of Christmas-eve and of Klumpey-Dumpey, the only story he had ever heard or knew how to tell; and then the Tree was burned.

The boys played in the garden, and the youngest had on his breast a golden star, which the Tree had worn on its happiest evening. Now that was past, and the Tree's life was past, and the story is past too: past! past! -- and that's the way with all stories.

*    *    *    *    *

Little Roger's Night In The Church

Susan Coolidge

The boys and girls had fastened the last sprig of holly upon the walls, and then gone to their homes, leaving the old church silent and deserted. The sun had set in a sky clear and yellow as topaz. Christmas eve had fairly come, and now the moon was rising, a full moon, and all the world looked white in the silver light. Every bough of every tree sparkled with a delicate coating of frost, the pines and cedars were great shapes of dazzling snow, even the ivy on the gothic tower hung a glittering arabesque on the gray wall. Never was there a lovelier night.

That light that you see yonder comes from the window of old Andrew, the sexton, and inside sits his grandson, little Roger, eating his supper of porridge. The kitchen is in apple-pie order, chairs and tables have been scrubbed as white as snow, the tins on the dresser shine like silver, the hearth is swept clean, and Grandfather's chair is drawn into the warmest corner. Grandfather is not sitting in it though; he has gone to the church to put the fire in order for the night, lock up the doors, and make all safe.

Grandmother, in her clean stuff gown and apron, is mounted upon a chair to stick a twig of holly on the tall clock in the corner. And now, as she turns round, what a pleasant face she shows us, does she not? Old and wrinkled, to be sure, but so good-natured and gentle that she is prettier than many a young girl even now. Is it any wonder that little Roger there is so fond of her?

Now another bit of holly is wanted on the chimney-piece; and it is while putting this up that the dear old dame gives sign that something has gone wrong. "Ts, ts, ts, -- deary me!"

"What's the matter, Granny?" said Roger.

"Why, Roger," replied Granny, carefully dismounting from her chair, "look here, Grandfather has gone off and forgot his keys. He took 'em from the door this morning, because last year some of the young folks let 'em drop in the snow, and had a sad time hunting for them. He knew they would be in and out all day, so he just opened the door and brought the keys home. Deary me! it's a cold night for old bones to be out of doors. Would'st be afeard, little 'un, to run up with them?"

"Not a bit," said Roger, stoutly, as he crammed the last spoonful of porridge in his mouth, and seized hat and mittens from the table. "I'll take 'em down in a minute. Granny, and then run home. Mother'll want me in the morning, likely."

For Roger's parents lived in a cottage near the old people, and the boy often said that he had two homes, and belonged half in one and half in the other, and the small press-bed in Granny's loft seemed as much his own as the cot in the corner of his mother's sleeping-room, and was occupied almost as often. So, after a good-night hug from Granny, off he ran. The church was near, and the moon light as day, so he never thought of being afraid, not even when, as he brushed by the dark tower, something stirred overhead, and a long, melancholy cry came shuddering from the ivy. Roger knew the owls in the belfry well, and now he called out to them cheerily: "To-whit-whit-whoo!"

"Whoo-whoo-whit!" answered the owls, startled by the cry. Roger could hear them fluttering in the nest.

The church-door stood ajar, and he peeped in. The glow from the open door of the stove showed Grandfather's figure, red and warm, stooping to cover the fire with ashes for the night. He was so busy he never knew the boy was there till he got close to him and jingled the keys in his ear; but after one start he laughed, well pleased.

"I but just missed them," he said. "Thou'rt a good boy to fetch them up. Art going home with me to-night?"

"No, I'm to sleep at my mother's," said Roger, "but I'll wait and walk with you, Grandfather." So he slipped into a pew, and sat down till the work should be finished, and they ready to go; and as he looked up he saw all at once how beautiful the old church was looking.

The moon outside was streaming in so brightly, that you hardly missed the sun, Roger could see distinctly way up to the carved beams of the roof, and trace the figures on the great arched windows over the altar, whose colors had so often dazzled him on Sundays. The colors were soft and dim now, but the figures were there. Roger could see them plainly, -- the sitting figure of the Lord Christ, with St. Matthew and two other apostles, and the fisher-lad with his basket of fish. He had often asked Granny to read him the story.

That gleam at the further end of the nave came from the organ-loft, where the moonbeams had found out the great brass pipes, and were playing all manner of tricks with them. Almost the red of the holly-berries could be seen, and every pointed ivy-leaf and spike of evergreen in the wreathings of the windows stood out in bold relief against the shining panes. With this beautiful whiteness the red glow of the fire blended, and flooded the chancel with a lovely pink light, in which shone the gilded letters on the commandment-tables, and the brasses of the tablets on the walls. It was a wonderful thing to see.

To study the roof better, Roger thought he would lie flat on the cushion awhile, and look straight up. So he arranged himself comfortably, and somehow -- it will happen, even when we are full of enjoyment and pleasure -- his eyes shut, and the first thing he knew he was rubbing them open again, only a minute afterward, as it seemed; but Grandfather was gone. There was the stove closed for the night, and the great door at the end of the aisle was shut. He jumped up in a fright, as you can imagine, and ran to see, and shook it hard. No: it was locked, and poor Roger was fastened in for the night.

He understood it all in a moment. The tall pew had hidden him from sight. Grandfather had thought him gone home; his mother would ever doubt that he was safe at the other cottage; no one would miss him, and there was no chance of being let out before morning.

He was only six years old, so no wonder that at first he felt choked and frightened, and inclined to cry. But he was a brave lad, and that idea soon left him. He began to think that he was not badly off, after all, -- the church was warm, the pew-cushion as soft as his bed. No one could get in to harm him. In fact, after the first moment, there was something so exciting and adventurous in the idea of spending the night in such a place, that he was almost glad the accident had happened. So he went back to the pew, and tried to go to sleep again.

That was not so easy. Did you ever get thoroughly waked up in the night by a sudden fright? Do you remember how your eyes wouldn't stay shut afterward, even when you closed them tight, but jerked open almost against your will, as if a string was fastened to them and some one was twitching it? Just so poor Roger felt. He lay still and kept himself quiet for a moment, and then some little noise would come, and his heart beat and his eyes be wide open in a minute. It was a coal dropping from the fire, or a slight crack on the frosty panes: once a little mouse crept out from the chancel, glaring shyly about with his bright eyes, nibbled a moment at a leaf on the carpet and then crept back again. No other living thing disturbed the quiet.

He had heard the clock strike eleven a long time since, and was lying with eyes half shut, gazing at the red fire-grate, and feeling at last a little drowsy, when all at once a strange rush and thrill seemed to come to him in the air, like a cool clear wind blowing through the church, and in one minute he was wide awake and sitting upright, with ears strained to catch some sound afar off. It was too distant and faint for ordinary sense, but a new and sharper power of hearing seemed given him. Little voices were speaking high in the air, outside the church, -- very odd ones, like birds' notes, and yet the words were plain. He listened and listened, and made out at last that it was the owls in the tower talking together.

"Hoo, hoo, why don't you lie still there?" said one.

"Whit-whoo-whit," said the other, "I can't. I know what is coming too well for that."

"What is coming, -- what, what?" said two voices together.

"Ah! you'll see soon," replied the first. "The elves are coming, the hateful Christmas elves. You'll not get a wink of sleep to-night."

"Why not? What will they do to us?" chirped the young ones.

"You'll see," hooted the old owl. "You'll see! They'll pull your tails, and tickle your feathers, and prick you with thorns. I know them, the tricksy, troublesome things! I've been here many a long year. You were only hatched last summer. To-whoo, to-whoo!"

Just at this moment the church-clock began to strike twelve. At the first clang the owls ceased to hoot, and Roger listened to the deep notes, almost awe-struck, as they sounded one by one. He knew the voice of the clock well, but it never before sounded so loud or so solemn: five -- six -- seven -- eight -- nine -- ten -- eleven -- twelve. It was Christmas Day.

As the last echo died away, a new sound took its place. From afar off came the babble of tiny voices drawing nearer. Anything so gay and charming was never dreamed of before, -- half a laugh, half a song, the tones blended into an enchanting peal, like bells on a frolic. Above the old tower the sounds clustered and increased, -- then a long, distressed cry came from the owl, and a bubbling laugh floated in on the wind. Roger could not stand it. Wild to see, he flew to the window, and tried to stretch his neck in such a way as to catch what was going on above; but it was a vain attempt, and just then the church-bells began to ring all together, a chime, a Christmas chime, only the sounds were infinitely small, as if baby hands had laid hold on the ropes. But his sharpened senses brought every note and change to Roger's ears, and they were so merry and so lovely that he felt he must get nearer or die; and almost before he knew it he was climbing the dark belfry-stairs as fast as his feet could carry him, never thinking of fear or darkness, only of the elfin bells which were pealing overhead.

Up, up, through the long slits in the tower the moon could be seen sailing in the cold, clear blue. Higher, higher, -- at last he gained the belfry. There hung the four great bells, but nobody was pulling at their heavy ropes. On each iron tongue was perched a fay; on the chains which suspended them clustered others, all keeping time by the swaying of their bodies as they swung to and fro, just grazing either side, and bringing forth a clear, delicate stroke, sweet as laughter, -- just loud enough for fairy ears.

Through the windows the crowd of floating fays could be seen whirling about in the moonlight like glittering gossamer. They floated in and out of the tower, they mounted the great bells and sat atop in swarms, they chased and pushed each other, playing all sorts of pranks. Below, others were attacking the owl's nest. Roger could hear their hoots and grunts and the gleeful laughter of the elves. The moon made the tower light as noon; all the time the elves sang or talked, -- which, he could not tell; there were words, but all so blent with laughs and mirthful trills that it was nothing less than music.

To and fro, to and fro, keeping time to a fairy rhythm, they swayed in unison with the tiny peal they rang. Little quarrels arose. Once Roger watched an elf trying to mount the clapper, and whenever he neared the top a mischievous comrade pushed him off again. Then the elf pouted, and, flying away, he returned with a holly-leaf. Small as it was, it curled over his head like a huge umbrella. With the spiky point he slyly pricked the elf above; and he, taken by surprise, lost his hold, and came tumbling down, while the other danced for glee and clapped his hands mockingly. Pretty soon, however, all was made up again, -- they kissed and were friends, -- and Roger saw them perched opposite each other, and moving to and fro like children in a swing.

How long the pretty sight lasted he could not tell. So fearful was he of marring the sport that he never stirred a finger; but all at once there came a strain of music in the air, solemn, and sweeter than ever mortal heard before. In a moment the elves left their sports; they clustered like bees together in the window, and then flew from the tower in one sparkling drift, and were gone, leaving Roger alone, and the owls hooting below in the ivy.

And then he felt afraid, -- which he had not been as long as the fays were there, -- and down he ran in a fright over the stone steps of the stairs, and entered the church again. The red glow of the fire was grateful to him, for he was shivering with cold and excitement; but hardly had he regained his old seat, when, lo! a great marvel came to pass. The wide window over the altar swung open, and a train of angels slowly floated through. How he knew them to be angels, Roger could not have told; but that they were, he was sure, -- Christmas angels, with faces of calm, glorious beauty, and robes as white as snow. Over the altar they hovered, and a wonderful song rose and filled the church -- no bird's strain was ever half so sweet. The words were few, but again and again and again they came: "Glory to God in the highest, on earth peace, good-will to men!"

Roger knew the oft-repeated words, -- they were those of the great evergreen motto which overarched the chancel; but I think he never forgot the beautiful meaning they seemed to bear as the angels sang them over and over. It was so wondrous sweet that he could not feel afraid, -- he could only gaze and gaze, and hold his breath lest he should lose a note.

And the song rang on, clear and triumphant, even as the white-robed choir parted and floated like soft summer clouds to and fro in the church, pausing ever and anon as in blessing. They touched the leaves of the Christmas green as they passed; they hung over the organ and brushed the keys with their wings; a long time they clustered above the benches of the poor, as if to leave a fragrance in the air; and then they rested before a tablet which had been put up but a few months before, and which bore the name of the rector's eldest son, and the dates of his birth and death. Roger had been told of this brave lad, and how he had lost his life in plunging from his ship to save the drowning child of an emigrant; and now the angel-song seemed sweeter than ever, as over and again they chanted, "Good-will to men, -- good-will to men."

At last one of the white-winged ones left the others, and hovered awhile above the Squire's pew, near which our little boy was hidden. A prayer-book lay open on the rail, and over this the fair angel bent as in benediction. A girl had sat there once, -- the Squire's only daughter. Roger remembered her well, and the mourning of the whole parish when, only a twelvemonth ago, the lovely child had been buried from their sight; and now, as he timidly glanced into the glorious face above him, it seemed to him to have the same look, only so ineffably beautiful that he closed his dazzled eyes to shut out the vision and the light that shone from the white wings, -- only for a moment, then he opened them again, as a gentle rustling filled the air, and he saw the bending figure stoop, leave a kiss or a blessing on the pages of the open book, and then glide away with the others. Again the group hovered above the altar, -- louder and clearer rose the triumphant strain, and, noiseless as a cloud, the snowy train floated to the window. For one moment their figures could be seen against the sky, then the song died away, -- they were gone, and Roger saw them no more.

And now the light of dawn began to creep into the windows, twittering sounds showed the birds awakening outside, and a pink streak appeared in the sky. Too much rapt by his vision to feel impatience, the boy sat and waited; and by and by a jingling in the lock showed Grandfather at hand, -- the door opened, and he came in.

You can guess his surprise when his little grandson flew to meet him with his wonderful story. As for the story, he pooh-poohed that, -- sleeping in such a strange place might well bring about a queer dream, he said; but he took the boy home to the cottage, and Granny, full of wonderment and sympathy, speedily prepared a breakfast for her darling after his adventure. But, even with his mouth full of scalding bread and milk, Roger would go on telling of angels and fairies, and the owls' talk in their nest, till both grandparents began to think him bewitched.

Perhaps he was, for to this day he persists in the story. And though the villagers that morning exclaimed that at no time had their old church, in its Christmas dress, looked so beautiful before, and though the organ sent forth a rarer, sweeter music than fingers had ever drawn from it, still nobody believed a word of it. And though the poor mother, kneeling in her lonely pew, and missing her darling from beside her, felt a strange peace and patience enter her heart, and came away calmed and blessed, still no one listened to the story. "Roger had dreamed it all," they said; and perhaps he had, -- only the owls knew.

*    *    *    *    *

Mr. Bluffs Experiences Of Holidays

Oliver Bell Bunce

"I hate holidays," said Bachelor Bluff to me, with some little irritation, on a Christmas a few years ago. Then he paused an instant, after which he resumed: "I don't mean to say that I hate to see people enjoying themselves. But I hate holidays, nevertheless, because to me they are always the dreariest and saddest days of the year. I shudder at the name of holiday. I dread the approach of one, and thank Heaven when it is over. I pass through, on a holiday, the most horrible sensations, the bitterest feelings, the most oppressive melancholy; in fact, I am not myself at holiday-times."

"Very strange," I ventured to interpose.

"A plague on it!" said he, almost with violence. "I'm not inhuman. I don't wish anybody harm. I'm glad people can enjoy themselves. But I hate holidays all the same. You see, this is the reason: I am a bachelor; I am without kin; I am in a place that did not know me at birth. And so, when holidays come around, there is no place anywhere for me. I have friends, of course; I don't think I've been a very sulky, shut-in, reticent fellow; and there is many a board that has a place for me -- but not at Christmas-time. At Christmas, the dinner is a family gathering; and I've no family. There is such a gathering of kindred on this occasion, such a reunion of family folk, that there is no place for a friend, even if the friend be liked. Christmas, with all its kindliness and charity and good-will, is, after all, deuced selfish. Each little set gathers within its own circle; and people like me, with no particular circle, are left in the lurch. So you see, on the day of all the days in the year that my heart pines for good cheer, I'm without an invitation.

"Oh, it's because I pine for good cheer," said the bachelor, sharply, interrupting my attempt to speak, "that I hate holidays. If I were an infernally selfish fellow, I wouldn't hate holidays. I'd go off and have some fun all to myself, somewhere or somehow. But, you see, I hate to be in the dark when all the rest of the world is in light. I hate holidays, because I ought to be merry and happy on holidays, and can't.

"Don't tell me," he cried, stopping the word that was on my lips; "I tell you, I hate holidays. The shops look merry, do they, with their bright toys and their green branches? The pantomime is crowded with merry hearts, is it? The circus and the show are brimful of fun and laughter, are they? Well, they all make me miserable. I haven't any pretty-faced girls or bright-eyed boys to take to the circus or the show, and all the nice girls and fine boys of my acquaintance have their uncles or their grand-dads or their cousins to take them to those places; so, if I go, I must go alone. But I don't go. I can't bear the chill of seeing everybody happy, and knowing myself so lonely and desolate. Confound it, sir, I've too much heart to be happy under such circumstances! I'm too humane, sir! And the result is, I hate holidays. It's miserable to be out, and yet I can't stay at home, for I get thinking of Christmases past. I can't read -- the shadow of my heart makes it impossible. I can't walk -- for I see nothing but pictures through the bright windows, and happy groups of pleasure-seekers. The fact is, I've nothing to do but to hate holidays. -- But will you not dine with me?"

Of course, I had to plead engagement with my own family circle, and I couldn't quite invite Mr. Bluff home that day, when Cousin Charles and his wife, and Sister Susan and her daughter and three of my wife's kin, had come in from the country, all to make a merry Christmas with us. I felt sorry, but it was quite impossible, so I wished Mr. Bluff a "merry Christmas," and hurried homeward through the cold and nipping air.

I did not meet Bachelor Bluff again until a week after Christmas of the next year, when I learned some strange particulars of what occurred to him after our parting on the occasion just described. I will let Bachelor Bluff tell his adventure for himself:

"I went to church," said he, "and was as sad there as everywhere else. Of course, the evergreens were pretty, and the music fine; but all around me were happy groups of people, who could scarcely keep down merry Christmas long enough to do reverence to sacred Christmas. And nobody was alone but me. Every happy paterfamilias in his pew tantalized me, and the whole atmosphere of the place seemed so much better suited to every one else than me that I came away hating holidays worse than ever. Then I went to the play, and sat down in a box all alone by myself. Everybody seemed on the best of terms with everybody else, and jokes and banter passed from one to another with the most good-natured freedom. Everybody but me was in a little group of friends. I was the only person in the whole theater that was alone. And then there was such clapping of hands, and roars of laughter, and shouts of delight at all the fun going on upon the stage, all of which was rendered doubly enjoyable by everybody having somebody with whom to share and interchange the pleasure, that my loneliness got simply unbearable, and I hated holidays infinitely worse than ever.

"By five o'clock the holiday became so intolerable that I said I'd go and get a dinner. The best dinner the town could provide. A sumptuous dinner. A sumptuous dinner for one. A dinner with many courses, with wines of the finest brands, with bright lights, with a cheerful fire, with every condition of comfort -- and I'd see if I couldn't for once extract a little pleasure out of a holiday!

"The handsome dining-room at the club looked bright, but it was empty. Who dines at this club on Christmas but lonely bachelors? There was a flutter of surprise when I ordered a dinner, and the few attendants were, no doubt, glad of something to break the monotony of the hours.

"My dinner was well served. The spacious room looked lonely; but the white, snowy cloths, the rich window-hangings, the warm tints of the walls, the sparkle of the fire in the steel grate, gave the room an air of elegance and cheerfulness; and then the table at which I dined was close to the window, and through the partly-drawn curtains were visible centers of lonely, cold streets, with bright lights from many a window, it is true, but there was a storm, and snow began whirling through the street. I let my imagination paint the streets as cold and dreary as it would, just to extract a little pleasure by way of contrast from the brilliant room of which I was apparently sole master.

"I dined well, and recalled in fancy old, youthful Christmases, and pledged mentally many an old friend, and my melancholy was mellowing into a low, sad undertone, when, just as I was raising a glass of wine to my lips, I was startled by a picture at the window-pane. It was a pale, wild, haggard face, in a great cloud of black hair, pressed against the glass. As I looked, it vanished. With a strange thrill at my heart, which my lips mocked with a derisive sneer, I finished the wine and set down the glass. It was, of course, only a beggar-girl that had crept up to the window and stole a glance at the bright scene within; but still the pale face troubled me a little, and threw a fresh shadow on my heart. I filled my glass once more with wine, and was again about to drink, when the face reappeared at the window. It was so white, so thin, with eyes so large, wild, and hungry-looking, and the black, unkempt hair, into which the snow had drifted, formed so strange and weird a frame to the picture, that I was fairly startled. Replacing, untasted, the liquor on the table, I rose and went close to the pane. The face had vanished, and I could see no object within many feet of the window. The storm had increased, and the snow was driving in wild gusts through the streets, which were empty, save here and there a hurrying wayfarer. The whole scene was cold, wild, and desolate, and I could not repress a keen thrill of sympathy for the child, whoever it was, whose only Christmas was to watch, in cold and storm, the rich banquet ungratefully enjoyed by the lonely bachelor. I resumed my place at the table; but the dinner was finished, and the wine had no further relish. I was haunted by the vision at the window, and began, with an unreasonable irritation at the interruption, to repeat with fresh warmth my detestation of holidays. One couldn't even dine alone on a holiday with any sort of comfort, I declared. On holidays one was tormented by too much pleasure on one side, and too much misery on the other. And then, I said, hunting for justification of my dislike of the day, 'How many other people are, like me, made miserable by seeing the fullness of enjoyment others possessed!

"Oh, yes, I know," sarcastically replied the bachelor to a comment of mine; "of course, all magnanimous, generous, and noble-souled people delight in seeing other people made happy, and are quite content to accept this vicarious felicity. But I, you see, and this dear little girl -- "

"Dear little girl!"

"Oh, I forgot," said Bachelor Bluff, blushing a little, in spite of a desperate effort not to do so, "I didn't tell you. Well, it was so absurd! I kept thinking, thinking of the pale, haggard, lonely little girl on the cold and desolate side of the window-pane, and the over-fed, discontented, lonely old bachelor on the splendid side of the window-pane; and I didn't get much happier thinking about it, I can assure you. I drank glass after glass of the wine -- not that I enjoyed its flavor any more, but mechanically, as it were, and with a sort of hope thereby to drown unpleasant reminders. I tried to attribute my annoyance in the matter to holidays, and so denounced them more vehemently than ever. I rose once in a while and went to the window, but could see no one to whom the pale face could have belonged.

"At last, in no very amiable mood, I got up, put on my wrappers, and went out; and the first thing I did was to run against a small figure crouching in the doorway. A face looked up quickly at the rough encounter, and I saw the pale features of the window-pane. I was very irritated and angry, and spoke harshly; and then, all at once, I am sure I don't know how it happened, but it flashed upon me that I, of all men, had no right to utter a harsh word to one oppressed with so wretched a Christmas as this poor creature was. I couldn't say another word, but began feeling in my pocket for some money, and then I asked a question or two, and then I don't quite know how it came about -- isn't it very warm here?" exclaimed Bachelor Bluff, rising and walking about, and wiping the perspiration from his brow.

"Well, you see," he resumed nervously, "it was very absurd, but I did believe the girl's story -- the old story, you know, of privation and suffering, and all that -- and just thought I'd go home with the brat and see if what she said was all true. And then I remembered that all the shops were closed, and not a purchase could be made. I went back and persuaded the steward to put up for me a hamper of provisions, which the half-wild little youngster helped me carry through the snow, dancing with delight all the way. -- And isn't this enough?"

"Not a bit, Mr. Bluff. I must have the whole story."

"I declare," said Bachelor Bluff, "there's no whole story to tell. A widow with children in great need, that was what I found; and they had a feast that night, and a little money to buy them a load of wood and a garment or two the next day; and they were all so bright, and so merry, and so thankful, and so good, that, when I got home that night, I was mightily amazed that, instead of going to bed sour at holidays, I was in a state of great contentment in regard to holidays. In fact, I was really merry. I whistled. I sang. I do believe I cut a caper. The poor wretches I had left had been so merry over their unlooked-for Christmas banquet that their spirits infected mine.

"And then I got thinking again. Of course, holidays had been miserable to me, I said. What right had a well-to-do, lonely old bachelor hovering wistfully in the vicinity of happy circles, when all about there were so many people as lonely as he, and yet oppressed with want? 'Good gracious!' I exclaimed, 'to think of a man complaining of loneliness with thousands of wretches yearning for his help and comfort, with endless opportunities for work and company, with hundreds of pleasant and delightful things to do! Just to think of it!' It put me in a great fury at myself to think of it. I tried pretty hard to escape from myself and began inventing excuses and all that sort of thing, but I rigidly forced myself to look squarely at my own conduct. And then I reconciled my conscience by declaring that, if ever after that day I hated a holiday again, might my holidays end at once and forever!

"Did I go and see my protégés again? What a question! Why -- well, no matter. If the widow is comfortable now, it is because she has found a way to earn without difficulty enough for her few wants. That's no fault of mine. I would have done more for her, but she wouldn't let me. But just let me tell you about New Year's -- the New-Year's-day that followed the Christmas I've been describing. It was lucky for me there was another holiday only a week off. Bless you! I had so much to do that day that I was completely bewildered, and the hours weren't half long enough. I did make a few social calls, but then I hurried them over; and then hastened to my little girl, whose face had already caught a touch of color; and she, looking quite handsome in her new frock and her ribbons, took me to other poor folk, and -- well, that's about the whole story.

"Oh, as to the next Christmas. Well, I didn't dine alone, as you may guess. It was up three stairs, that's true, and there was none of that elegance that marked the dinner of the year before; but it was merry, and happy, and bright; it was a generous, honest, hearty, Christmas dinner, that it was, although I do wish the widow hadn't talked so much about the mysterious way a turkey had been left at her door the night before. And Molly -- that's the little girl -- and I had a rousing appetite. We went to church early; then we had been down to the Five Points to carry the poor outcasts there something for their Christmas dinner; in fact, we had done wonders of work, and Molly was in high spirits, and so the Christmas dinner was a great success.

"Dear me, sir, no! Just as you say. Holidays are not in the least wearisome any more. Plague on it! When a man tells me now that he hates holidays, I find myself getting very wroth. I pin him by the button-hole at once, and tell him my experience. The fact is, if I were at dinner on a holiday, and anybody should ask me for a sentiment, I should say, God bless all holidays!"

*    *    *    *    *

Santa Claus At Simpson's Bar

Bret Harte

It was nearly midnight when the festivities were interrupted. "Hush!" said Dick Bullen, holding up his hand. It was the querulous voice of Johnny from his adjacent closet: "Oh, dad!"

The Old Man arose hurriedly and disappeared in the closet. Presently he reappeared. "His rheumatiz is coming on agin bad," he explained, "and he wants rubbin'." He lifted the demijohn of whiskey from the table and shook it. It was empty. Dick Bullen put down his tin cup with an embarrassed laugh. So did the others. The Old Man examined their contents, and said hopefully, "I reckon that's enough; he don't need much. You hold on, all o' you, for a spell, and I'll be back;" and vanished in the closet with an old flannel shirt and the whiskey. The door closed but imperfectly, and the following dialogue was distinctly audible: -- 

"Now, sonny, whar does she ache worst?"

"Sometimes over yar and sometimes under yer; but it's most powerful from yer to yer. Rub yer, dad."

A silence seemed to indicate a brisk rubbing. Then Johnny: -- 

"Hevin' a good time out yar, dad?"

"Yes, sonny."

"Tomorrer's Chrismiss, -- ain't it?"

"Yes, sonny. How does she feel now?"

"Better. Rub a little furder down. Wot's Chrismiss, anyway? Wot's it all about?"

"Oh, it's a day."

This exhaustive definition was apparently satisfactory, for there was a silent interval of rubbing. Presently Johnny again: -- 

"Mar sez that everywhere else but yer everybody gives things to everybody Chrismiss, and then she jist waded inter you. She sez thar's a man they call Sandy Claws, not a white man, you know, but a kind o' Chinemin, comes down the chimbley night afore Chrismiss and gives things to chillern, -- boys like me. Puts 'em in their butes! Thet's what she tried to play upon me. Easy, now, pop, whar are you rubbin' to, -- thet's a mile from the place. She jest made that up, didn't she, jest to aggrewate me and you? Don't rub thar -- Why, dad!"

In the great quiet that seemed to have fallen upon the house the sigh of the near pines and the drip of leaves without was very distinct. Johnny's voice, too, was lowered as he went on: "Don't you take on now, for I'm gettin' all right fast. Wot's the boys doin' out thar?"

The Old Man partly opened the door and peered through. His guests were sitting there sociably enough, and there were a few silver coins and a lean buckskin purse on the table. "Bettin' on suthin', -- some little game or 'nother. They're all right," he replied to Johnny, and recommenced his rubbing.

"I'd like to take a hand and win some money," said Johnny reflectively, after a pause.

The Old Man glibly repeated what was evidently a familiar formula, that if Johnny would wait until he struck it rich in the tunnel, he'd have lots of money, etc., etc.

"Yes," said Johnny, "but you don't. And whether you strike it or I win it, it's about the same. It's all luck. But it's mighty cur'o's about Chrismiss, -- ain't it? Why do they call it Chrismiss?"

Perhaps from some instinctive deference to the overhearing of his guests, or from some vague sense of incongruity, the Old Man's reply was so low as to be inaudible beyond the room.

"Yes," said Johnny, with some slight abatement of interest, "I've heerd o' him before. Thar, that'll do dad. I don't ache near so bad as I did. Now wrap me tight in this yer blanket. So. Now," he added in a muffled whisper, "sit down yer by me till I go asleep." To assure himself of obedience he disengaged one hand from the blanket, and, grasping his father's sleeve, again composed himself to rest.

For some moments the Old Man waited patiently. Then the unwonted stillness of the house excited his curiosity, and without moving from the bed he cautiously opened the door with his disengaged hand, and looked into the main room. To his infinite surprise it was dark and deserted. But even then a smoldering log on the hearth broke, and by the upspringing blaze he saw the figure of Dick Bullen sitting by the dying embers.

"Hello!"

Dick started, rose, and came somewhat unsteadily toward him.

"Whar's the boys?" said the Old Man.

"Gone up the canon on a little pasear. They're coming back for me in a minit. I'm waitin' round for 'em. What are you starin' at, Old Man?" he added, with a forced laugh; "do you think I'm drunk?"

The Old Man might have been pardoned the supposition, for Dick's eyes were humid and his face flushed. He loitered and lounged back to the chimney, yawned, shook himself, buttoned up his coat and laughed. "Liquor ain't so plenty as that, Old Man. Now don't you git up," he continued, as the Old Man made a movement to release his sleeve from Johnny's hand. "Don't you mind manners. Sit jest whar you be; I'm goin' in a jiffy. Thar, that's them now."

There was a low tap at the door. Dick Bullen opened it quickly, nodded "Good-night" to his host, and disappeared. The Old Man would have followed him but for the hand that still unconsciously grasped his sleeve. He could have easily disengaged it; it was small, weak and emaciated. But perhaps because it was small, weak and emaciated he changed his mind, and, drawing his chair closer to the bed, rested his head upon it. In this defenceless attitude the potency of his earlier potations surprised him. The room flickered and faded before his eyes, reappeared, faded again, went out, and left him -- asleep.

Meantime Dick Bullen, closing the door, confronted his companions. "Are you ready?" said Staples. "Ready," said Dick; "what's the time?" "Past twelve," was the reply; "can you make it? -- it's nigh on fifty miles, the round trip hither and yon." "I reckon," returned Dick shortly. "Whar's the mare?" "Bill and Jack's holdin' her at the crossin'." "Let 'em hold on a minit longer," said Dick.

He turned and reentered the house softly. By the light of the guttering candle and dying fire he saw that the door of the little room was open. He stepped toward it on tiptoe and looked in. The Old Man had fallen back in his chair, snoring, his helpless feet thrust out in a line with his collapsed shoulders, and his hat pulled over his eyes. Beside him, on a narrow wooden bedstead, lay Johnny, muffled tightly in a blanket that hid all save a strip of forehead and a few curls damp with perspiration. Dick Bullen made a step forward, hesitated, and glanced over his shoulder into the deserted room. Everything was quiet. With a sudden resolution he parted his huge mustaches with both hands, and stooped over the sleeping boy. But even as he did so a mischievous blast, lying in wait, swooped down the chimney, rekindled the hearth, and lit up the room with a shameless glow, from which Dick fled in bashful terror.

His companions were already waiting for him at the crossing. Two of them were struggling in the darkness with some strange misshapen bulk, which as Dick came nearer took the semblance of a great yellow horse.

It was the mare. She was not a pretty picture. From her Roman nose to her rising haunches, from her arched spine hidden by the stiff machillas of a Mexican saddle, to her thick, straight, bony legs, there was not a line of equine grace. In her half blind but wholly vicious white eyes, in her protruding under-lip, in her monstrous color, there was nothing but ugliness and vice.

"Now, then," said Staples, "stand cl'ar of her heels, boy, and up with you. Don't miss your first holt of her mane, and mind ye get your off stirrup quick. Ready!"

There was a leap, a scrambling, a bound, a wild retreat of the crowd, a circle of flying hoofs, two springless leaps that jarred the earth, a rapid play and jingle of spurs, a plunge, and then the voice of Dick somewhere in the darkness. "All right!"

"Don't take the lower road back onless you're pushed hard for time! Don't hold her in down hill. We'll be at the ford at five. G'lang! Hoopa! Mula! GO!"

A splash, a spark struck from the ledge in the road, a clatter in the rocky cut beyond, and Dick was gone.

 --   -  -  -

Sing, O Muse, the ride of Richard Bullen! Sing, O Muse, of chivalrous men! the sacred quest, the doughty deeds, the battery of low churls, the fearsome ride and gruesome perils of the Flower of Simpson's Bar! Alack! she is dainty, this Muse! She will have none of this bucking brute and swaggering, ragged rider, and I must fain follow him in prose, afoot!

It was one o'clock, and yet he had only gained Rattlesnake Hill. For in that time Jovita had rehearsed to him all her imperfections and practised all her vices. Thrice had she stumbled. Twice had she thrown up her Roman nose in a straight line with the reins, and, resisting bit and spur, struck out madly across country. Twice had she reared, and, rearing, fallen backward; and twice had the agile Dick, unharmed, regained his seat before she found her vicious legs again. And a mile beyond them, at the foot of a long hill, was Rattlesnake Creek. Dick knew that here was the crucial test of his ability to perform his enterprise, set his teeth grimly, put his knees well into her flanks, and changed his defensive tactics to brisk aggression. Bullied and maddened, Jovita began the descent of the hill. Here the artful Richard pretended to hold her in with ostentatious objurgation and well-feigned cries of alarm. It is unnecessary to add that Jovita instantly ran away. Nor need I state the time made in the descent; it is written in the chronicles of Simpson's Bar. Enough that in another moment, as it seemed to Dick, she was splashing on the overflowed banks of Rattlesnake Creek. As Dick expected, the momentum she had acquired carried her beyond the point of balking, and, holding her well together for a mighty leap, they dashed into the middle of the swiftly flowing current. A few moments of kicking, wading, and swimming, and Dick drew a long breath on the opposite bank.

The road from Rattlesnake Creek to Red Mountain was tolerably level. Either the plunge into Rattlesnake Creek had dampened her baleful fire, or the art which led to it had shown her the superior wickedness of her rider, for Jovita no longer wasted her surplus energy in wanton conceits. Once she bucked, but it was from force of habit; once she shied, but it was from a new, freshly-painted meeting-house at the crossing of the country road. Hollows, ditches, gravelly deposits, patches of freshly-springing grasses, flew from beneath her rattling hoofs. She began to smell unpleasantly, once or twice she coughed slightly, but there was no abatement of her strength or speed. By two o'clock he had passed Red Mountain and begun the descent to the plain. Ten minutes later the driver of the fast Pioneer coach was overtaken and passed by a "man on a Pinto hoss," -- an event sufficiently notable for remark. At half past two Dick rose in his stirrups with a great shout. Stars were glittering through the rifted clouds, and beyond him, out of the plain, rose two spires, a flagstaff, and a straggling line of black objects. Dick jingled his spurs and swung his riata, Jovita bounded forward, and in another moment they swept into Tuttleville, and drew up before the wooden piazza of "The Hotel of All Nations."

What transpired that night at Tuttleville is not strictly a part of this record. Briefly I may state, however, that after Jovita had been handed over to a sleepy ostler, whom she at once kicked into unpleasant consciousness, Dick sallied out with the barkeeper for a tour of the sleeping town. Lights still gleamed from a few saloons and gambling houses; but, avoiding these, they stopped before several closed shops, and by persistent tapping and judicious outcry roused the proprietors from their beds, and made them unbar the doors of their magazines and expose their wares. Sometimes they were met by curses, but oftener by interest and some concern in their needs. It was three o'clock before this pleasantry was given over, and with a small waterproof bag of India rubber strapped on his shoulders Dick returned to the hotel. And then he sprang to the saddle, and dashed down the lonely street and out into the lonelier plain, where presently the lights, the black line of houses, the spires, and the flagstaff sank into the earth behind him again and were lost in the distance.

The storm had cleared away, the air was brisk and cold, the outlines of adjacent landmarks were distinct, but it was half-past four before Dick reached the meeting-house and the crossing of the country road. To avoid the rising grade he had taken a longer and more circuitous road, in whose viscid mud Jovita sank fetlock deep at every bound. It was a poor preparation for a steady ascent of five miles more; but Jovita, gathering her legs under her, took it with her usual blind, unreasoning fury, and a half hour later reached the long level that led to Rattlesnake Creek. Another half hour would bring him to the Creek. He threw the reins lightly upon the neck of the mare, chirruped to her, and began to sing.

Suddenly Jovita shied with a bound that would have unseated a less practised rider. Hanging to her rein was a figure that had leaped from the bank, and at the same time from the road before her arose a shadowy horse and rider. "Throw up your hands," commanded the second apparition, with an oath.

Dick felt the mare tremble, quiver, and apparently sink under him. He knew what it meant, and was prepared.

"Stand aside, Jack Simpson. I know you, you d --  -- d thief! Let me pass, or -- "

He did not finish the sentence. Jovita rose straight in the air with a terrific bound, throwing the figure from her bit with a single shake of her vicious head, and charged with deadly malevolence down on the impediment before her. An oath, a pistol-shot, horse and highwayman rolled over in the road, and the next moment Jovita was a hundred yards away. But the good right arm of her rider, shattered by a bullet, dropped helplessly at his side.

Without slacking his speed he lifted the reins to his left hand. But a few moments later he was obliged to halt and tighten the saddle-girths that had slipped in the onset. This in his crippled condition took some time. He had no fear of pursuit, but, looking up, he saw that the eastern stars were already paling, and that the distant peaks had lost their ghostly whiteness, and now stood out blackly against a lighter sky. Day was upon him. Then completely absorbed in a single idea, he forgot the pain of his wound, and, mounting again, dashed on towards Rattlesnake Creek. But now Jovita's breath came broken by gasps, Dick reeled in his saddle, and brighter and brighter grew the sky.

Ride, Richard; run, Jovita; linger, O day!

For the last few rods there was a roaring in his ears. Was it exhaustion from a loss of blood, or what? He was dazed and giddy as he swept down the hill, and did not recognize his surroundings. Had he taken the wrong road, or was this Rattlesnake Creek?

It was. But the brawling creek he had swam a few hours before had risen, more than doubled its volume, and now rolled a swift and resistless river between him and Rattlesnake Hill. For the first time that night Richard's heart sank within him. The river, the mountain, the quickening east, swam before his eyes. He shut them to recover his self-control. In that brief interval, by some fantastic mental process, the little room at Simpson's Bar and the figures of the sleeping father and son rose upon him. He opened his eyes wildly, cast off his coat, pistol, boots, and saddle, bound his precious pack tightly to his shoulders, grasped the bare flanks of Jovita with his bared knees, and with a shout dashed into the yellow water. A cry arose from the opposite bank as the head of a man and horse struggled for a few moments against the battling current, and then were swept away amidst uprooted trees and whirling driftwood.

 --   -  -  -

The Old man started and woke. The fire on the hearth was dead, the candle in the outer room flickering in its socket, and somebody was rapping at the door. He opened it, but fell back with a cry before the dripping, half-naked figure that reeled against the doorpost.

"Dick?"

"Hush! Is he awake yet?"

"No; but Dick -- "

"Dry up, you old fool! Get me some whiskey, quick!" The Old Man flew, and returned with -- an empty bottle! Dick would have sworn, but his strength was not equal to the occasion. He staggered, caught at the handle of the door, and motioned to the Old Man.

"Thar's suthin' in my pack yer for Johnny. Take it off. I can't."

The Old Man unstrapped the pack, and laid it before the exhausted man.

"Open it, quick."

He did so with trembling fingers. It contained only a few poor toys, -- cheap and barbaric enough, goodness knows, but bright with paint and tinsel. One of them was broken; another, I fear, was irretrievably ruined by water; and on the third -- ah me! there was a cruel spot.

"It don't look like much, that's a fact," said Dick ruefully ... "But it's the best we could do.... Take 'em Old Man, and put 'em in his stocking, and tell him -- tell him, you know -- hold me, Old Man -- " The Old Man caught at his sinking figure. "Tell him," said Dick, with a weak little laugh, -- "tell him Sandy Claus has come."

And even so, bedraggled, ragged, unshaven and unshorn, with one arm hanging helplessly at his side, Santa Claus came to Simpson's Bar, and fell fainting on the first threshold. The Christmas dawn came slowly after, touching the remoter peaks with the rosy warmth of ineffable love. And it looked so tenderly on Simpson's Bar that the whole mountain, as if caught in a generous action, blushed to the skies.

*    *    *    *    *



V

Old Carols And Exercises



God Rest You, Merry Gentlemen

Old Carol

God rest you, merry gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay, For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, Was born upon this day. To save us all from Satan's pow'r When we were gone astray. O tidings of comfort and joy! For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, Was born on Christmas Day.

In Bethlehem, in Jewry, This blessed Babe was born. And laid within a manger, Upon this blessed morn; The which His mother, Mary, Nothing did take in scorn.

From God our Heavenly Father, A blessed angel came; And unto certain shepherds Brought tidings of the same: How that in Bethlehem was born The Son of God by name.

"Fear not," then said the angel, "Let nothing you affright, This day is born a Saviour Of virtue, power, and might, So frequently to vanquish all The friends of Satan quite."

The shepherds at those tidings Rejoicèd much in mind, And left their flocks a-feeding In tempest, storm, and wind, And went to Bethlehem straightway, This blessed Babe to find.

But when to Bethlehem they came, Whereat this infant lay, They found Him in a manger, Where oxen feed on hay, His mother Mary kneeling, Unto the Lord did pray.

Now to the Lord sing praises, All you within this place, And with true love and brotherhood Each other now embrace; This holy tide of Christmas All others doth deface. O tidings of comfort and joy! For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, Was born on Christmas Day.

*    *    *    *    *

Old Christmas Returned

All you that to feasting and mirth are inclined, Come here is good news for to pleasure your mind, Old Christmas is come for to keep open house, He scorns to be guilty of starving a mouse: Then come, boys, and welcome for diet the chief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced pies, and roast beef.

The holly and ivy about the walls wind And show that we ought to our neighbors be kind, Inviting each other for pastime and sport, And where we best fare, there we most do resort; We fail not of victuals, and that of the chief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced pies, and roast beef.

All travellers, as they do pass on their way, At gentlemen's halls are invited to stay, Themselves to refresh, and their horses to rest, Since that he must be Old Christmas's guest; Nay, the poor shall not want, but have for relief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced pies, and roast beef.

*    *    *    *    *

Christmas Carol

As Joseph was a-waukin' He heard an angel sing, "This night shall be the birthnight Of Christ our heavenly King.

"His birth-bed shall be neither In housen nor in hall, Nor in the place of paradise, But in the oxen stall.

"He neither shall be rockèd In silver nor in gold, But in the wooden manger That lieth in the mould.

"He neither shall be washen With white wine nor with red, But with the fair spring water That on you shall be shed.

"He neither shall be clothèd In purple nor in pall, But in the fair, white linen That usen babies all."

As Joseph was a-waukin', Thus did the angel sing, And Mary's son at midnight Was born to be our King.

Then be you glad, good people, At this time of the year; And light you up your candles, For His star it shineth clear.

*    *    *    *    *

"In Excelsis Gloria"

When Christ was born of Mary free, In Bethlehem, in that fair citie, Angels sang there with mirth and glee, In Excelsis Gloria!

Herdsmen beheld these angels bright, To them appearing with great light, Who said, "God's Son is born this night," In Excelsis Gloria!

This King is come to save mankind, As in Scripture truths we find, Therefore this song have we in mind, In Excelsis Gloria!

Then, dear Lord, for Thy great grace, Grant us the bliss to see Thy face, That we may sing to Thy solace, In Excelsis Gloria!

*    *    *    *    *

The Boar's Head Carol

(Sung at Queen's College, Oxford.)

The boar's head in hand bear I, Bedecked with bays and rosemary; And I pray you, my masters, be merry, Quot estis in convivio. Caput apri defero Reddens laudes domino.

The boar's head, as I understand, Is the rarest dish in all this land, Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland Let us servire cantico. Caput apri defero Reddens laudes domino.

Our steward hath provided this In honour of the King of bliss; Which on this day to be served is In Reginensi Atrio. Caput apri defero Reddens laudes domino.

*    *    *    *    *

Christmas Carol

Listen, lordings, unto me, a tale I will you tell; Which, as on this night of glee, in David's town befell. Joseph came from Nazareth with Mary, that sweet maid; Weary were they nigh to death, and for a lodging prayed.

In the inn they found no room; a scanty bed they made; Soon a babe, an angel pure, was in the manger laid. Forth He came, as light through glass, He came to save us all. In the stable, ox and ass before their Maker fall.

Shepherds lay afield that night to keep the silly sheep, Hosts of angels in their sight came down from Heaven's high steep: --  Tidings! tidings unto you! to you a child is born, Purer than the drops of dew, and brighter than the morn!

Onward then the angels sped, the shepherds onward went, --  God was in His manger bed; in worship low they bent. In the morning see ye mind, my masters one and all, At the altar Him to find, who lay within the stall.

Chorus.

Sing high, sing low, Sing to and fro, Go tell it out with speed, Cry out and shout, All round about, That Christ is born indeed! Pray whither sailed those ships all three On Christmas day in the morning?

Oh, they sailed into Bethlehem On Christmas day, on Christmas day; Oh, they sailed into Bethlehem On Christmas day in the morning.

And all the bells on earth shall ring On Christmas day, on Christmas day; And all the bells on earth shall ring On Christmas day in the morning.

And all the angels in heaven shall sing On Christmas day, on Christmas day; And all the angels in heaven shall sing On Christmas day in the morning.

And all the souls on earth shall sing On Christmas day, on Christmas day; And all the souls on earth shall sing On Christmas day in the morning.

Then let us all rejoice amain On Christmas day, on Christmas day; Then let us all rejoice amain On Christmas day in the morning.

*    *    *    *    *



Additional Pieces



A Christmas Insurrection

Anne P.L. Field

In the hush of a shivery Christmas-tide dawn Sing hey! sing ho! heigho! Three small frozen figures hung stiff and forlorn Sing hey! sing ho! heigho! Three dim ghostly forms in the glimmering gray Locked up in dark cold storage quarters were they Awaiting the coming of glad Christmas day Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!

Suspended each one from a hickory twig Sing hey! sing ho! heigho! A turkey, a goose, and a little fat pig Sing hey! sing ho! heigho! With chestnuts the turkey was garnished and stuffed With onions and sage was the goose-carcass puffed, While piggy was spiced, and his neck was beruffed Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!

Three spirits regretful were hovering near Sing hey! sing ho! heigho! "Look!" gobbled the turkey's, "what tragedy's here!" Sing hey! sing ho! heigho! "For this did they tempt me with fattening food, For this did I bring up my beautiful brood, I always thought farmers uncommonly rude!" Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!

The goose spirit trembled, then hissingly said Sing hey! sing ho! heigho! "Most men care for nothing except to be fed!" Sing hey! sing ho! heigho! "What horror is this, filled with onions and sage To be served on a platter at my tender age! 'Tis enough any well-disposed fowl to enrage!" Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!

The phantom pig grunted, "Do please look at that!" Sing hey! sing ho! heigho! "Oh! why did I grow up so rosy and fat!" Sing hey! sing ho! heigho! "They put in my mouth a sweet, juicy corncob Just when of sensations my palate they rob, Do you wonder such sights make a spirit-pig sob!" Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!

Conferring, the spirits resolved on a plan Sing hey! sing ho! heigho! By which to wreak vengeance on merciless man Sing hey! sing ho! heigho! "We'll each disagree with the human inside, We'll cause indigestion and damage his pride, And the pains of this Christmas we'll spread far and wide!" Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!

*    *    *    *    *

The Night After Christmas

Anne P.L. Field

Twas the night after Christmas in Santa-Claus land And to rest from his labors St. Nicholas planned. The reindeer were turned out to pasture and all The ten thousand assistants discharged till the fall. The furry great-coat was laid safely away With the boots and the cap with its tassel so gay, And toasting his toes by a merry wood fire, What more could a weary old Santa desire? So he puffed at his pipe and remarked to his wife, "This amply makes up for my strenuous life! From climbing down chimneys my legs fairly ache, But it's well worth the while for the dear children's sake. I'd bruise every bone in my body to see The darlings' delight in a gift-laden tree!" Just then came a sound like a telephone bell --  Though why they should have such a thing I can't tell --  St. Nick gave a snort and exclaimed in a rage, "Bad luck to inventions of this modern age!" He grabbed the receiver -- his face wore a frown As he roared in the mouth-piece, "I will not come down To exchange any toys like an up-to-date store, Ring off, I'll not listen to anything more!" Then he settled himself by the comforting blaze And waxed reminiscent of halcyon days When children were happy with simplest of toys: A doll for the girls and a drum for the boys --  But again came that noisy disturber of peace The telephone bell -- would the sound never cease? "Run and answer it, wife, all my patience has fled, If they keep this thing up I shall wish I were dead! I have worked night and day the best part of a year To supply all the children, and what do I hear --  A boy who declares he received roller-skates When he wanted a gun -- and a cross girl who states That she asked for a new Victor talking machine And I brought her a sled, so she thinks I am 'mean!'" Poor St. Nicholas looked just the picture of woe, He needed some auto-suggestion, you know, To make him think things were all coming out right, For he didn't get one wink of slumber that night! The telephone wire was kept sizzling hot By children disgusted with presents they'd got, And when the bright sun showed its face in the sky The Santa-Claus family were ready to cry! Just then something happened -- a way of escape, Though it came in the funniest possible shape --  An aeronaut, sorely in need of a meal, Descended for breakfast -- it seemed quite ideal! For the end of it was, he invited his host Out to try the balloon, of whose speed he could boast. St. Nick, who was nothing if not a good sport, Was delighted to go, and as quick as a thought Climbed into the car for a flight in the air --  "No telephone bells can disturb me up there! And, wife, if it suits me I'll count it no crime To stay up till ready for next Christmas time!" Thus saying -- he sailed in the giant balloon, And I fear that he will not return very soon. Now, when you ask "Central" for Santa-Claus land She'll say, "discontinued" -- and you'll understand.

*    *    *    *    *

When The Stars Of Morning Sang

Anne P.L. Field

When the stars of morning sang Long ago, Sweet the air with music rang Through the snow, There beside the mother mild Slept the blessed Christmas child, --  Slumber holy, undefiled --  Here below.

When the wise men traveled far Through the night, Following the guiding star Pure and bright, Lo! it stood above the place Sanctified by Heaven's grace, And upon the Christ-Child's face Shed its light.

When the world lay hushed and still Christmas morn, Suddenly were skies athrill --  "Christ is born!" Angel voices, high and clear, Chanted tidings of good cheer, "See, the Infant King is here, Christ is born!"

*    *    *    *    *

A Prayer At Bethlehem

Anne P.L. Field

O pulsing earth with heart athrill With infinite creative will! O watchful shepherds in whose eyes Sweet hopes and promises arise! O angel-host whose chanting choir Proclaims fulfillment of desire! O flaming star so purely white Against the black Judean night! O blessed Mary bending low With sense of motherhood aglow! O holy Babe with haloed head Soft pillowed in a manger bed! O Mystery divine and deep Help us Thy prophecies to keep!

*    *    *    *    *

The Christmas Fires

Anne P.L. Field

The Christmas fires brightly gleam And dance among the holly boughs, The Christmas pudding's spicy steam With fragrance fills the house, While merry grows each friendly soul Over the foaming wassail bowl.

Resplendent stands the glitt'ring tree, Weighted with gifts for old and young, The children's faces shine with glee, And joyous is each tongue, While lads and lassies come and go Under the festive mistletoe.

When suddenly the frosty air Is filled with music, voices sweet, Lo! see the Christmas waits are there Snow-crowned and bare of feet, Yet high and clear their voices ring, And glad their Christmas carolling.

*    *    *    *    *

Carol

O Child of Mary's tender care! O little Child so pure and fair! Cradled within the manger hay On that divine first Christmas day! The hopes of every age and race Are centered in Thy radiant face!

O Child whose glory fills the earth! O little Child of lowly birth! The shepherds, guided from afar, Stood worshiping beneath the star, And wise-men fell on bended knee And homage offered unto Thee!

O Child of whom the angels sing! O little Child, our Infant King! What balm for every sorrow lies Within those clear, illumined eyes! O precious gift to mortals given To win us heritage in Heaven!

*    *    *    *    *

The Mother

Robert Haven Schauffler

All day her watch had lasted on the plateau above the town. And now the sun slanted low over the dull, blue sheen of the western sea, playing changingly with the angular mountain which rose abruptly from its surge.

The young matron did not heed the magic which was transforming the theater of hills to the north and lingering lovingly at last on the eastern summit. Nor had she any eyes for the changing hue of the ivy-clad cubes of stone that formed the village over which her hungry gaze passed, sweeping the length and breadth of the plain below.

She seemed not much above thirty: tall, erect and lithe. Her throat, bared to the breeze, was of the purest modeling; her skin of a whiteness unusual in that warm climate. Her head, a little small for her rounded figure, was crowned with a coil of chestnut hair, and her eyes glowed with a look strange to the common light of every day. It was her soul that was scanning that southward country.

From time to time she would fondle a small object hidden beneath the white folds of her robe. Once she threw her arms out in a passionate gesture toward the plain, and tears overflowed the beautiful eyes. Again she fell on her knees, and the throes of inner prayer found relief at her lips:

"Father, my Father, grant me to see him ere the dusk!"

Once again she sank down, moaning:

"He is in Thine everlasting arms. But Thou, who knowest times and seasons, give him to me on this day of days!"

Under the curve of a shielding hand her vision strained through the clear, pure air, -- strained and found at last two specks far out in the plain, and followed them breathlessly as they crept nearer. One traveler was clad in a dark garment, and stopped presently, leaving his light-robed companion to hasten on alone toward the hungry-eyed woman on the plateau.

All at once she gathered her skirt with a joyous cry and ran with lithe, elastic steps down through the village.

They met on a low, rounded hill near the plain.

"My son, my darling!" she cried, catching him passionately to her bosom. "We have searched, and waited, and agonized," she continued after a pause, smiling at him through her happy tears. "But it matters nothing now. I have thee again."

"My mother," said the boy as he caressed her cheek, looking at her dreamily, "I have been with my cousin. Even now he waits below for me. I must bid thee farewell. I must pass from thy face forever."

His lip trembled a little, but he smiled bravely. "For it is the will of God, the Father."

The mother's face went ashen. She tottered and would have fallen but for his slender arm about her.

Her thoughts were whirling in wild confusion, yet she knew that she must decide calmly, wisely, quickly.

Her lips moved, but made no sound.

"Oh, lay Thy wise and gracious hand upon me!" was what she breathed in silence.

Then her voice sounded rich and happy and fresh, as it had always sounded for him.

"His will be done. Thou comest to bid farewell to thy brothers and father?"

"It may not be," he answered. "My lot henceforth is to flee the touch of the world, the unsympathetic eye, the ribald tongue of those like my brothers -- the defilement of common life."

The mother pressed him closer.

"Say all that is in thine heart," she murmured. "We will bide here."

They sank down together on the soft, bright turf, facing the brilliance of the west, she holding her child as of old in the hollow of her arm.

He began to speak.

"For long and long a voice within me said, 'Go and seek thy cousin.' So I sought and found, and we abode together in the woods and fields, and were friends with our dear brothers the beasts, and the fishes, and the birds. There, day by day, my cousin would tell me of the dream that filled his soul and of the holy men who had put the dream there."

The mother's eyes grew larger with a swift terror, but she held her peace.

"And at the last, when the beauty, the wind, the sun, the rain, and the voice of God, had purified me in some measure, my cousin brought me to visit these holy men."

The clear, boyish voice rose and began to vibrate with enthusiasm.

"Ah, mother, they are the chosen ones of God! Sweet and grave and gentle they are, and theirs is the perfect life. They dwell spotless and apart from the world. They own one common purse, and spend their lives working with their hands and pondering and dreaming on purity, goodness, and the commands of the great law."

He sprang up in his excitement from her encircling arm and stood erect and wide-eyed before her.

"Ah, mother, they are so good that they would do nothing on the Sabbath, even to saving their own lives or the lives of their animals, or their brothers. They bathe very often in sacred water. They have no wives, and mortify the flesh, and -- "

"What is their aim in this?" the mother interrupted gently.

The boy was aflame with his subject.

"Ah, that is it -- the great goal toward which they all run," he cried. "They are doing my Father's work, and I must help! Hear, hear what is before me: When a young novice comes to them they give him the symbols of purity: a spade, an apron, and a white robe to wear at the holy meals. In a year he receives a closer fellowship and the baths of purification. After that he enters the state of bodily purity. Then little by little he enters into purity of the spirit, meekness, holiness. He becomes a temple of the Holy Spirit, and prophesies. Ah, think, mother, how sweet it would be to lie entranced there for days and weeks in an earthly paradise, with no rough world to break the spell, while the angels sing softly in one's ears! I, even I, have already tasted of that bliss."

"Say on," she breathed. "What does the holy man do then?"

"Then," the inspired, boyish tones continued -- "then he performs miracles, and finally -- " he clasped her hand convulsively -- "he becomes Elias, the forerunner of the Messiah!"

From far out in the wilderness came a melancholy cry.

"It is John, my cousin," said the boy, radiant, half turning himself at the sound. "I must go to him."

She drew in her breath sharply, and rose to her feet.

"Bear a message to John," she said. "Not pourings of water, nor white robes; not times and seasons, nor feasts in darkness and silence, shall hasten the kingdom of heaven; neither formulas, nor phylacteries, nor madness on the Sabbath. Above all, no selfish, proud isolation shall usher in the glorious reign of the Messiah. These holy men, -- these Essenes, -- are but stricter, sterner, nobler Pharisees. Tell thy cousin to take all the noble and fine, to reject all the selfish and unmeaning, in their lives. Doctrine is not in heaven. Not by fasts and scourgings, not by vigils and scruples about the law; not by selfishly shutting out the world, but by taking all poor, suffering, erring, striving humanity into his heart will he become the true Elias."

There was a breathless, thrilling moment of perfect silence as the glowing eyes of the mother looked deep into the astonished, questioning eyes of the son.

Then she rested both hands on his shoulders and spoke almost in a whisper.

"As for thee, the time is now come. Does my son know what this day means?"

He looked at her wonderingly and was silent.

The mother spoke:

"For many years I have kept these things and pondered them in my heart. Now, now the hour is here when thou must know them."

She bent so close that a strand of loosened hair swept his forehead.

"In the time before thou wert born came as in a dream a wondrous visitor to me straight from the Father. And that pure, ecstatic messenger announced that the power of the Highest would overshadow me, and that my child was to be the son of the Highest, who should save His people from their sins -- the Prince of Peace -- the Messiah!"

From the wilderness came a long, melancholy cry, but the rapt boy heard not.

The mother continued in the soft, tender voice that began to tremble with her in her ecstasy.

"This day is thy birthday. Twelve years ago this eventide, when thou camest into the world of men, men came to worship and praise God for thee, -- the lowliest and the highest, -- as a token that thou wert to be not only Son of God but Son of Man as well. Poor, ignorant shepherds crowded about us in that little stable where we lay, and left the sweet savor of their prayers, and tears, and rejoicings. And great, wise kings from another part of the earth came also."

From beneath the folds of her robe she drew forth by a fine-spun chain an intricately chased casket of soft, yellow gold.

The boy took it dreamily into his hands, and as his fingers opened it, there floated forth upon the air of the hills of Nazareth the sacred odor of incense mingled with a perfume indescribably delicate and precious.

"Read!" whispered the mother.

The boy held his breath suddenly.

There, on the lower surface of the lid, graven in rude characters, as if on the inspiration of the moment, stood the single word

Love

She flung wide her arms as if to embrace the universe.

"Love! Love! Love!" she cried in her rich mother's voice. "It is the greatest thing in the world! It is the message of the Messiah!"

The heavens over the sea were of molten gold, and a golden glow seemed to radiate from the boyish face that confronted them. In their trance-like ecstasy the wonderful eyes gazed full into the blinding west -- gazed on and on until day had passed into night.

One iterant sound alone, as it drew closer, stirred the silence of that evening: it was the voice of one crying in the wilderness.

<eob>

Ruth Fielding At College

Or

The Missing Examination Papers

By

Alice B. Emerson



Chapter I

Looking Collegeward


"Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!"

By no possibility could Aunt Alvirah Boggs have risen from her low rocking chair in the Red Mill kitchen without murmuring this complaint.

She was a little, hoop-backed woman, with crippled limbs; but she possessed a countenance that was very much alive, nut-brown and innumerably wrinkled though it was.

She had been Mr. Jabez Potter's housekeeper at the Red Mill for more than fifteen years, and if anybody knew the "moods and tenses" of the miserly miller, it must have been Aunt Alvirah. She even professed to know the miller's feelings toward his grand-niece, Ruth Fielding, better than Ruth knew them herself.

The little old woman was expecting the return of Ruth now, and she went to the porch to see if she could spy her down the road, and thus be warned in time to set the tea to draw. Ruth and her friends, who had gone for a tramp in the September woods, would come in ravenous for tea and cakes and bread-and-butter sandwiches.

Aunt Alvirah looked out upon a very beautiful autumn landscape when she opened the farmhouse door. The valley of the Lumano was attractive at all times -- in storm or sunshine. Now it was a riot of color, from the deep crimson of the sumac to the pale amber of certain maple leaves which fell in showers whenever the wanton breeze shook the boughs.

"Here they come!" murmured Aunt Alvirah. "Here's my pretty!"

She identified the trio striding up the roadway, distant as they were. Ruth, her cheeks rosy, her hair flying, came on ahead, while the black-haired and black-eyed twins, Helen and Tom Cameron, walked hand-in-hand behind her. This was their final outing together in the vicinity of the Red Mill for many months. Helen and Tom were always very close companions, and although they had already been separated during school terms, Tom had run over from Seven Oaks to see his sister at Briarwood for almost every week-end.

"No more of 'sich doin's now, old man," Helen said to him, smiling rather tremulously. "And even when you get to Harvard next year, you will not be allowed often at Ardmore. They say there is a sign 'No Boys Allowed' stuck up beside every 'Keep Off the Grass' sign on the Ardmore lawns."

"Nonsense!" laughed Tom.

"Oh, I only repeat what I've been told."

"Well, Sis, you won't be entirely alone," Tom said kindly. "Ruth will be with you. You and she will have your usual good times."

"Of course. But you'll be awfully lonely, Tommy."

"True enough," agreed Tom.

Then Ruth's gay voice hailed them from the porch upon which she had mounted yards ahead of them.

"Come on, slow-pokes. Aunt Alvirah has put on the tea. I smell it!"

Ruth Fielding did not possess her chum's measure of beauty. Helen was a dainty, compelling brunette with flashing eyes -- eyes she had already learned to use to the undoing of what Ruth called "the youthful male of the species."

As for Ruth herself, she considered boys no mystery. She was fond of Tom, for he was the first friend she had made in that long-ago time when she arrived, a little girl and a stranger, at the Red Mill. Other boys did not interest Ruth in the least.

Without Helen's beauty, she was, nevertheless, a decidedly attractive girl. Her figure was well rounded, her eyes shone, her hair was just wavy enough to be pretty, and she was very, very much alive. If Ruth Fielding took an interest in anything that thing, Tom declared, "went with a bang!"

She was positive, energetic, and usually finished anything that she began. She had already done some things that few girls of her age could have accomplished.

The trio of friends trooped into Aunt Alvirah's clean and shining kitchen.

"Dear me! dear me!" murmured the little old woman, "I sha'n't have the pleasure of your company for long. I'll miss my pretty," and she smiled fondly at Ruth.

"That's the only drawback about coming home from school," grumbled Tom, looking really forlorn, even with his mouth full of Aunt Alvirah's pound cake.

"What's the drawback?" demanded his twin.

"Going away again. Just think! We sha'n't see each other for so long."

He was staring at Ruth, and Helen, with a roguish twinkle in her eye, passed him her pocket-handkerchief -- a wee and useless bit of lace -- saying:

"Weep, if you must, Tommy; but get it over with. Ruth and I are not gnashing our teeth about going away. Just to think! ARDMORE!"

Nothing but capital letters would fully express the delight she put into the name of the college she and Ruth were to attend.

"Huh!" grunted Tom.

Aunt Alvirah said: "It wouldn't matter, deary, if you was both goin' off to be Queens of Sheby; it's the goin' away that hurts."

Ruth had her arms about the little old woman and her own voice was caressing if not lachrymose.

"Don't take it so to heart, Aunt Alvirah. We shall not forget you. You shall send us a box of goodies once in a while as you always do; and I will write to you and to Uncle Jabez. Keep up your heart, dear."

"Easy said, my pretty," sighed the old woman. "Not so easy follered out. An' Jabe Potter is dreadful tryin' when you ain't here."

"Poor Uncle Jabez," murmured Ruth.

"Poor Aunt Alvirah, you'd better say!" exclaimed Helen, sharply, for she had not the patience with the miserly miller that his niece possessed.

At the moment the back door was pushed open. Helen jumped. She feared that Uncle Jabez had overheard her criticism.

But it was only Ben, the hired man, who thrust his face bashfully around the edge of the door. The young people hailed him gaily, and Ruth offered him a piece of cake.

"Thank'e, Miss Ruth," Ben said. "I can't come in. Jest came to the shed for the oars."

"Is uncle going across the river in the punt?" asked Ruth.

"No, Miss Ruth. There's a boat adrift on the river."

"What kind of boat?" asked Tom, jumping up. "What d'you mean?"

"She's gone adrift, Mr. Tom," said Ben. "Looks like she come from one o' them camps upstream."

"Oh! let's go and see!" cried Helen, likewise eager for something new.

Neither of the Cameron twins ever remained in one position or were interested solely in one thing for long.

The young folk trooped out after Ben through the long, covered passage to the rear door of the Red Mill. The water-wheel was turning and the jar of the stones set every beam and plank in the structure to trembling. The air was a haze of fine white particles. Uncle Jabez came forward, as dusty and crusty an old miller as one might ever expect to see.

He was a tall, crabbed looking man, the dust of the mill seemingly so ground into the lines of his face that it was grey all over and one wondered if it could ever be washed clean again. He only nodded to his niece and her friends, seizing the oars Ben had brought with the observation:

"Go 'tend to Gil Martin, Ben. He's waitin' for his flour. Where ye been all this time? That boat'll drift by."

Ben knew better than to reply as he hastened to the shipping door where Mr. Martin waited with his wagon for the sacks of flour. The miller went to the platform on the riverside, Ruth and her friends following him.

"I see it!" cried Tom. "Can't be anybody in it for it's sailing broadside."

Uncle Jabez put the oars in the punt and began to untie the painter.

"All the more reason we should get it," he said drily. "Salvage, ye know."

"You mustn't go alone, Uncle Jabez," Ruth said mildly.

"Huh! why not?" snarled the old miller.

"Something might happen. If Ben can't go, I will take an oar."

He knew she was quite capable of handling the punt, even in the rapids, so he merely growled his acquiescence. At that moment Ruth discovered something.

"Why! the boat isn't empty!" she cried.

"You're right, Ruth! I see something in it," said Tom.

Uncle Jabez straightened up, holding the painter doubtfully.

"Aw, well," he grunted. "If there's somebody in it --  -- "

He saw no reason for going after the drifting boat if it were manned. He could not claim the boat or claim salvage for it under such circumstances.

But the strange boat was drifting toward the rapids of the Lumano that began just below the mill. In the present state of the river this "white water," as lumbermen call it, was dangerous.

"Why, how foolish!" Helen cried. "Whoever is in that boat is lying in the bottom of it."

"And drifting right toward the middle of the river!" added her twin.

"Hurry up, Uncle Jabez!" urged Ruth. "We must go out there."

"What fur, I'd like to know?" demanded the miller sharply. "We ain't hired ter go out an' wake up every reckless fule that goes driftin' by."

"Of course not. But maybe he's not asleep," Ruth said quickly. "Maybe he's hurt. Maybe he has fainted. Why, a dozen things might have happened!"

"An' a dozen things might not have happened," said old Jabez Potter, coolly retying the painter.

"Uncle! we mustn't do that!" cried his niece. "We must go out in the punt and make sure all is right with that boat."

"Who says so?" demanded the miller.

"Of course we must. I'll go with you. Come, do! There is somebody in danger."

Ruth Fielding, as she spoke, leaped into the punt. Tom would have been glad to go with her, but she had motioned him back before he could speak. She was ashamed to have the miller so display the mean side of his nature before her friends.

Grumblingly he climbed into the heavy boat after her. Tom cast off and Ruth pushed the boat's nose upstream, then settled herself to one of the oars while Uncle Jabez took the other.

"Huh! they ain't anything in it for us," grumbled Mr. Potter as the punt slanted toward mid-stream.



Chapter II

Maggie


Ruth Fielding knew very well the treacherous current of the Lumano. She saw that the drifting boat with its single occupant was very near to the point where the fierce pull of the mid-stream current would seize it.

So she rowed her best and having the stroke oar, Uncle Jabez was obliged to pull his best to keep up with her.

"Huh!" he snorted, "it ain't so pertic'lar, is it, Niece Ruth? That feller --  -- "

She made no reply, but in a few minutes they were near enough to the drifting boat for Ruth to glance over her shoulder and see into it. At once she uttered a little cry of pity.

"What now?" gruffly demanded Uncle Jabez.

"Oh, Uncle! It's a girl!" Ruth gasped.

"A gal! Another gal?" exclaimed the old miller. "I swanny! The Red Mill is allus littered up with gals when you're to hum."

This was a favorite complaint of his; but he pulled more vigorously, nevertheless, and the punt was quickly beside the drifting boat.

A girl in very commonplace garments -- although she was not at all a commonplace looking girl -- lay in the bottom of the boat. Her eyes were closed and she was very pale.

"She's fainted," Ruth whispered.

"Who in 'tarnation let a gal like that go out in a boat alone, and without airy oar?" demanded Uncle Jabez, crossly. "Here! hold steady. I'll take that painter and 'tach it to the boat. We'll tow her in. But lemme tell ye," added Uncle Jabez, decidedly, "somebody's got ter pay me fur my time, or else they don't git the boat back. She seems to be all right."

"Why, she isn't conscious!" cried Ruth.

"Huh!" grunted Uncle Jabez, "I mean the boat, not the gal."

Ruth always suspected that Uncle Jabez Potter made a pretense of being really worse than he was. When a little girl she had been almost afraid of her cross-grained relative -- the only relative she had in the world.

But there were times when the ugly crust of the old man's character was rubbed off and his niece believed she saw the true gold beneath. She was frequently afraid that others would hear and not understand him. Now that she was financially independent of Uncle Jabez Ruth was not so sensitive for herself.

They towed the boat back to the mill landing. Tom and Ben carried the strange girl, still unconscious into the Red Mill farmhouse, and bustling little Aunt Alvirah had her put at once to bed.

"Shall I hustle right over to Cheslow for the doctor?" Tom asked.

"Who's goin' to pay him?" growled Uncle Jabez, who heard this.

"Don't let that worry you, Mr. Potter," said the youth, his black eyes flashing. "If I hire a doctor I always pay him."

"It's a good thing to have that repertation," Uncle Jabez said drily. "One should pay the debts he contracts."

But Aunt Alvirah scoffed at the need of a doctor.

"The gal's only fainted. Scare't it's likely, findin' herself adrift in that boat. You needn't trouble yourself about it, Jabez."

Thus reassured the miller went back to examine the boat. Although it was somewhat marred, it was not damaged, and Uncle Jabez was satisfied that if nobody claimed the boat he would be amply repaid for his trouble.

Naturally, the two girls fluttered about the stranger a good deal when Aunt Alvirah had brought her out of her faint. Ruth was particularly attracted by "Maggie" as the stranger announced her name to be.

"I was working at one of those summer-folks' camps up the river. Mr. Bender's, it was," she explained to Ruth, later. "But all the folks went last night, and this morning I was going across the river with my bag -- oh, did you find my bag, Miss?"

"Surely," Ruth laughed. "It is here, beside your bed."

"Oh, thank you," said the girl. "Mr. Bender paid me last night. One of the men was to take me across the river, and I sat down and waited, and nobody came, and by and by I fell into a nap and when I woke up I was out in the river, all alone. My! I was frightened."

"Then you have no reason for going back to the camp?" asked Ruth, thoughtfully.

"No -- Miss. I'm through up there for the season. I'll look for another situation -- I -- I mean job," she added stammeringly.

"We will telephone up the river and tell them you are all right," Ruth said.

"Oh, thank you -- Miss."

Ruth asked her several other questions, and although Maggie was reserved, her answers were satisfactory.

"But what's goin' to become of the gal?" Uncle Jabez asked that evening after supper, when he and his niece were in the farmhouse kitchen alone.

Aunt Alvirah had carried tea and toast in to the patient and was sitting by her.

The girl of the Red Mill thought Maggie did not seem like the usual "hired help" whom she had seen. She seemed much more refined than one might expect a girl to be of the class to which she claimed to belong.

Ruth looked across the table at her cross-grained old relative and made no direct reply to his question. She was very sure that, after all, he would be kind to the strange girl if Maggie actually needed to be helped. But Ruth had an idea that Maggie was quite capable of helping herself.

"Uncle Jabez," the girl of the Red Mill said to the old man, softly, "do you know something?"

"Huh?" grunted Uncle Jabez. "I know a hull lot more than you young sprigs gimme credit for knowin'."

"Oh! I didn't mean it that way," and Ruth laughed cheerily at him. "I mean that I have discovered something, and I wondered if you had discovered the same thing?"

"Out with it, Niece Ruth," he ordered, eyeing her curiously. "I'll tell ye if it's anything I already know."

"Well, Aunt Alvirah is growing old."

"Ye don't say!" snapped the miller. "And who ain't, I'd like to know?"

"Her rheumatism is much worse, and it will soon be winter."

"Say! what air ye tryin' to do?" he demanded. "Tellin' me these here puffictly obvious things! Of course she's gittin' older; and of course her rheumatiz is bound to grow wuss. Doctors ain't never yet found nothin' to cure rheumatiz. And winter us'ally follers fall -- even in this here tarnation climate."

"Well, but the combination is going to be very bad for Aunt Alvirah," Ruth said gently, determined to pursue her idea to the finish, no matter how cross he appeared to be.

"Wal, is it my fault?" asked Uncle Jabez.

"It's nobody's fault," Ruth told him, shaking her head, and very serious. "But it's Aunt Alvirah's misfortune."

"Huh!"

"And we must do something about it."

"Huh! Must we? What, I'd like to have ye tell me?" said the old miller, eyeing Ruth much as one strange dog might another that he suspected was after his best marrow bone.

"We must get somebody to help her do the work while I am at college," Ruth said firmly.

The dull red flooded into Uncle Jabez's cheeks, and for once gave him a little color. His narrow eyes sparkled, too.

"There's one thing I've allus said, Niece Ruth," he declared hotly. "Ye air a great one for spending other folks' money."

It was Ruth's turn to flush now, and although she might not possess what Aunt Alvirah called "the Potter economical streak," she did own to a spark of the Potter temper. Ruth Fielding was not namby-pamby, although she was far from quarrelsome.

"Uncle Jabez," she returned rather tartly, "have I been spending much of your money lately?"

"No," he growled. "But ye ain't l'arnt how to take proper keer of yer own -- trapsin' 'round the country the way you do."

She laughed then. "I'm getting knowledge. Some of it comes high, I have found; but it will all help me live."

"Huh! I've lived without that brand of l'arnin'," grunted Uncle Jabez.

Ruth looked at him amusedly. She was tempted to tell him that he had not lived, only existed. But she was not impudent, and merely went on to say:

"Aunt Alvirah is getting too old to do all the work here --  -- "

"I send Ben in to help her some when she's alone," said the miller.

"And by so doing put extra work on poor Ben," Ruth told him, decidedly. "No, Aunt Alvirah must have another woman around, or a girl."

"Where ye goin' to find the gal?" snapped the miller. "Work gals don't like to stay in the country."

"She's found, I believe," Ruth told him.

"Huh?"

"This Maggie we just got out of the river. She has no job, she says, and she wants one. I believe she'll stay."

"Who's goin' to pay her wages?" demanded Uncle Jabez, getting back to "first principles" again.

"I'll pay the girl's wages, Uncle Jabez," Ruth said seriously. "But you must feed her. And she must be fed well, too. I can see that part of her trouble is malnutrition."

"Huh? Has she got some ketchin' disease?" Uncle Jabez demanded.

"It isn't contagious," Ruth replied drily. "But unless she is well fed she cannot be cured of it."

"Wal, there's plenty of milk and eggs," the miller said.

"But you must not hide the key of the meat-house, Uncle," and now Ruth laughed outright at him. "Four people at table means a depletion of your smoked meat and a dipping occasionally into the corned-beef barrel."

"Wal --  -- "

"Now, if I pay the girl's wages, you must supply the food," his niece said, firmly, "Otherwise, Aunt Alvirah will go without help, and then she will break down, and then --  -- "

"Huh!" grunted the miller. "I couldn't let her go back to the poorfarm, I s'pose?"

He actually made it a question; but Ruth could not see his face, for he had turned aside.

"No. She could not return to the poorhouse -- after fifteen years!" exclaimed the girl. "Do you know what I should do?" and she asked the question warmly.

"Somethin' fullish, I allow."

"I should take her to Ardmore with me, and find a tiny cottage for her, and maybe she would keep house for Helen and me."

"That'd be jest like ye, Niece Ruth," he responded coolly. "You think you have all the money in the world. That's because ye didn't aim what ye got -- it was give to ye."

The statement was in large part true, and for the moment Ruth's lips were closed. Tears stood in her eyes, too. She realized that she could not be independent of the old miller had not chance and kind-hearted and grateful Mrs. Rachel Parsons given her the bulk of the amount now deposited in her name in the bank.

Ruth Fielding's circumstances had been very different when she had first come to Cheslow and the Red Mill. Then she was a little, homeless, orphan girl who was "taken in out of charity" by Uncle Jabez. And very keenly and bitterly had she been made to feel during those first few months her dependence upon the crabbed old miller.

The introductory volume of this series, "Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill, or, Jacob Parloe's Secret," details in full the little girl's trials and triumphs under these unfortunate conditions -- how she makes friends, smooths over difficulties, and in a measure wins old Uncle Jabez's approval. The miller was a very honest man and always paid his debts. Because of something Ruth did for him he felt it to be his duty to pay her first year's tuition at boarding school, where she went with her new friend, Helen Cameron. In "Ruth Fielding at Briarwood Hall," the Red Mill girl really begins her school career, and begins, too, to satisfy that inbred longing for independence which was so strong a part of her character.

In succeeding volumes of the "Ruth Fielding Series," we follow Ruth's adventures in Snow Camp, a winter lodge in the Adirondack wilderness; at Lighthouse Point, the summer home of a girl friend on the Atlantic coast; at Silver Ranch, in Montana; at Cliff Island; at Sunrise Farm; with the Gypsies, which was a very important adventure, indeed, for Ruth Fielding. In this eighth story Ruth was able to recover for Mrs. Rachel Parsons, an aunt of one of her school friends, a very valuable pearl necklace, and as a reward of five thousand dollars had been offered for the recovery of the necklace, the entire sum came to Ruth. This money made Ruth financially independent of Uncle Jabez.

The ninth volume of the series, entitled, "Ruth Fielding in Moving Pictures; or, Helping the Dormitory Fund," shows Ruth and her chums engaged in film production. Ruth discovered that she could write a good scenario -- a very good scenario, indeed. Mr. Hammond, president of the Alectrion Film Corporation, encouraged her to write others. When the West Dormitory of Briarwood Hall was burned and it was discovered that there had been no insurance on the building, the girls determined to do all in their power to rebuild the structure.

Ruth was inspired to write a scenario, a five-reel drama of schoolgirl life, and Mr. Hammond produced it, Ruth's share of the profits going toward the building fund. "The Heart of a Schoolgirl" was not only locally famous, but was shown all over the country and was even now, after six months, paying the final construction bills of the West Dormitory, at Briarwood.

In this ninth volume of the series, Ruth and Helen and many of their chums graduated from Briarwood Hall. Immediately after the graduation the girl of the Red Mill and Helen Cameron were taken south by Nettie Parsons and her Aunt Rachel to visit the Merredith plantation in South Carolina. Their adventures were fully related in the story immediately preceding the present narrative, the tenth of the "Ruth Fielding Series," entitled, "Ruth Fielding Down in Dixie; or, Great Times in the Land of Cotton."

Home again, after that delightful journey, Ruth had spent most of the remaining weeks of her vacation quietly at the Red Mill. She was engaged upon another scenario for Mr. Hammond, in which the beautiful old mill on the Lumano would figure largely. She also had had many preparations to make for her freshman year at Ardmore.

Ruth and Helen were quite "young ladies" now, so Tom scoffingly said. And going to college was quite another thing from looking forward to a term at a preparatory school. Nevertheless, Ruth had found plenty of time to help Aunt Alvirah during the past few weeks.

She had noted how much feebler the old woman was becoming. Therefore, she was determined to win Uncle Jabez to her plan of securing help in the Red Mill kitchen. The coming of the girl, Maggie, though a strange coincidence, Ruth looked upon as providential. She urged Uncle Jabez to agree to her proposal, and the very next morning she sounded Maggie upon the subject. The strange girl was sitting up, but Aunt Alvirah would not hear to her doing anything as yet. Ruth found Maggie in the sitting-room, engaged in looking at the Ardmore Year Book which Ruth had left upon the sitting-room table.

"Pretty landscapes about the college, aren't they?" Ruth suggested.

"Oh yes -- Miss. Very pretty," agreed Maggie.

"That is where I am going to college," Ruth explained. "I enter as a freshman next week."

"Is that so -- Miss?" hesitated Maggie. Her heretofore colorless face flushed warmly. "I've heard of that -- that place," she added.

"Indeed, have you?"

Maggie was looking at the photograph of Lake Remona, with a part of Bliss Island at one side. She continued to stare at the picture while Ruth put before her the suggestion of work at the Red Mill.

"Oh, of course, Miss Fielding, I'd be glad of the work. And you're very liberal. But you don't know anything about me."

"No. And I shouldn't know much more about you if you brought a dozen recommendations," laughed Ruth.

"I suppose not -- Miss." It seemed hard for the girl to get out that "Miss," and Ruth, who was keenly observant, wondered if she really had been accustomed to using it.

They talked it over and finally reached an agreement. Aunt Alvirah was sweetly grateful to Ruth, knowing full well that there must have been a "battle royal" between the miller and his niece before the former had agreed to the new arrangement.

Ruth was quite sure that Maggie was a nice girl, even if she was queer. At least, she gave deference to the quaint little old housekeeper, and seemed to like Aunt Alvirah very much. And who would not love the woman, who was everybody's aunt but nobody's relative?

Once or twice Ruth found Maggie poring over the Year Book of Ardmore College, rather an odd interest for a girl of her class. But Maggie was rather an odd girl anyway, and Ruth forgot the matter in her final preparations for departure.



Chapter III

Expectations


"I expect she'll be a haughty, stuck-up thing," declared Edith Phelps, with vigor.

"'Just like that,'" drawled May MacGreggor. "We should worry about the famous authoress of canned drama! A budding lady hack writer, I fancy."

"Oh, dear me, no!" cried Edith. "Didn't you see 'The Heart of a Schoolgirl' she wrote? Why, it was a good photo-play, I assure you."

"And put out by the Alectrion Film Corporation," joined in another of the group of girls standing upon the wide porch of Dare Hall, one of the four large dormitories of Ardmore College.

The college buildings were set most artistically upon the slope of College Hill, each building facing sparkling Lake Remona. Save the boathouse and the bathing pavilions, Dare and Dorrance Halls at the east side of the grounds, and Hoskin and Hemmingway Halls at the west side, were the structures nearest to the lake.

Farther to the east an open grove intervened between the dormitories and the meadows along the Remona River where bog hay was cut, and which were sometimes flooded in the freshet season.

To the west the lake extended as far as the girls on the porch could see, a part of its sparkling surface being hidden by the green and hilly bulk of Bliss Island. The shaded green lawns of the campus between Dare and Hoskin Halls were crossed by winding paths.

A fleshy girl who was near the group but not of it, had been viewing this lovely landscape with pleasure. Now she frankly listened to the chatter of the "inquisitors."

"Well," Edith Phelps insisted, "this Ruth Fielding was so petted at that backwoods' school where she has been that I suppose there will be no living in the same house with her."

Edith was one of the older sophomores -- quite old, indeed, to the eyes of the plump girl who was listening. But the latter smiled quietly, nevertheless, as she listened to the sophomore's speech.

"We shall have to take her down a peg or two, of course. It's bad enough to have the place littered up with a lot of freshies --  -- "

"Just as we littered it up last year at this time, Edie," suggested May, with a chuckle.

"Well," Edith said, laughing, "if I don't put this Ruth Fielding, the authoress, in her place in a hurry, it won't be because I sha'n't try."

"Have a care, dearie," admonished one quiet girl who had not spoken before. "Remember the warning we had at commencement."

"About what?" demanded two or three.

"About that Rolff girl, you know," said the thoughtful girl.

"Oh! I know what you mean," Edith said. "But that was a warning to the sororities."

"To everybody," put in May.

"At any rate," Dora Parton said, "Dr. Milroth forbade anything in the line of hazing."

"Pooh!" said Edith. "Who mentioned hazing? That's old-fashioned. We're too ladylike at Ardmore, I should hope, to haze -- my!"

"'My heye, blokey!'" drawled May.

"You are positively coarse, Miss MacGreggor," Dora said, severely.

"And Edie is so awfully emphatic," laughed the Scotch girl. "But she will have to take it out in threatenings, I fear. We can't haze this Fielding chit, and that's all there is to it."

"Positively," said the quiet girl, "that was a terrible thing they did to Margaret Rolff. She was a nervous girl, anyway. Do you remember her, May?"

"Of course. And I remember being jealous because she was chosen by the Kappa Alpha as a candidate. Glad I wasn't one if they put all their new members through the same rigmarole."

"That is irreverent!" gasped Edith. "The Kappa Alpha!"

"I see Dr. Milroth took them down all right, all right!" remarked another of the group. "And now none of the sororities can solicit members among either the sophs or the freshies."

"And it's a shame!" cried Edith. "The sorority girls have such fun."

"Half murdering innocents -- yes," drawled May. "That Margaret Rolff was just about scared out of her wits, they say. They found her wandering about Bliss Island --  -- "

"Sh! We're not to talk of it," advised Edith, with a glance at the fat girl in the background who, although taking no part in the discussion, was very much amused, especially every time Ruth Fielding's name was brought up.

"Well, I don't know why we shouldn't speak of it," said Dora Parton, who was likewise a sophomore. "The whole college knew it at the time. When Margaret Rolff left they discovered that the beautiful silver vase was gone, too, from the library --  -- "

"Oh, hush!" exclaimed May MacGreggor, sharply.

"Won't hush -- so now!" said the other girl, smartly, making a face at the Scotch lassie. "Didn't Miss Cullam go wailing all over the college about it?"

"That's so," Edith agreed. "You'd have thought it was her vase that had been stolen."

"I don't believe the vase was stolen at all," May said. "It was mixed up in that initiation and lost. I know that the Kappa Alpha girls are raising a fund to pay for it."

"Pay for it!" scoffed some one. "Why, they couldn't do that in a thousand years. That was an Egyptian curio -- very old and very valuable. Pay for it, indeed! Those Kappa Alphas, as well as the other sororities, are paying for their fun in another way."

"But, anyway," said the quiet girl, "it was a terrible experience for Miss Rolff."

"Unless she 'put it on' and got away with the loot herself," said Edith.

"Oh, scissors! now who's coarse?" demanded May MacGreggor.

But the conversation came back to the expected Ruth Fielding. These girls had all arrived at Ardmore several days in advance of the opening of the semester. Indeed, it is always advisable for freshmen, especially, to be on hand at least two days before the opening, for there is much preparation for newcomers.

The fleshy girl who had thus far taken no part in the conversation recorded, save to be amused by it, had already been on the ground long enough to know her way about. But she was not yet acquainted with any of her classmates or with the sophomores.

If she knew Ruth Fielding, she said nothing about it when Edith Phelps began to discuss the girl of the Red Mill again.

"Miss Cullam spoke to me about this Fielding. It seems she has an acquaintance who teaches at that backwoods' school the child went to --  -- "

"Briarwood a backwoods' school!" said May. "Not much!"

"Well, it's somewhere up in New York State among the yaps," declared Edith. "And Cullam's friend wrote her that Fielding is a wonder. Dear me! how I do abominate wonders."

"Perhaps we are maligning the girl," said Dora. "Perhaps Ruth Fielding is quite modest."

"What? After writing a moving picture drama? Is there anything modest about the motion picture business in any of its branches?"

"Oh, dear me, Edie!" cried one of her listeners, "you're dreadful."

"I presume this canned drama authoress," pursued Edith, "will have ink-stains on her fingers and her hair will be eternally flying about her careworn features. Well! and what are you laughing at?" she suddenly and tartly demanded of the plump girl in the background.

"At you," chuckled the stranger.

"Am I so funny to look at?"

"No. But you are the funniest-talking girl I ever listened to. Let me laugh, won't you?"

Before this observation could be more particularly inquired into, some one shouted:

"Oh, look who's here! And in style, bless us!"

"And see the freight! Excess baggage, for a fact," May MacGreggor said, under her breath. "Who can she be?"

"The Queen of Sheba in all her glory had nothing on this lady," cried Edith with conviction.

It was not often that any of the Ardmore girls, and especially a freshman, arrived during the opening week of the term in a private equipage. This car that came chugging down the hill to the entrance of Dare Hall was a very fine touring automobile. The girl in the tonneau, barricaded with a huge trunk and several bags, besides a huge leather hat-box perched beside the chauffeur, was very gaily appareled as well.

"Goodness! look at the labels on that trunk," whispered Dora Parton. "Why, that girl must have been all over Europe."

"The trunk has, at any rate," chuckled May.

"Hist!" now came from the excited Edith Phelps. "See the initials, 'R. F.' What did I tell you? It is that Fielding girl!"

"Oh, my aunt!" groaned the plump girl in the background, and she actually had to stuff her handkerchief in her mouth to keep from laughing outright again.

The car had halted and the chauffeur got down promptly, for he had to remove some of the "excess baggage" before the girl in the tonneau could alight.

"I guess she must think she belongs here," whispered Dora.

"More likely she thinks she owns the whole place," snapped Edith, who had evidently made up her mind not to like the new girl whose baggage was marked "R. F."

The girl got out and shook out her draperies. A close inspection would have revealed the fact that, although dressed in the very height of fashion (whatever that may mean), the materials of which the stranger's costume were made were rather cheap.

"This is Dare Hall, isn't it?" she asked the group of girls above her on the porch. "I suppose there is a porter to help -- er -- the man with my baggage?"

"It is a rule of the college," said Edith, promptly, "that each girl shall carry her own baggage to her room. No male person is allowed within the dormitory building."

There was a chorused, if whispered, "Oh!" from the other girls, and the newcomer looked at Edith, suspiciously.

"I guess you are spoofing me, aren't you?" she inquired.

"Help! help!" murmured May MacGreggor. "That's the very latest English slang."

"She's brought it direct from 'dear ol' Lunnon'," gasped one of the other sophomores.

"Dear me!" said Edith, addressing her friends, "wouldn't it be nice to have a 'close up' taken of that heap of luggage? It really needs a camera man and a director to make this arrival a success."

The girl who had just come looked very much puzzled. The chauffeur seemed eager to be gone.

"If I can't help take in the boxes, Miss, I might as well be going," he said to the new arrival.

"Very well," she rejoined, stiffly, and opening her purse gave him a bill. He lifted his cap, entered the car, touched the starter and in a moment the car whisked away.

"I declare!" said May MacGreggor, "she looks just like a castaway on the shore of a desert island, with all the salvage she has been able to recover from the wreck."

And perhaps the mysterious R. F. felt a good deal that way.



Chapter IV

First Impressions


Greenburg was the station on the N. Y. F. & B. Railroad nearest to Ardmore College. It was a small city of some thirty or forty thousand inhabitants. The people, not alone in the city but in the surrounding country, were a rather wealthy class. Ardmore was a mile from the outskirts of the town.

Ruth Fielding and Helen Cameron, her chum, had arrived with other girls bound for the college on the noon train. Of course, the chums knew none of their fellow pupils by name, but it was easily seen which of those alighting from the train were bound for Ardmore.

There were two large auto-stages in waiting, and Ruth and Helen followed the crowd of girls briskly getting aboard the buses. As they saw other girls do, the two chums from Cheslow gave their trunk checks to a man on the platform, but they clung to their hand-baggage.

"Such a nice looking lot of girls," murmured Helen in Ruth's ear. "It's fine! I'm sure we shall have a delightful time at college, Ruthie."

"And some hard work," observed Ruth, laughing, "if we expect to keep up with them. There are no dunces in this crowd, my dear."

"Goodness, no!" agreed her friend. "They all look as sharp as needles."

There were girls of all the classes at the station, as was easily seen. Ruth and Helen chanced to get into a seat with two of the seniors, who seemed most awfully sophisticated to the recent graduates of Briarwood Hall.

"You are just entering, are you not -- you and your friend?" asked the nearest senior of Ruth.

"Yes," admitted the girl of the Red Mill, feeling and looking very shy.

The young women smiled quietly, saying:

"I am Miss Dexter, and am beginning my senior year. I am glad to be the first to welcome you to Ardmore."

"Thank you so much!" Ruth said, recovering her self-possession. Then she told Miss Dexter her own name and introduced Helen.

"You girls have drawn your room numbers, I presume?"

"They were drawn for us," Ruth said. "We are to be in Dare Hall and hope to have adjoining rooms."

"That is nice," said Miss Dexter. "It is so much pleasanter when two friends enter together. I am at Hoskin Hall myself. I shall be glad to have you two freshmen look me up when you are once settled."

"Thank you," Ruth said again, and Helen found her voice to ask:

"Are all the seniors in Hoskin Hall, and all the freshmen at Dare Hall?"

"Oh, no. There are members of each class in all four of the dormitories," Miss Dexter explained.

"I suppose there will be much for us to learn," sighed Ruth. "It is different from a boarding school."

"Do you both come from a boarding school?" asked their new acquaintance.

"We are graduates of Briarwood Hall," Helen said, with pride.

"Oh, indeed?" Miss Dexter looked sharply at Ruth again. "Did you say your name was Ruth Fielding?"

"Yes, Miss Dexter."

"Why, you must be the girl who wrote a picture play to help build a dormitory for your school!" exclaimed the senior. "Really, how nice."

"There, Ruth!" said Helen, teasingly, "see what it is to be famous."

"I -- I hope my reputation will not be held against me," Ruth said, laughing. "Let me tell you, Miss Dexter, we all at Briarwood helped to swell that dormitory fund."

"I fancy so," said the senior. "But all of your schoolmates could not have written a scenario which would have been approved by the Alectrion Film Corporation."

"I should say not!" cried Helen, warmly. "And it was a great picture, too."

"It was clever, indeed," agreed Miss Dexter. "I saw it on the screen."

Miss Dexter introduced the girl at the other end of the seat -- another senior, Miss Purvis. The two entering freshmen felt flattered -- how could they help it? They had expected, as freshmen, to be quite haughtily ignored by the seniors and juniors.

But there were other matters to interest Ruth and Helen as the auto-bus rolled out of the city. The way was very pleasant; there were beautiful homes in the suburbs of Greenburg. And after they were passed, there were lovely fields and groves on either hand. The chums thought they had seldom seen more attractive country, although they had traveled more than most girls of their age.

The road over which the auto-bus rolled was wide and well oiled -- a splendid automobile track. But only one private equipage passed them on the ride to Ardmore. That car came along, going the same way as themselves, just as they reached the first of the row of faculty dwellings.

There was but one passenger in the car -- a girl; and she was packed around with baggage in a most surprising way.

"Oh!" gasped Helen, in Ruth's ear, "I guess there goes one of the real fancy girls -- the kind that sets the pace at college."

Ruth noticed that Miss Dexter and Miss Purvis craned their necks to see the car and the girl, and she ventured to ask who she was.

"I can't tell you," Miss Dexter said briskly. "I never saw her before."

"Oh! Perhaps, then, she isn't going to the college."

"Yes; she must be. This road goes nowhere else. But she is a freshman, of course."

"An eccentric, I fancy," drawled Miss Purvis. "You must know that each freshman class is bound to have numbered with it some most surprising individuals. Rarae aves, as it were."

Miss Dexter laughed. "But the corners are soon rubbed off and their peculiarities fade into the background. When I was a freshman, there entered a woman over fifty, with perfectly white hair. She was a dear; but, of course, she was an anomaly at college."

"My!" exclaimed Helen. "What did she want to go to college for?"

"The poor thing had always wanted to go to college. When she was young there were few women's colleges. And she had a big family to help, and finally a bedridden sister to care for. So she remained faithful to her home duties, but each year kept up with the graduating class of a local preparatory school. She was really a very well educated and bright woman; only peculiar."

"And what happened when she came to Ardmore?" asked Ruth, interested, "is she still here?"

"Oh, no. She remained only a short time. She found, she said, that her mind was not nimble enough, at her age, to keep up with the classes. Which was very probably true, you know. Unless one is constantly engaged in hard mental labor, one's mind must get into ruts by the time one is fifty. But she was very lovely, and quite popular -- while she lasted."

Helen was more interested just then in the row of cottages occupied by the members of the faculty, and here strung along the left side of the highway. They were pretty houses, set in pretty grounds.

"Oh, look, Helen!" cried Ruth, suddenly.

"The lake!" responded Helen.

The dancing blue waters of Lake Remona were visible for a minute between two of the houses. Ruth, too, caught a glimpse of the small island which raised its hilly head in the middle of the lake.

"Is that Bliss Island?" she inquired of Miss Dexter.

"Yes. You can see it from here. That doesn't belong to the college."

"No?" said Ruth, in surprise: "But, of course, the girls can go there?"

"It is 'No Man's Land,' I believe. Belongs to none of the estates surrounding the lake. We go there -- yes," Miss Dexter told her. "The Stone Face is there."

"What is that, please?" asked Ruth, interested. "What is the Stone Face?"

"A landmark, Miss Fielding. That Stone Face was quite an important spot last May -- wasn't it, Purvis?" the senior asked the other girl.

"Oh, goodness me, yes!" said Miss Purvis. "Don't mention it. Think what it has done to our Kappa Alpha."

"What do you suppose ever became of that girl?" murmured Miss Dexter, thoughtfully.

"I can't imagine. It was a sorry time, take it all in all. Let's not talk of it, Merry. Our sorority has a setback from which it will never recover."

All this was literally Greek to Ruth, of course. Nor did she listen with any attention. There were other things for her and Helen to be interested in, for the main building of the college had come into view.

They had been gradually climbing the easy slope of College Hill from the east. The main edifice of Ardmore did not stand upon the summit of the eminence. Behind and above the big, winged building the hill rose to a wooded, rounding summit, sheltering the whole estate from the north winds.

Just upon the edge of the forest at the top was an octagon-shaped observatory. Ruth had read about it in the Year Book. From the balcony of this observatory one could see, on a clear day, to the extreme west end of Lake Remona -- quite twenty-five miles away.

The newcomers, however, were more interested at present in the big building which faced the lake, half-way down the southern slope of College Hill, and which contained the hall and classrooms, as well as the principal offices. The beautiful campus was in front of this building.

"All off for Dare and Dorrance," shouted the stage driver, stopping his vehicle.

The driveway here split, one branch descending the hill, while the main thread wound on past the front of the main building. Ruth and Helen scrambled down with their bags.

"Good-bye," said Miss Dexter smiling on them. "Perhaps I shall see you when you come over to the registrar's office. We seniors have to do the honors for you freshies."

Miss Purvis, too, bade them a pleasant good-bye. The chums set off down the driveway. On their left was the great, sandstone, glass-roofed bulk of the gymnasium, and they caught a glimpse of the fenced athletic field behind it.

Ahead were the two big dormitories upon this side of the campus -- Dare and Dorrance Halls. The driveway curved around to the front of these buildings, and now the private touring car the girls had before noticed, came shooting around from the lake side of the dormitories, passing Ruth and Helen, empty save for the chauffeur.

"Goodness!" exclaimed Helen. "I wonder if that dressy girl with all the goods and chattels is bunked in our dormitory?"

"'Our' dormitory, no less!" laughed Ruth. "Do you feel as much at home already as that?"

"Goodness! No. I'm only trying to make myself believe it. Ruth, what an e-nor-mous place this is! I feel just as small as -- as a little mouse in an elephant's stall."

Ruth laughed, but before she could reply they rounded the corner of the building nearest to the campus and saw the group of girls upon its broad porch, the stranger at the foot of the steps, and the heap of baggage piled where the chauffeur had left it.

"Hello!" May MacGreggor said, aloud, "here are a couple more kittens. Look at the pretty girl with the brown eyes and hair. And the smart-looking, black-eyed one. Now! here are freshies after my own heart."

Edith Phelps refused to be called off from the girl and the baggage, however. She said coolly:

"I really don't know what you will do with all that truck, Miss Fielding. The rooms at Dare are rather small. You could not possibly get all those bags and the trunk -- and certainly not that hat-box -- into one of these rooms."

"My name isn't Fielding," said the strange girl, paling now, but whether from anger or as a forerunner to tears it would have been hard to tell. Her face was not one to be easily read.

"Your name isn't Fielding?" gasped Edie Phelps, while the latter's friends burst into laughter. "'R. F.'! What does that stand for, pray?"

At this moment the fleshy girl who had been all this time in the background on the porch, flung herself forward, burst through the group, and ran down the steps. She had spied Ruth and Helen approaching.

"Ruthie! Helen! Ruth Fielding! Isn't this delightsome?"

The fleshy girl tried to hug both the chums from Cheslow at once. Edie Phelps and the rest of the girls on the porch gazed and listened in amazement. Edie turned upon the girl with the heap of baggage, accusingly.

"You're a good one! What do you mean by coming here and fooling us all in this way? What's your name?"

"Rebecca Frayne -- if you think you have a right to ask," said the new girl, sharply.

"And you're not the canned drama authoress?"

"I don't know what you mean, I'm sure," said Rebecca Frayne. "But I would like to know what I'm to do with this baggage."

Ruth had come to the foot of the steps now with Helen and the fleshy girl, whom the chums had hailed gladly as "Jennie Stone." The girl of the Red Mill heard the speech of the stranger and noted her woebegone accent. She turned with a smile to Rebecca Frayne.

"Oh! I know about that," she said. "Just leave your trunk and bags here and put your card and the number of your room on them. The men will be along very soon to carry them up for you. I read that in the Year Book."

"Thank you," said Rebecca Frayne.

The group of sophomores and freshmen on the porch opened a way for the Briarwood trio to enter the house, and said never a word. Jennie Stone was, as she confessed, grinning broadly.



Chapter V

Getting Settled


"What does this mean, Heavy Jennie?" demanded Helen, pinching the very comfortable arm of their fleshy friend.

"What does that mean? Ouch, Helen! You know you're pinching something when you pinch me."

"That's why I like to. No fun in trying to make an impression on bones, you know."

"But it doesn't hurt bones so much," grumbled Jennie. "Remember what the fruit-stand man printed on his sign: 'If you musta pincha da fruit, pincha da cocoanut.' You can't so easy bruise bony folk, Helen."

"You are dodging the issue, Heavy," declared Helen. "What does this mean?"

"What does what mean?" demanded the fleshy girl, grinning widely again.

"How came you here, of course?" Ruth put in, smiling upon their gay and usually thoughtless friend. "You said you did not think you could come to Ardmore."

"And you had conditions to make up if you did come," declared Helen.

"I made 'em up," said Jennie, laughing.

"And you're here ahead of us! Oh, Heavy, what sport!" cried Helen, undertaking to pinch the plump girl again.

"Now, that's enough of that," said Jennie Stone. "I have feelings, as well as other folk, Helen Cameron, despite my name. Have a heart!"

"We are so glad to see you, Heavy," said Ruth. "You mustn't mind Helen's exuberance."

"And you never said a word about coming here when you wrote to us down South," Helen said, eyeing the fleshy girl curiously.

"I didn't know what to do," confessed Jennie Stone. "I talked it over with Aunt Kate. She agreed with me that, if I had finished school, I'd put on about five pounds a month, and that's all I would do."

"Goodness!" gasped Ruth and Helen, together.

"Yes," said Heavy, nodding with emphasis. "That's what I did the first month. Nothing to do, you see, but eat and sleep. If I'd had to go to work --  -- "

"But couldn't you find something to do?" demanded the energetic Ruth.

"At Lighthouse Point? You know just how lazy a spot that is. And in winter in the city it would be worse. So I determined to come here."

"To keep from getting fatter!" cried Helen. "A new reason for coming to college."

"Well," said Jennie, seriously, "I missed the gym work and I missed being uncomfortable."

"Uncomfortable?" gasped Ruth and Helen.

"Yes. You know, my father's a big man, and so are my older brothers big. Everything in our house is big and well stuffed and comfortable -- chairs and beds and all. I never was comfortable in my bed at Briarwood."

"Horrible!" cried Helen, while Ruth laughed heartily.

"And here!" went on Heavy, lugubriously. "Wait till you see. Do you know, all they give us here is cots to sleep on? Cots, mind! Goodness! when I try to turn over I roll right out on the floor. You ought to see my sides already, how black-and-blue they are. I've been here two nights."

"Why did you come so early?"

"So as to try to get used to the food and the beds," groaned Heavy. "But I never will. One teacher already has advised me about my diet. She says vegetables are best for me. I ate a peck of string beans this noon for lunch -- strings and all -- and I expect you can pick basting threads out of me almost anywhere!"

"The teacher didn't advise you to eat all the vegetables there were, did she?" asked Ruth, as they climbed the stairs.

"She did not signify the amount. I just ate till I couldn't get down another one. I sha'n't want to see another string bean for some time."

Ruth and Helen easily found the rooms that had been drawn for them the June previous. Of course, they were not the best rooms in the hall, for the seniors had first choice, and then the juniors and sophomores had their innings before the freshmen had a chance.

But there was a door between Ruth's and Helen's rooms, as they had hoped, and Jennie's room was just across the corridor.

"We Sweetbriars will stick together, all right," said the fleshy girl. "For defence and offence, if necessary."

"You evidently expect to have a strenuous time here, Heavy," laughed Ruth.

"No telling," returned Jennie Stone, wagging her head. "I fancy there are some 'cut-ups' among the sophs who will try to make our sweet young lives miserable. That Edie Phelps, for instance." She told them how the sophomores had met the new girl, Rebecca Frayne, and why.

"Oh, dear!" said Ruth. "But that was all on my account. We shall have to be particularly nice to Miss Frayne. I hope she's on our corridor."

"Do you suppose they will haze you, Ruth, just because you wrote that scenario?" asked Helen, somewhat troubled.

"There's no hazing at Ardmore," laughed Ruth. "They can't bother me. 'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me!'" she singsonged.

"Just the same," Jennie said, morosely, "that Edie Phelps has a sharp tongue."

"We, too, have tongues," proclaimed Helen, who had no intention of being put upon.

"Now, girls, we want to take just what is handed us good-naturedly," Ruth advised. "We are freshmen. Next year we will be sophomores, and can take it out on the new girls then," and she laughed. "You know, we've all been through it at Briarwood."

"Goodness, yes!" agreed Helen. "It can't be as bad at college as it was during our first term at Briarwood Hall."

"This Edie Phelps can't be as mean as The Fox 'useter was,' I suppose," added Jennie Stone. "Besides, I fancy the sophs need us freshmen -- our good will and help, I mean. The two lower classes here have to line up against the juniors and seniors."

"Oh, dear, me," sighed Ruth. "I hoped we had come here to study, not to fight."

"Pooh!" said the fleshy girl, "where do you go in this world that you don't have to fight for your rights? You never get something for nothing."

However, the possibility of trouble disturbed their minds but slightly. For the rest of the day the trio were very busy. At least, Ruth and Helen were busy arranging their rooms and unpacking, and Jennie Stone was busy watching them.

They went to the registrar's office that day, as this was required. Otherwise, they were in their rooms, after their baggage was delivered, occupied until almost dinner time. Heavy had been on the ground long enough, as she said, to know most of the ropes. They were supposed to dress rather formally for dinner, although not more than two-thirds of the girls had arrived.

There were in Dare Hall alone as many pupils as had attended Briarwood altogether. This was, indeed, a much larger school life on which they were entering.

So many of the girls they saw were older than themselves -- and the trio of girls had been among the oldest girls at Briarwood during their last semester.

"Why, we're only kids," sighed Helen. "There's a girl on this corridor -- at the other end, thank goodness! -- who looks old enough to be a teacher."

"Miss Comstock," said Heavy. "I know. She's a senior. There are no teachers rooming at Dare. Only the housekeeper downstairs. But you'll find a senior at the head of each table -- and Miss Comstock looks awfully stern."

Ruth and Helen found the rooms they were to occupy rather different from those they had chummed in at Briarwood. In the first place, these rooms were smaller, and the furniture was very plain. As Jennie had warned them, there were only cots to sleep upon -- very nice cots, it was true, and there was a heavy coverlet for each, to turn the cots into divans in the daytime.

"I tell you what we can do," Ruth suggested at the start. "Let's make one room the study, and both sleep in the other."

"Bully idea," agreed Helen.

They proceeded to do this, the result being a very plain sleeping room, indeed, but a well-furnished study. They had brought with them all the pennants and other keepsakes from Briarwood, and sofa pillows and cushions for the chairs, and innumerable pictures.

Before night the study looked as homelike as the old room had at the preparatory school. They had rugs, too, and one big lounging chair, purchased second-hand, that Heavy had, of course, occupied most of the afternoon.

"Well! I hope you've finished at last," sighed the fleshy girl when the warning bell for dinner rang. "I'm about tired out."

"You should be," agreed Ruth, commiseratingly. "You've helped so much."

"Advising is harder than moving furniture and tacking up pictures," proclaimed Jennie. "Brain-fag is the trouble with me and hunger."

"We admit the final symptom," said Helen. "But if your brain is ever fagged, Heavy, it will only be from thinking up new and touching menus. Come on, now, we're going to scramble into some fresh frocks. You go and do the same, Miss Lazybones."



Chapter VI

Miss Cullam's Trouble


Ruth and Helen were much more amply supplied with frocks of a somewhat dressy order than when they began a semester at Briarwood Hall. Their wardrobes here were well filled, and of course there was no supervision of what they wore as there had been at the preparatory school.

When they went downstairs to the dining-room with Jennie Stone, they found they had made no mistake in "putting their best foot forward," as Helen called it.

"My! I feel quite as though I were going to a party," Ruth confessed.

The girls rustled through the corridors and down the wide stairways, laughing and talking, many of the freshmen, it was evident, already having made friends.

"There's that girl," whispered Jennie Stone, suddenly.

"What girl?" asked Helen.

"Oh! the girl with all the luggage," laughed Ruth.

"Yes," said the fleshy girl. "What was her name?"

"Rebecca Frayne," said Ruth, who had a good memory.

She bowed to the rather over-dressed freshman. She saw that nobody was walking with Rebecca Frayne.

"I hope she sits at our table," Ruth added.

"Of course," Helen rejoined, with a smile, "Ruth has already spied somebody to be good to."

"Shucks!" said Jennie. "I don't think she'd make a particularly pleasant addition to our party."

"What does that matter?" demanded Helen, roguishly. "Ruth is always picking up the sore-eyed kittens."

"I think that is unkind," returned Ruth, shaking her head. "Maybe Miss Frayne is a very nice girl."

"I wonder what she's got in all those bags and the big trunk?" said Jennie. "I see she's wearing the same dress she traveled in."

"I wager she misses her maid," sighed Helen. "Can't dress without one, I s'pose."

But there were too many other girls to watch and to comment on for the trio to give much attention to Rebecca Frayne. Ruth, however, said, with a little laugh:

"I must feel some interest in her. Her initials are the same as mine."

"And her arrival certainly took the curse off yours, my dear," Jennie agreed. "Edie Phelps and her crowd were laying for you and no mistake."

"I wonder if we shouldn't eschew all slang now that we have come to Ardmore?" Helen suggested demurely.

"You set the example then, my lady!" cried Heavy.

Miss Comstock, the very severe looking senior, sat at the table at which the Briarwood trio of freshmen found their numbers; but Miss Frayne was at the housekeeper's table. There were ten or twelve girls at each table and throughout the meal a pleasant hum of voices filled the room.

Ruth and Helen, not to mention their fleshy chum, were soon at their ease with their neighbors; nor did Miss Comstock prove such a bugaboo as they feared. Although the senior was a particularly silent girl, she had a pleasant smile and was no wet blanket upon the enjoyment of the dinner. At least, she did not serve as a wet blanket upon Jennie Stone. The fleshy girl's appetite betrayed the fact that she had been stinted at noon, and that a diet of string beans was scarcely a satisfactory one.

As they left the dining-room and came out into the wide, well-lighted entrance hall of the house, a lady just entering bowed to Jennie Stone.

"There she is!" groaned the fleshy girl. "Caught in the act!"

"Who is she, Heavy?" demanded Helen, in an undertone.

"She looks nice," observed Ruth.

"Miss Cullam. She's the one that advised the string beans," declared Jennie out of the corner of her mouth. Then she added, most cordially: "Oh! how do you do! These are my two chums from Briarwood -- Ruth Fielding and Helen Cameron. Miss Cullam, girls."

The teacher, who was rather elderly, but very brisk and neat, if not wholly attractive, approached smiling.

"You will meet me in mathematics, young ladies," she said, shaking hands with the two introduced freshmen. "And how are you to-night, Miss Stone? Have you stuck to your vegetable diet, as I advised?"

Heavy made her jolly, round face seem as long as possible, and groaned hollowly.

"Oh, Miss Cullam!" she said, "I believe I could have stuck to the diet, if --  -- "

"Well, if what?" demanded the teacher.

"If the diet would only stick to me. But it doesn't. I ate pecks of string beans for lunch, and by the middle of the afternoon I felt like a castaway after two weeks upon a desert island."

"Nonsense, Miss Stone!" exclaimed the teacher, yet laughing too. Heavy was so ridiculous that it was impossible not to be amused. "You should practise abstinence. Really, you are the very fattest girl at Ardmore, I do believe."

"That sounds horrid!" declared Jennie with sudden vigor, and she did not look pleased.

"You may as well face the truth, my dear," said the mathematics teacher, eyeing the distressing curves of the fleshy girl without prejudice. "Here are upwards of a thousand girls -- or will be when all have arrived and registered. And you will be locally famous."

"Oh, don't!" groaned Ruth.

"Poor Heavy!" gasped Helen.

Miss Cullam uttered a short laugh.

"Your friends evidently love you, my dear," she said, patting the fleshy girl's plump cheek. "But you want to make new friends -- you wish to be admired, I know. It will not be pleasant to gain the reputation of being Ardmore's heavyweight, will it?"

"It sounds pretty bad," admitted Heavy, coming out of her momentary slough of despond. "But we all have our little troubles, don't we, Miss Cullam?"

Somehow this question seemed to quench the teacher of mathematics' good spirits. A cloud settled upon her countenance, and she nodded seriously.

"We all have; true enough, Miss Stone," she said. "And I hope you, as pupils at Ardmore, will never suffer such disturbance of mind as I, a teacher, sometimes do."

Ruth, who had started up the stairway next to the teacher, put a friendly hand upon Miss Cullam's arm. "I hope we three will never add to your burdens, my dear Miss Cullam," she whispered.

The instructor flashed a rather wondering look at the girl of the Red Mill; then she smiled. It was a grouty person, indeed, who could look into Ruth Fielding's frank countenance and not return her smile.

"Bless you! I have heard of you already, Ruth Fielding. I have no idea I shall be troubled by you or your friends." They had fallen behind the others a few steps. "But we never can tell. Since last term -- well!"

Much, evidently, was on Miss Cullam's mind; yet she kept step with Ruth when they came to the corridor on which the rooms of the three Briarwoods opened. Ruth could always find something pleasant to say. This woman with the care-graved countenance smiled whimsically as she listened, keeping at the girl's shoulder.

Evidently somewhat oppressed by the attentions of the instructor, Helen and Heavy had disappeared into the fleshy girl's room.

"Do come in and see how nicely we have fixed our sitting-room -- study, I mean, of course," and Ruth laughed, opening the door.

"Looks homelike," confessed Miss Cullam. Then, with a startled glance around the room, she murmured: "Why, it's the very room!"

"What is that you say?" asked Ruth, curiously.

"Do you know who had this room last year?"

"Of course I haven't the first idea," returned the girl of the Red Mill.

"Miss Rolff."

"Do I know her?" asked Ruth, somewhat puzzled.

"She left before the end of the term. I -- I am not sure just what the matter was with her. But she is connected in my mind with a great misfortune."

"Indeed, Miss Cullam?" said the sympathetic Ruth.

It was, perhaps, the sympathy in her tone that urged the instructor to confide her trouble to a strange girl -- a freshman, at that!

"I hope I shall never have the same fears and doubts regarding you and your friends, Miss Fielding, that I have felt about some of these girls who are now sophomores -- and some of the juniors, too."

"Oh, Miss Cullam! What do you mean?"

"Well, I'll tell you, my dear," the teacher said, taking the comfortable chair at Ruth's gestured recommendation, as the girl switched on the electricity. "You seem like an above-the-average sensible girl --  -- "

Ruth laughed at that, but she dimpled, too, and Miss Cullam joined in the laughter.

"Some of these girls were mere flyaways," she said. "But not many, after all. Girls who come as far as college, even to the freshman course in college, usually have something in their pretty noddles besides ideas for dressing their hair.

"Well, I will confide in you, as I say, because I have a fancy to. I like you. Listen to the troubles of a poor mathematics instructor."

"Yes, Miss Cullam," said Ruth, demurely.

"You see, my dear," said Miss Cullam, who had a whimsical way about her that Ruth had begun to delight in, "after all, we college instructors are all necessarily of the race of watch dogs."

"Oh, Miss Cullam!"

"Our girls are put upon their honor and are in the main worthy of our confidence. But we have experiences that show us how frail human virtue is.

"For instance, there are examinations. A most trying necessity are examinations. They come mainly toward the close of the college year, and a few of our girls are not prepared to pass.

"Last year I felt that some of my freshmen and sophomores could not possibly comply with the mathematical requirements. When I received from the printers my copies of the questions to be proposed to the classes I really felt that a few of my girls were going to have a hard time," and she smiled again, yet there was still trouble in her eyes.

"I chanced to be in the library when I received the papers. You have not seen our library yet, have you, Miss Fielding?"

"No, Miss Cullam. You know, Helen and I arrived only this afternoon at Ardmore."

"That is so. Well, the library is a very beautifully furnished building. It was a gift from certain alumni. I was alone in the reception-room when I examined the papers, and being called suddenly to a duty and not wishing to take the papers with me, I rolled them up and thrust them into a vase standing upon the table. When I returned in a few minutes, still hurried by a task before me, I found that I had thrust the papers so far into the small-mouthed vase that I could not reach them. Quite a ridiculous situation, was it not?

"But now the plot thickens," went on the teacher, with a sigh. "The papers were safe enough there, of course. The vase was a very beautiful and valuable silver one, and had its place of honor on that table. I could not stop to retrieve the question papers with a pair of tongs -- as I might, had I not been hurried. When I returned armed with the tongs in the morning --  -- "

"Yes, Miss Cullam?" rejoined Ruth, interestedly, as the teacher paused in her story.

"The vase -- and, of course, the question papers -- was gone," said the lady, in a sepulchral tone.

"Oh!"

"And almost all the girls I had marked for failure in mathematics went through the examination with colors flying!"

"Oh!" exclaimed Ruth again, and quite blankly.

"Do you see the terrible suspicion that has been eating at my mind ever since? There happened to be other unfortunate matters connected with the disappearance of the vase, too. It has never been found. One of the very freshmen who I feared would fail in the examination left the college under a cloud."

"Oh, Miss Cullam!" gasped Ruth. "Is she suspected of stealing the vase -- and the examination papers?"

"I scarcely know what to say in answer to that," said Miss Cullam, gravely. "It seems that one of the sororities was initiating candidates on that night. One of the -- er -- 'stunts,' as they call their ridiculous ceremonies, included the filching of this vase after dark and its burial somewhere on Bliss Island. So Dr. Milroth later informed me.

"The girl chosen for this ridiculous performance, Miss Rolff, who occupied this very room, was found at daybreak wandering alone upon the island in a hysterical condition. She insisted upon leaving the college immediately, before I had discovered the absence of the vase and the missing papers.

"I felt that I could not arouse suspicion in Dr. Milroth's mind by mentioning the papers. I secured copies from the printer. Of course, it is all ancient history now, my dear," ended the mathematics teacher, with a sigh. "But you see, suspicion once fastened upon my mind, it still troubles me."

"But what became of the poor girl?" asked Ruth, sympathetically.

"That I cannot tell you," Miss Cullam said, rising. "She has not returned this year, and I understand that Dr. Milroth lost trace of her."



Chapter VII

Fame Is Not Always An Asset


Just why the teacher of mathematics had taken Ruth Fielding into her confidence upon this rather curious event, it would be hard to say. Teachers are human like other people, and perhaps sometimes prone to gossip.

However, Ruth felt that it was a confidence, and she did not mention the matter of the missing examination papers to her chum or to Jennie Stone. The other Briarwood girls were the only members of the freshman class Ruth was likely to be intimate with for some days.

Friendships are not made so quickly at college as at smaller schools. There were so many girls that it took some time for the trio to adjust themselves and to become acquainted with their mates.

In the morning they went again to the registrar's office, and there they met Miss Dexter, who was appointed to escort them about, show them the college offices, the bookstore, and introduce them to such of the instructors as came in the path of the new girls.

Of course, their tuition fees -- one hundred and seventy-five dollars each -- for the year had been already paid. Their board would be nine dollars weekly, and all books, stationery, gymnastic suits and supplies, as well as medical and hospital fees (if they chanced to be ill) would be extra.

There were only a few simple rules of behavior to note. If a girl is not well trained in ladylike demeanor before arriving at the college age she is, of course, hopeless. The faculty have other things to do besides watching the manners as well as the mental attributes, of the students.

Ruth and her friends learned that they were not to leave the college grounds before six in the morning.

"And who'd want to?" demanded Heavy. "That's the best time to sleep."

However, the fleshy girl soon learned that if she was to have a reasonable time for breakfast she must be up betimes. The meal was served from seven to a quarter to eight. Chapel was at eight-thirty, but not compulsory. Recitations began at nine and lunch was at twelve.

Recitations and lectures (these latter did not interest our freshmen, for they had no lectures the first year) ended at three-thirty, when, all the girls were supposed to take gymnastics of some kind. Otherwise, their time was their own until dinner at six o'clock.

The girls had the time free from seven till seven-thirty. The following two hours were those devoted to quiet study (or should be) in their own rooms, or in the reference department of the library. At ten all were supposed to retire.

The students might leave the grounds at any time during the day, but never in the evening without a chaperon. These rules and requirements seemed easy enough to the trio from Briarwood Hall, used as they were to the far stricter oversight of the teachers in the preparatory institution.

More girls appeared at Ardmore that day, and the one following would see the opening of the semester and, as Jennie Stone said, "the buckling down to real work." A notice was posted on the bulletin boards already commanding all freshmen to meet at Hoskin Hall after dinner that evening, signed by the president of the sophomore class.

"What's she got to do with us?" Helen demanded, with a sniff.

"Aren't we allowed to run our own class affairs here?" Heavy asked.

"I fancy not," Ruth rejoined. "Miss Dexter told me that the sophs and freshies were usually lined up against the two older classes. The sophs need us, and we need them."

"I have an idea," said Heavy, with a warning shake of her head, "that some of the sophs don't care so much for us."

The trio were returning from the college hall as they chatted. Helen suddenly exclaimed:

"Girls! did you ever see so many tam-o'-shanters in your little lives? And such a wealth of colors?"

It was true that every girl in sight (and there were "just hundreds!" to quote Heavy again), unless she were bareheaded, wore a tam-o'-shanter.

"The most popular thing in head covering at Ardmore this year, that is sure," said Ruth.

"Oh! will you look at the one that Frayne girl is wearing?" Helen gasped.

"Goodness!" said Heavy. "Looks like an Italian sunset."

"Or a badly scrambled egg," put in Helen. "There! I believe that girl would look a fright whatever she put on."

"She can't help her taste, poor girl," Ruth said.

"My!" sighed Heavy. "I like to hear you talk, Ruth. You're as full of excuses for everybody criticised as a chestnut is of meat," and she nibbled one of the nuts in question as she spoke. Then:

"Wow! Oh, the nasty thing!"

Helen laughed uproariously. "Something besides meat in that chestnut, Heavy. Did it squirm much?"

"Don't ask me," said the fleshy girl, gloomily. "Of such is life! 'I never owned a gay gazelle --  -- '"

"Cut it out. You never owned a gazelle of any kind," said Helen. "You know you never did."

It was just here that the trio came upon a group of girls of whom Edith Phelps was evidently the leader. It was opposite the gymnasium, under the wide-spreading oaks that gave shade to that quarter of the campus. The Briarwood girls had been about to enter the gymnasium building to look around.

Edith and her friends were mostly in gymnasium costumes. They had been tossing the medicine ball; but it was plain that they had gathered here near the path the three freshmen friends followed, for a purpose.

"Oh, here comes the leading lady!" cried Edith Phelps, in a high and affected voice. "Get set! Camera!"

The girls, or most of them, struck most ridiculous attitudes at Edie's word, while an oblong, black box suddenly appeared, affixed upon a tripod, and May MacGreggor, who was out for fun as much as any of the sophomores, began to turn a tiny crank on one side of the box.

"Hi! what are you trying to do -- you fat person there?" demanded Edie, excitedly, imitating a movie director, and waving back the amazed and somewhat angry Jennie Stone. "Want to crab the film?"

"Oh, the mean things!" gasped Helen, growing as red as though the joke were aimed directly at herself.

"Cracky!" murmured the fleshy girl, who couldn't help seeing the ridiculous side of it. "Isn't that funny?"

At the moment, too, a thin little tune began to wander from the black box, none other than "The Wearing of the Green." Inside the box was one of those little, old-fashioned Swiss music boxes, and May was industriously turning the crank.

"Register fear, Miss Fielding!" shouted Edith, energetically. "Fear, I say! Don't you realize that you are about to be flung over a cliff and that a mad bull is waiting bel-o-o-w to catch you on his horns? Close up of the bull, please!"

Ruth had been first surprised, then not a little displeased; but she knew instinctively if she showed that this buffoonry offended and troubled her it would only be repeated again and again.

Much better able than her chum, Helen Cameron, to control her features, she began now to smile broadly.

"Girls!" she said aloud to her two friends, "it must be that that girl knows Mr. Grimes personally or has seen him at work. You remember Mr. Grimes, the Alectrion director who filmed our play at Briarwood?"

"And was so nasty to Hazel Gray? I should say!" exclaimed Jennie, instantly falling in with Ruth's attempt to pass the incident off as a joke.

"I think she's nasty-mean," muttered Helen, her black eyes snapping.

"If you played that tune while making a film for me, Miss MacGreggor, I should want to jig," Heavy cried, and started to do a few ridiculous steps in front of the black box.

Ruth continued to smile, too, saying to Edith Phelps: "You might have warned us of this. I'd have liked to primp a little before posing for the camera."

The other girls laughed. It did not take much to make them laugh, and it is possible that they laughed as much at Edie as with her. But as the trio of freshmen went on toward Dare Hall, Ruth shook her head doubtfully.

"What's the matter, Ruthie?" asked Helen, squeezing her arm. "The mean things!"

"I wonder," murmured Ruth.

"You wonder what?" demanded Helen.

Ruth sighed. "I guess fame isn't always an asset," she said.



Chapter VIII

The Stone Face


Ruth knew better than to show anger over any such silly joke. If she was to be made the laughing stock of her class by the sophomores, she might as well face it and bear the cross good-naturedly.

Ruth was as sensitive as any refined girl. It hurt her to be ridiculed. But she had not spent years at boarding school without learning that the best way -- indeed, the only way -- to bear successfully such indignity is to ignore it. That is, to ignore the fun poked at one as far as possible. To bear the jokes with a smile. So she would not allow her friends to comment much upon this scene before the gymnasium building.

She had never given herself airs because of her success in writing scenarios. Another girl might have done so. But Ruth was naturally modest, and had never really ceased to be surprised at her own success.

The new scenario she was at work upon, the scenes of which were laid at the Red Mill, was born of an idea she had evolved when her attention had first been turned to motion-picture writing.

Mr. Hammond, her kind friend and the president of the Alectrion Film Corporation, had advised her to postpone the use of this idea until she had tried her apprentice hand on other and simpler scenarios. The time seemed ripe now, however, for the writing of "Crossed Wires," and he had encouraged her to go ahead.

All the visible effect Edith Phelps' joke had upon Ruth was to send her to the unfinished scenario. After returning from the college offices on this occasion she worked on her play until lunch time.

"There's too much new to see and to do for you to pore over letter writing, Ruth," Helen declared, misunderstanding her friend's occupation. "We want to see Ardmore. We want to go out on the lake if we can get a boat. We've got to see the gym and the library. And to-night we must turn up at this meeting, it seems, and see what Miss Dunstan, the soph president, has to say to us freshies."

"Oh, I want to go out on the lake!" cried Ruth, agreeing. "And I want to explore that island."

"What island?" demanded Jennie, coming into the chums' study.

"Bliss Island."

"'Tisn't part of the college grounds," said the fleshy girl.

"Don't care. Want to see it," declared Ruth. "I hope we can get a boat. I didn't see many in use this morning."

"Some of the girls own their own. Especially canoes," said Jennie Stone. "But it's the thing to make the 'eight.' Let me tell you, us Ardmores are supposed to be some rowists! Our first eight beat the Gillings College first eight last June."

"We'll all try for the eight then," Helen said.

"And you, Jennie?" asked Ruth, mildly.

"Oh, me!"

"String beans for yours, Heavy," Helen cried, clapping her hands. "You'll have to diet on them until you have reduced to little more than a string yourself if you expect to make the eight."

"Bet I could do it," grumbled Heavy.

"A bet's a bet!" cried Helen. "I take you."

"Don't be rude, girls," advised Ruth. "You sound like regular, sure-enough gamblers. And, anyway, Heavy will never be able to make the eight. She might as well pay her wager now."

"Oh! oh! oh!" laughed Helen. "A palpable hit!"

"You just see!" said Heavy, firmly. "I'll show you."

"My dear," Ruth said, "if you show us a sylph-like form in time to make the freshman eight --  -- "

"It will be the eighth wonder of the world," finished Helen.

Jennie tossed her head. "I don't know about the sylph-like form, but at least I mean to possess a slender figure when I have followed Miss Cullam's advice on diet. You'll see!"

"Poor Heavy!" groaned Helen. "She is letting herself in for a most awful time, and no mistake."

After luncheon the three girls set forth to explore the place.

"If I keep this up I'll need nothing else to get me thin. We have tramped miles," the fleshy girl announced at length. "Oh! my poor, poor feet!"

"Wear sensible shoes, then," said Helen, who was the very last person to follow her own advice on this point.

"Easy enough to say," groaned Jennie. "There ain't any such an animal! You know that in this day and generation shoe makers have ceased to make sensible shoes. I look at 'em in the shop windows," pursued the aching girl, "and I wonder what sort of foot the human pedal extremity will become in a generation or two. Those pointed toes!

"Why," declared the suddenly warmed up Jennie Stone, "they tell us about a two-toed sloth living in Central and South America. Believe me! the present-day shoemaker seems to have secured a last to fit a one-toed sloth."

"I don't know about the number of their toes," Ruth said, laughing; "but many of those who wear the fancy shoes are sloths, all right."

They had looked over the library before this, and walked down past Hoskin and Hemmingway Halls on the west side of the campus, and so reached the lake. There were some girls at the boathouse, and a few craft were out. It was possible for the three friends to get a boat and Ruth and Helen rowed, with Heavy lazily reclining in the stern.

"Beginning that strenuous life that is to reduce your weight, Heavy?" questioned Helen.

"I am practising deep breathing," Jennie said. "They say that helps a lot."

They headed the light skiff directly for Bliss Island. It was not more than a mile off shore, and was a beautiful place. At the landing they saw several girls whom they knew were sophomores, for among them was May MacGreggor.

"Here are some more of Cook's Trippers," said the Scotch girl, gaily. "Seeing the sights, mes infantes?"

"Trying to," Jennie announced. "But you're really not so bad looking, Miss MacGreggor. I wouldn't call you a 'sight.'"

"Now, that will be all of that, Miss Stone!" exclaimed the sophomore, but her brown eyes danced as the other girls laughed. "I believe you three girls are Briarwoods, are you not?"

"Yes," Helen said.

"I can believe it," said May. "I have felt the briers. Now, let us call a truce."

"With all my heart, Miss MacGreggor," Ruth said quickly.

"You're a good little thing!" returned the Scotch girl. "I know your heart is big enough. And we sophs really shouldn't nag you freshies, you know, for we must pull together against the seniors and juniors. But you'll hear about that to-night."

"Thank you, Miss MacGreggor," Ruth said. "And now that we are at this island, would you mind telling us where the Stone Face is situated?"

"Ah! one of the wonders of the place," said May. "And who told you about the Stone Face, Freshie?"

"I have heard it is well worth seeing," said Ruth, demurely.

"I will be your escort," said May.

They found the Scotch girl very companionable. She led them up a rugged path through the trees and around the rocks.

"And did that girl have to come up here -- and in the dark?" murmured Ruth at last.

"What girl?" Helen asked.

"Who are you talking about, Miss Fielding?" asked the sophomore.

"That girl -- Miss Rolff."

"Oh! don't mention her name!" groaned May MacGreggor. "If it hadn't been for her, you-uns and we-uns wouldn't be cut out of the sororities. A wicked shame!"

"Oh, I've heard about that," said Jennie, puffing because of the hard climb. "Did she really have to come here, and alone, when she was initiated?"

"She started for here," said May, gloomily. "With a flashlight, I believe. But she lost her nerve --  -- 

"There! there's the rock you're looking for."

It was a huge boulder in an open field. At the angle from which they viewed it, the face of the rock really bore some semblance to a human countenance -- the features of an old, old woman.

"Ugly old hag!" was May MacGreggor's comment upon the odd boulder.



Chapter IX

Getting On


The three freshmen friends from Briarwood learned a good deal more that evening than the Year Book would ever have taught them. The girls began to crowd into the Hoskin Hall dining-room right after dinner. The seniors and the juniors disappeared, but there were a large number of sophomores present, besides the president of that class who addressed the freshmen.

The latter learned that in athletics especially the rivalry between the two lower and the two upper classes was intense. It was hardly possible, of course, for any of the freshmen, and for few of the sophomores to gain positions on any of the first college teams in basket ball, rowing, tennis, archery, or other important activities of a physical nature.

All athletic sports, which included, as well as those named above, running and jumping and other track work, were under the direct supervision of the college athletic association. All the girls could belong to that. Indeed, they were expected to, and the fees were small. But for a freshman to show sufficient athletic training to make any of the first teams, would almost seem impossible. They could get on the scrubs and possess their souls with patience, hoping to win places on the first teams perhaps in their sophomore year.

However, there had once been a girl in a freshman class at Ardmore who succeeded in throwing the hammer a record-making distance; and once a freshman had been bow oar in the first eight. These were targets to aim for, Miss Dunstan, the sophomore president, told the new girls.

She was, of course, a member of the athletic committee, and having told the new girls all about the sports she proceeded to advise them about organizing their class and electing officers. This should be done by the end of the first fortnight. Meanwhile, the freshman should get together, become acquainted, and electioneer for the election of officers.

Class politics at Ardmore meant something. There were already groups and cliques forming among the freshmen. It was an honor to hold office in the class, and those who were ambitious, or who wished to control the policy of the class, were already at work.

Ruth and her friends were so ambitious in quite another direction -- in two, in fact -- that they rather overlooked these class activities. The following day actually opened the work of the semester, and as they already had their books the trio settled immediately to their lessons.

They were taking the classical course, a four-years' course. During this first year their studies would be English, a language (their choice of French or German) besides the never-to-be-escaped Latin; mathematics, including geometry, trigonometry and higher algebra. They had not yet decided whether to take botany or chemistry as the additional study.

"We want to keep together as much as possible, in classes as well as out," Helen said. "Let's take the same specials, too."

"I vote for botany," Ruth suggested. "That will take us into the woods and fields more."

"You mean, it will give us an excuse for going into the woods and fields," Jennie said. "I'm with you. And if I have to walk much to cut down weight, it will help."

"My goodness!" exclaimed Helen. "Heavy really has come to college to get rid of her superabundance of fat."

"Surest thing you know," agreed the fleshy girl.

The freshmen learned that they would have from fifteen to eighteen recitation periods weekly, of forty-five minutes each. The recitation periods occurred between nine and twelve in the forenoon and one and three-thirty in the afternoon.

It took several days to get all these things arranged rightly; the three friends managed to get together in all classes. The classes numbered from twenty to forty students and the girls began to get acquainted with the teachers very quickly. Trust youth for judging middle-age almost immediately.

"I like Dr. McCurdy," Helen said, speaking of their English instructor, who was a man. "He knows what he's about and goes right at it. No fooling with him. None of this, 'Now young ladies, I hope you are pleasantly situated and that we are going to be good friends.' Pah!"

Ruth laughed. "The dear old things!" she said gaily. "They mean well -- even that Miss Mara, whom you are imitating. And she does have a beautiful French accent, if she is Irish."

They liked Dr. Frances Milroth. Her talk in chapel was an inspiration, and that first morning some of the girls came out into the sunshine with wet eyelashes. They began to realize that they were here at college for something besides either play or ordinary study. They were at Ardmore to learn to get a grip on life.

Instrumental and vocal music could be taken at any time which did not interfere with the regular recitations, and of course Ruth took the latter as a special, while Helen did not neglect her violin.

"I guess I'll take up the study of the oboe," grumbled Jennie Stone. "I don't seem to know just what to do with myself while you girls are making sweet sounds."

"Why don't you roll, Heavy?" demanded Helen.

"Roll what? Roll a hoop?" asked the fleshy girl.

"No. Roll a barrel, I should say would be nearer to it," Helen responded, eyeing Jennie's plump waistline reflectively. "Get down and roll. Move back the furniture, give yourself plenty of room, and roll. They say that will reduce one's curves."

"Wow! And what would the girl say downstairs under me?" asked Jennie Stone. "I'd begin by being the most unpopular girl in this freshman class."

These first few days were busy ones; but the girls of the freshman class were fast learning just where they stood. Then happened something that awoke most of the class to the fact that they needed to get together, that they must, after all, take up cudgels for themselves.

"Just like a flock of silly sheep, running together when they see a dog," Helen at first said.

"I guess there is a good reason in nature for sheep to do that," Ruth said, on reflection. "Sheep fear wolves more than any other animal, and a dog is a wolf, after all, only domesticated."

"Huh!" grunted Jennie. "Then we are sheep and the seniors are wolves, are they? I could eat up most of these seniors I've seen, myself. I will be a savage sheep -- woof! woof!"

The matter that had made the disturbance, however, was not to be ignored.



Chapter X

A Tempest In A Teapot


Arrangements for the organization of the freshman class had lagged.

This fact may have been behind the notice put upon the bulletin boards all over the Ardmore grounds some time after bedtime one evening and before the rising bell rang the next morning. It intimated a bit of hazing, but hazing of a quality that the faculty could only wink at.

The notice was as follows:

Freshmen

It is the command of the Senior Class of Ardmore that no Freshman shall appear within the college grounds wearing a tam-o'-shanter of any other hue save the herewith designated color, to wit: Baby Blue. This order is for the mental and spiritual good of the incoming class of Freshmen. Any member of said class refusing to obey this order will be summarily dealt with by the upper classes of Ardmore.

Groups gathered immediately after breakfast about the bulletin boards. Of course, the seniors and juniors passed by with dignified bearing, and without comment. The sophomores remained upon the outskirts of the groups of excited freshmen to laugh and jeer.

"A disturbed bumblebees' nest could have hummed no louder," Helen declared, as the three friends walked up to chapel, which they made a point of attending.

"Why! to think of the cheek of those seniors!" ejaculated Jennie. "And the juniors are just as bad!"

"What are you going to do about that tam of yours, Heavy?" asked Ruth, slily. "It's a gay thing -- nothing like baby blue."

"Oh well," growled the fleshy girl, "baby blue is one of my favorite colors."

"Mine, too," said Ruth, drily.

"Oh, girls! Are you going to give right in -- so easy?" gasped Helen.

"I don't feel like making myself conspicuous," Ruth said. "You can wager that most of our class will hustle right off and get the proper hue in tams."

"Then we'd better go to town this very afternoon," Jennie cried, in haste, "and see if we can find three of baby blue shade. The stores will be drained of them by to-morrow."

"But to give -- right -- in!" wailed Helen, who dearly loved a fight.

"No. It isn't that. But, as the advertisements say: 'Eventually, so why not now?' We'll have to come to it. Let's get our tams while the tamming's good."

Helen could not see the reason for obeying the senior order; but she could see no reason, either, for not following her chum's lead. The three girls telephoned for a taxicab, which came to Dare Hall for them at half past three.

They were not the only girls going to town; but some of the freshmen, like Helen, wished to display their independence and refused -- as yet -- to obey the senior command.

A line at the bottom of the notice announced that three days were allowed the freshmen to obtain their proper tam-o'-shanters.

"Three days!" gasped Heavy, as they started off in the little car. "Why, it will take the stores in Greenburg two weeks to supply sufficient tams of the proper color."

"Then if we don't get ours," laughed Ruth, "we'd better go bareheaded until the new tams can be sent us from home."

"I won't do that!" cried the annoyed Helen. "Oh! oh!" she exclaimed, the next moment, and before they were out of the grounds. "See Miss Frayne! She has her scrambled-egg tam on."

"Don't you suppose she has read the notice?" worried Ruth.

"Why hasn't she?"

"Well, she seems to flock together with herself so much. Nobody seems to be chummy with her -- yet," Ruth explained.

"Now, old Mother Worry!" exclaimed Helen, "bother about her, will you?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Ruth, demurely. "I shall, I suppose."

"Goodness, Ruth!" cried Jennie.

They discovered a rather strange thing when they arrived in Greenburg and entered the first store that dealt in ladies' apparel. Oh, yes, indeed! the proprietor had tam-o'-shanters of just the required shade, baby blue. The friends bought immediately for fear some of the other girls who had come to town would find these and buy the proprietor out.

And then, prone to the usual feminine frailty, they went "window shopping." And in every store seeking trade from the college girls they found the baby blue tam-o'-shanters.

"It's the most astonishing thing!" gasped Helen. "What do you suppose it means? Did you ever see so many caps of one kind and color in all your life?"

"It is amazing," agreed Ruth. Yet she was reflective.

Jennie began to laugh. "Wonder if the seniors are just helping out their friends among the tradespeople? It looks as though the storekeepers had bought a superabundance of baby blue caps and the seniors were putting it up to us to save the stores from bankruptcy."

Ruth, however, thought it must be something other than that. Was it that the storekeepers had been notified by the senior "powers that be" to be ready to supply a sudden large demand for tam-o'-shanters of that particular hue?

At least, one little Hebrew asked the three friends if they had already bought their tam-o'-shanters. "For vy, I haf a whole case of your class colors, ladies, that my poy iss opening."

"What class color?" demanded Helen, grumpily enough.

"Oh, Mees! A peau-ti-ful plue!"

"They're all doing it! They're all doing it!" murmured Jennie, staggering out of the "emporium." "This is going to affect my brain, girls. Did the seniors know the storekeepers had the tams in stock, or have the storekeepers been put wise by our elder sisters at Ardmore?"

"What's the odds?" finally laughed Helen, as they got into the waiting car. "We've got our tams. I only hope there are enough to go around."

The appearance of more than a score of baby-blue caps on the campus before evening showed that our trio of freshmen were not the only members of their class who considered it wise to obey the mandate of the lordly seniors, and without question.

The tempest in the teapot, however, continued to rage. Many girls declared they had not come to Ardmore to "be made monkeys of."

"No," May MacGreggor was heard to say. "Some of you were already assisted by nature. But get together, freshies! Can't you read the handwriting on the wall?"

"We can read the typewriting on the billboards," sniffed Helen Cameron. "Don't ask us to strain our eyesight farther."

Perhaps this was really the intention behind the senior order -- that the entering girls should become more quickly riveted into a compact body. How the rooms occupied by the more popular freshmen buzzed during the next few days!

Our trio of friends, Ruth, Helen and Jennie, had been in danger of establishing a clique of three, if they had but known it. Now they were forced to extend their borders of acquaintanceship.

As they were three, and were usually seen about the study-room Ruth and Helen had established, it was natural that other girls of their class on that corridor of Dale Hall should flock to them. They thus became the nucleus at this side of the campus of the freshman class. From discussing the rule of the haughty seniors, the freshmen began to talk of their own organization and the approaching election.

Had Ruth allowed her friends to do so, there would have been started a boom by Helen and Jennie Stone for the girl of the Red Mill for president of the freshman class. This honor Ruth did not desire. There were several girls whom she had noted already among her mates, older than she, and who evidently possessed qualities for the position.

Besides, Ruth Fielding felt that if she became unduly prominent at first at Ardmore, girls like Edith Phelps would consider her a particularly bright target. She told herself again, but this time in private, that fame was not always an asset.



Chapter XI

The One Rebel


However much the natural independence of the freshmen balked at the mandate promulgated by the seniors, baby-blue tam-o'-shanters grew more numerous every hour on the Ardmore campus.

The sophomores were evidently filled with glee; the juniors and seniors smiled significantly, but said nothing. The freshmen had been put in their place at once, it was considered. But the attack upon them had made the newcomers eager for an organization of their own.

"If we are going to be bossed this way -- and it is disgraceful! -- we must be prepared to withstand imposition," Helen announced.

So they began busily settling the matter of the organization of the class and the choosing of its officers. Before these matters were arranged completely, however, there was an incident of note.

The freshmen, as a body, were invited to attend a sophomore "roar." It was to be the first out-of-door "roar" of the year and occurred right after classes and lectures one afternoon. The two lower classes scamped their gymnasium work to make it a success.

Now, a "roar" at Ardmore was much nicer than it sounds. It was merely an open-air singing festival, and this one was for the purpose of making the freshmen familiar with the popular songs of the college.

Professor Leidenburg, the musical director, himself led the outdoor concert. The sophomores stood in a compact body before the main entrance to the college hall. Massed in the background, and in a half circle, were the freshmen.

The weather had become cool and all the girls wore their tam-o'-shanters. For the first time it was noticeable how pretty the pale blue caps on the freshmen's heads looked. And the new girls likewise noted that most of the tam-o'-shanters worn-by their sophomore hostesses were pale yellow.

It was whispered then (and strange none of the freshmen had discovered it before) that the class preceding theirs at Ardmore -- the present sophomores -- had been forced to wear caps of a distinctive color, too. These pale yellow ones were their old caps, left over from the previous winter.

The open-air assemblages of the college were made more attractive by this scheme of a particular class color in head-wear.

There was a blot in the assembly of the freshmen on this occasion. It was not discovered in the beginning. Soon, however, there was much whispering, and looking about and pointing.

"Do you see that?" gasped Jennie, who had been straining her neck and hopping up and down on her toes to see what the other girls were looking at.

"What are you rubbering at, Heavy?" demanded Helen, inelegantly.

"Yes; what's all the disturbance?" asked Ruth.

"That girl!" ejaculated the fleshy one.

"What girl now? Any particular girl?"

"She's not very particular, I guess," returned Jennie, "or she wouldn't do it."

"Jennie!" demanded Helen. "Who do what?"

"That Frayne girl," explained her plump friend.

Rebecca Frayne stood well back in the lines of freshmen. It could not be said that she thrust herself forward, or sought to gain the attention of the crowd. Nevertheless, among the mass of pale blue tam-o'-shanters, her parti-colored one was very prominent.

"Goodness!" gasped Ruth. "Doesn't she know better?"

"Do you suppose she is one of those stubborn girls who just 'won't be driv'?" giggled Helen.

It was no laughing matter. The three days of grace written upon the seniors' order regarding the caps had now passed. There seemed no good reason for one member of the freshman class to refuse to obey the command. Indeed, they had all tacitly agreed to do as they were told -- upon this single point, at least.

"There certainly are enough of them left in town so that she can buy one," Jennie Stone said.

"Goodness!" snapped Helen. "If my complexion can stand such a silly color, hers certainly can."

Before the out-of-doors concert was over, news of this rebellion on the part of a single freshman had run through the crowd like a breath of wind over ripe wheat. It almost broke up the "roar."

As the last verse of the last song was ended and the company began to disperse, the freshmen themselves, and the sophomores as well, stared at Rebecca Frayne in open wonder. She started for her room, which was in Dare Hall on the same corridor as that of the three girls from Briarwood, and Ruth and Helen and Jennie were right behind her.

"That certainly is an awful tam," groaned Jennie. "What do you suppose makes her wear it, anyway? Let alone the trouble --  -- "

She broke off. Miss Dexter, the first senior who had spoken to Ruth and Helen coming over from the railway station on the auto-bus, stopped the strange girl whose initials were the same as those of the girl of the Red Mill.

"Will you tell me, please, why you are wearing that tam-o'-shanter?" asked Miss Dexter.

Rebecca Frayne's head came up and a spot of vivid red appeared in either of her sallow cheeks.

"Is that your business?" she demanded, slowly.

"Do you know that I am a senior?" asked Miss Dexter, levelly.

"I don't care if you are two seniors," returned Rebecca Frayne, saucily.

Miss Dexter turned her back upon the freshman and walked promptly away. The listeners were appalled. None of them cared to go forward and speak to Rebecca Frayne.

"Cracky!" gasped Helen. "She's an awful spitfire."

"She's an awful chump!" groaned Jennie. "The seniors won't do a thing to her!"

But nothing came at once of Rebecca's refusal to obey the seniors' command regarding tam-o'-shanters. It was known, however, that the executive committees of both the senior and junior classes met that next night and supposedly took the matter up.

"Oh, no! They don't haze any more at Ardmore," said Jennie, shaking her head. "But just wait!"



Chapter XII

Ruth Is Not Satisfied


Ruth Fielding was not at all satisfied. Not that her experiences in these first few weeks of college were not wholly "up to sample," as the slangy Jennie Stone remarked. Ruth was getting personally all out of college life that she could expect.

The mere fact that a little handful of the girls looked at her somewhat askance because of her success as a motion picture writer, did not greatly trouble the girl of the Red Mill. She could wait for them to forget her small "fame" or for them to learn that she was quite as simple and unaffected as any other girl of her age. It was about Rebecca Frayne that Ruth was disturbed in her mind. Here was the case of a student who, Ruth believed, was much misunderstood.

She could not imagine a girl deliberately making trouble for herself. Rebecca Frayne by the expenditure of a couple of dollars in the purchase of a new tam-o'-shanter might have easily overcome this dislike that had been bred not alone in the minds of the girls of the two upper classes, but among the sophomores and her own classmates as well. The sophomores thought her ridiculous; the freshmen themselves felt that she was bringing upon the whole class unmerited criticism.

Ruth looked deeper. She saw the strange girl walk past her mates unnoticed, scarcely spoken to, indeed, by the freshmen and ignored completely by members of the other classes. And yet, to Ruth's mind, there seemed to be an air about Rebecca Frayne -- a look in her eyes, perhaps -- that seemed to beg for sympathy.

It was no hardship for Ruth to speak to the girl and try to be friendly with her. But opportunities for this were not frequent.

In the first place Ruth's own time was much occupied with her studies, her own personal friends, Helen and Jennie, and the new scenario on which she worked during every odd hour.

Several times Ruth went to the door of Rebecca's room and knocked. She positively knew the girl was at home, but there had been no answer to her summons and the door was locked.

The situation troubled Ruth. When she was among her classmates, Rebecca seemed nervously anxious to please and eager to be spoken to, although she had little to say. Here, on the other hand, once alone in her room, she deliberately shut herself away from all society.

Soon after the outdoor song festival that had been so successful, and immediately following the organization of the freshman class and its election of officers, Ruth and Helen went over to the library one evening to consult some reference books.

The reference room was well filled with busy girls of all classes, who came bustling in, got down the books they required, dipped into them for a minute and then departed to their own studies, or else settled down to work on their topics for a more extended period.

It was a cold evening, and whenever a girl entered from the hall a breath of frosty air came with her, and most of those gathered in the room were likely to look up and shiver. Few of those assembled failed to notice Rebecca Frayne when she came in.

"Goodness! See who has came," whispered Helen.

"Oh, Rebecca!" murmured Ruth, looking up as the girl in question crossed the room.

"Hasn't she the cheek of all cheeks to breeze in here this way?" Helen went on to say with more force than elegance. "That awful tam again."

One could not fail to see the tam-o'-shanter very well. It was noticeable in any assembly.

Perhaps half of the girls in the reference room were seniors and juniors. Several of the members of the younger classes nodded to the newcomer, though not many noticed her in this way.

There was, however, almost immediately a general movement by the girls belonging to the senior and junior classes. They got up grimly, put away the books they were at work upon, and filed out, one by one, and without saying a word.

Helen stared after them, and nudged Ruth.

"What is it?" asked her chum, who had been too busy to notice.

"Did you see that?" asked Helen.

"Did I see what?"

"There isn't a senior or a jun left in the room. That -- that's something more than a coincidence."

Ruth was puzzled. "I really wish you would explain," she said.

Helen was not the only girl remaining who had noticed the immediate departure of the members of the two older classes. Some of the sophomores were whispering together. Rebecca's fellow-classmen glanced at her sharply to see if she had noticed what had occurred.

"I can't believe it," Ruth said worriedly, after Helen explained. "They would not go out because she came in."

The next day, however, the matter was more marked. Rebecca could sing; she evidently loved singing. In the classes for vocal music there was often a mixture of all grades, some of the seniors and juniors attending with the sophomores and freshmen.

Ruth Fielding, of course, never missed these classes. She hoped to be noticed and have her voice tried out for the Glee Club. Professor Leidenburg was to give a little talk on this day that would be helpful, and the class was well attended.

But when Rebecca Frayne came into the small hall just before the professor himself appeared, there was a stir throughout the audience. The girls, of course, were hatless here; but that morning Rebecca had been seen wearing the "scrambled-egg tam," as Helen insisted upon calling it.

There was an intake of breath all over the room. Rebecca walked down the aisle in search of an empty seat.

And suddenly half the seats were empty. She could have her choice -- and a large one.

"Goodness!" Helen gasped.

Every senior and junior in the room had arisen and had left her seat. Not a word had been spoken, nor had they glanced at Rebecca Frayne, who at first was unaware of what it portended.

The older girls filed out silently. Professor Leidenburg entered by the door beside the organ just in time to see the last of them disappear. He looked a bit surprised, but said nothing and took up the matter at hand with but half an audience.

Rebecca Frayne had seen and understood at last. She sat still in her seat, and Ruth saw that she did not open her lips when, later, the choruses were sung. Her face was very pale.

Nobody spoke to her when the class was dismissed. This was not an intentional slight on the part of her mates; simply, the girls did not know what to say.

The seniors and juniors were showing Rebecca that she was taboo. Their attitude could not be mistaken. And so great was the influence of these older girls of Ardmore upon the whole college that Rebecca walked entirely alone.

Ruth and Helen walked down the hill behind Rebecca that afternoon. Ruth was very silent, while Helen buzzed about a dozen things.

"I -- I wonder how that poor girl feels?" murmured the girl of the Red Mill after a while.

"Cold, I imagine!" declared her chum, vigorously. "I'm half frozen myself, Ruth. There's going to be a big frost to-night and the lake is already skimmed over. Say, Ruth!"

"Well?" asked her friend, absently.

"Let's take our skates first thing in the morning down to that man who sharpens things at the boathouse; will you?"



Chapter XIII

The Girl In The Storm


Ruth Fielding was quite as eager for fun between lessons as either Helen or Jennie, and the prospect of skating on such a large lake as Remona delighted her. The second day following the incident in the chorus class, the ice which had bound Lake Remona was officially pronounced safe.

Gymnasium athletics lost their charm for those girls who were truly active and could skate. There were luxurious damsels who preferred to be pushed about in ice-chairs by more active girls or by hired attendants; but our trio of friends did not look upon that as enjoyment.

Even Jennie Stone was a vigorous skater. After a day or two on the ice, when their ankles had become strong enough, the three made a circuit of Bliss Island -- and that was "some skate," to quote Jennie.

The island was more than a mile from the boathouse, and it was five or six miles in circumference. Therefore, the task was quite all of an eight-mile jaunt.

"But 'do or die' is our motto," remarked Helen, as they set forth on this determined journey. "Let's show these pussy girls what it means to have trained at Briarwood."

"That's all right! that's all right!" grumbled Jennie. "But your motto is altogether too grim and significant. Let's limit it. I want to do if I can; but mercy me! I don't want to die yet. You girls have got to stop and rest when I say so, or I won't go at all."

Ruth and Helen agreed. That is why it took them until almost dinner-time to encircle the island. Jennie Stone was determined to rest upon the least provocation.

"We'll be starved to death before we get back," Helen began to complain while they were upon the south side of the island. "I should think you would feel the pinch of privation, Heavy."

"I do," admitted the other hollowly.

"Well, why didn't you escape it by refusing to come, or else by bringing a lunch?" demanded the black-eyed girl.

"No. This is a part of the system," groaned Jennie.

"What system, I'd like to know?" Ruth asked, in surprise.

"System of martyrdom, I guess," sniffed Helen.

"You've said it," agreed the plump girl. "That is the truest word yet spoken. Martyrdom! that is what it means for me."

"What means to you?" snapped Helen, exasperated because she could not understand.

"This dieting and exercising," Jennie said more cheerfully. "I deliberately came so far and without food to see if I couldn't really lose some weight. Do you know, girls, I am so hollow and so tired right now, that I believe I must have lost a few ounces, anyway."

"You ridiculous thing!" laughed Helen, recovering her good nature.

"Should we sacrifice ourselves for your benefit, do you think, Jennie?" Ruth asked.

"Why not? 'Love thy neighbor as thyself,' only more so. I need the inspiration of you girls to help me," Jennie declared. "Do you know, sometimes I am almost discouraged?"

"About what?" asked Helen.

"About my weight. I watch the bathroom scales with eagle eye. But instead of coming down by pounds, I only fall by ounces. It is awfully discouraging. And then," added the fleshy girl, "the other day when we had such a scrumptuous dinner -- was it Columbus Day? I believe so -- I was tempted to eat one of my old-time 'full and plenty' meals, and what do you think?"

"You had the nightmare," said Helen.

"Not a chance! But I went up two pounds and a half -- or else the scales were crazy!"

"Girls!" exclaimed Ruth, suddenly. "Do you know it is snowing?"

"My! I never expected that," cried Helen, as a feathery flake lit upon the very point of her pretty nose. "Ow!"

"Well, we'd better go on, I guess," Ruth observed. "Put your best foot forward, please, Miss Jennie."

"I don't know which is my best foot now," complained the heavy girl. "They are both getting lame."

"We'll just have to make you sit down on the ice while we drag you," announced Helen, increasing the length of her stroke.

"Not much you won't!" exclaimed Jennie Stone, "I'm cold enough as it is."

"Shall we take off our skates and walk over the island, girls?" suggested Ruth. "That will save some time and more than a little work for Heavy."

"Don't worry about me," put in Jennie. "I need the exercise. And walking would be worse than skating, I do believe."

It was snowing quite thickly now; but the shore of the island was not far away. The trio hugged it closely in encircling the wooded and hilly piece of land.

"Say!" Helen cried, "we're not the only girls out here to-day."

"Huh?" grunted Jennie, head down and skating doggedly.

"See there, Ruth!" called the black-eyed girl.

Ruth turned her face to one side and looked under the shade of her hand, which she held above her eyes. There was a figure moving along the shore of Bliss Island just abreast of them.

"It's a girl," she said. "But she's not skating."

"Who is it? A freshie?" asked Jennie, but little interested.

Ruth did not reply. She seemed wonderfully interested by the appearance of the girl on shore. She fell behind her mates while she watched the figure.

The snow was increasing; and that with the abruptly rising island, furnished a background for the strange girl which threw her into relief.

At first Ruth was attracted only by her figure. She could not see her face.

"Who can she be? Not one of the girls at Dare Hall --  -- "

This idea spun to nothingness very quickly. No! The figure ashore reminded Ruth Fielding of nobody whom she had seen recently. The feeling, however, that she knew the person grew.

The snow blew sharply into the faces of the skating girls; but she on shore was somewhat sheltered from the gale. The wind was out of the north and west and the highland of the island broke the zest of the gale for the strange girl.

"And yet she isn't strange -- I know she isn't," murmured Ruth Fielding, casting another glance back at the figure on the shore.

"Come on, Ruth! Do hurry!" cried Helen, looking back. "Even Heavy is beating you."

Ruth quickened her efforts. The strange girl disappeared, mounting a path it seemed toward the center of the island. Ruth, head bent and lips tightly closed, skated on intent upon her mystifying thoughts.

The trio rounded the island at last. They got the wind somewhat at their backs and on a long slant made for the boathouse landing. It was growing dusk, but there was a fire at the landing that beckoned them on.

"Glad it isn't any farther," Helen panted. "This snow is gathering so fast it clogs one's skates."

"Oh, I must be losing pounds!" puffed Jennie Stone. "I bet none of my clothes will fit me to-morrow. I shall have to throw them all away."

"Oh, Heavy!" giggled Helen. "That lovely new silk?"

"Oh -- well -- I shall take that in!" drawled Jennie.

"I've got it!" exclaimed Ruth, in a most startling way.

"Goodness me! are you hurt?" demanded Helen.

"What you got? A cramp?" asked Jennie, quite as solicitous.

"I know now who that girl looked like," declared Ruth.

"What girl?" rejoined Helen Cameron. "The one over yonder, on the other side of the island?"

"Yes. She looks just like that Maggie who came to the mill, Helen. You remember, don't you? The girl I left to help Aunt Alvirah when I came to college."

"Well, for the land's sake!" said Jennie Stone. "If she's up there at the Red Mill, how can she possibly be down here, too? You're talking out of order, Miss Fielding. Sit down!"



Chapter XIV

"Oft In The Stilly Night"


Ruth Fielding could not get that surprising, that almost unbelievable, discovery out of her mind.

It seemed ridiculous to think that girl could be Maggie, "the waif," she had seen on Bliss Island. Aunt Alvirah had written Ruth a letter only a few days before and in it she said that Maggie was very helpful and seemed wholly content.

"Only," the little old housekeeper at the Red Mill wrote, "I don't know a mite more about the child now than I did when Mr. Tom Cameron and our Ben brought her in, all white and fainty-like."

The girls had to hurry on or be late to dinner. But the very first thing Ruth did when she reached their rooms in Dare Hall was to look up Aunt Alvirah's letter and see when it was dated and mailed.

"It's obvious," Ruth told herself, "that Maggie could have reached here almost as soon as the letter if she had wished to. But why come at all? If it was Maggie over on that island, why was she there?"

Of course, these ruminations were all in private. Ruth knew better than to take her two close friends into her confidence. If she did the mystery would have been the chief topic of conversation after dinner, instead of the studies slated for that evening.

An incident occurred, however, at dinner which served to take Ruth's mind, too, from the mystery. There were a number of seniors and juniors quartered at Dare Hall. Nor were all the seniors table-captains at dinner.

This evening the dining hall had filled early. Perhaps the brisk air and their outdoor exercise had given the girls sharper appetites than usual. It had the three girls from Briarwood. They were wearied after their long skate around the island and as ravenous as wolves. They could scarcely wait for Miss Comstock, at the head of their particular table, to begin eating so they might do so, too.

And just at this moment, as the pleasant bustle of dinner began, and the lightly tripping waitresses were stepping hither and yon with their trays, the door opened and a single belated girl entered the dining hall.

As though the entrance of this girl were expected, a hush fell over the room. Everybody but Jennie looked up, their soup spoons poised as they watched Rebecca Frayne walk down the long room to her place at the housekeeper's table.

"Sh!" hissed Helen, admonishing Jennie Stone.

"What's the matter?" demanded the fleshy girl in surprise. "Is my soup noisy? I'll have to train it better."

But nobody laughed. All eyes were fastened on the girl who had made herself so obnoxious to the seniors and the juniors of Ardmore. She sat down and a waitress put her soup before her. Before poor Rebecca could lift her spoon there was a stir all over the room. Every senior and junior (and there were more than half a hundred in the dining hall) arose, save those acting as table-captains or monitors. The rustle of their rising was subdued; they murmured their excuses to the heads of their several tables in a perfectly polite manner; and not a glance from their eyes turned toward Rebecca Frayne. But as they walked out of the dining hall, their dinners scarcely tasted, the slight put upon the freshman who would not obey was too direct and obvious to be mistaken.

Even Jennie Stone was at length aroused from her enjoyment of the very good soup.

"What do you know about that?" she demanded of Ruth and Helen.

Ruth said not a word. To tell the truth she felt so sorry for Rebecca Frayne that she lost taste for her own meal, hungry though she had been when she sat down.

How Rebecca herself felt could only be imagined. She had already shown herself to be a painful mixture of sensitiveness and carelessness of criticism that made Ruth Fielding, at least, wonder greatly.

Now she ate her dinner without seeming to observe the attitude the members of the older classes had taken.

"Cracky!" murmured Jennie, in the middle of dinner. "She's got all the best of it -- believe me! The seniors and the juns go hungry."

"For a principle," snapped the girl beside her, who chanced to be a sophomore.

"Well," said Jennie, smiling, "principles are far from filling. They're a good deal like the only part of the doughnut that agreed with the dyspeptic -- the hole. Please pass the bread, dear. Somebody must have eaten mine -- and it was nicely buttered, too."

"Goodness! nothing disturbs your calm, does it, Miss Stone?" cried another girl.

Few of the girls in the dining hall, however, could keep their minds or their gaze off Rebecca Frayne. In whispers all through the meal she was discussed by her close neighbors. Girls at tables farther away talked of the situation frankly.

And the consensus of opinion was against her. It was the general feeling that she was entirely in the wrong. The very law which she had essayed to flaunt was that which had brought the freshmen together as a class, and was welding them into a homogeneous whole.

"She's a goose!" exclaimed Helen Cameron.

And perhaps this was true. It did look foolish. Yet Ruth felt that there must be some misunderstanding back of it all. It should be explained. The girl could not go on in this way.

"First we know she'll be packing up and leaving Ardmore," Ruth said worriedly.

"She'll leave nobody in tears, I guess," declared one girl within hearing.

"But she's one of us -- she's a freshman!" Ruth murmured.

"She doesn't seem to desire our company or friendship," said another and more thoughtful girl.

"And she won't pack up in a hurry," drawled Jennie, still eating. "Remember all those bags and that enormous trunk she brought?"

"But, say," began Helen, slowly, "where are all the frocks and things she was supposed to bring with her? We supposed she'd be the peacock of the class, and I don't believe I've seen her in more than three different dresses and only two hats, including that indescribably brilliant tam."

Ruth said nothing. She was thinking. She planned to get out of the dining hall at the same time Rebecca did, but just as the dessert was being passed the odd girl rose quickly, bowed her excuses to the housekeeper, and almost ran out of the hall.

"She was crying!" gasped Ruth, feeling both helpless and sympathetic.

"I wager she bit her tongue, then," remarked Jennie.

Ruth hurried through her dessert and left the dining hall ahead of most of the girls. She glanced through the long windows and saw that it was still snowing.

"I wonder if that girl is over on the island yet?" she reflected as she ran upstairs.

Her first thought just then was of an entirely different girl. She went to Rebecca's door and knocked. She knocked twice, then again. But no answer was returned. No light came through the keyhole, or from under the door; yet Ruth felt sure that Rebecca Frayne was in the room, and weeping. It was a situation in which Ruth Fielding longed to help, yet there seemed positively nothing she could do as long as the stubborn girl would not meet her half way. With a sigh she went to the study she and Helen jointly occupied.

Before switching on the light she went to one of the windows that looked out on the lake. Bliss Island was easily visible from this point. The snow was still falling, but not heavily enough to obstruct her vision much. The white bulk of the island rose in the midst of the field of snow-covered ice. It seemed nearer than it ordinarily appeared.

As Ruth gazed she saw a spark of light on the island, high up from the shore, but evidently among the trees, for it was intermittent. Now it was visible and again only a red glow showed there. She was still gazing upon this puzzling light when Helen opened the door.

"Hello, Ruthie!" she cried. "All in the dark? Oh! isn't the outside world beautiful to-night?"

She came to the window and put her arm about Ruth's waist.

"See how solemnly the snow is falling -- and the whole world is white," murmured the black-eyed girl. "'Oft in the stilly night' --  -- Or is it 'Oft in the silly night'?" and she laughed, for it was not often nor for long that the sentiment that lay deep in Helen's heart rose to the surface. "Oh! What's that light over there, Ruth?" she added, with quick apprehension.

"That is what I have been looking at," Ruth said.

"But you don't tell me what it is!" cried Helen.

"Because I don't know. But I suspect."

"Suspect what?"

"That it is a campfire," said Ruth. "Yes. It seems to be in one spot. Only the wind makes the flames leap, and at one time they are plainly visible while again they are partly obscured."

"Who ever would camp over on Bliss Island on a night like this?" gasped Helen.

"I don't see why you put such mysteries up to me," returned Ruth, with a shrug. "I'm no prophet. But --  -- "

"But what?"

"Do you remember that girl we saw on the island this afternoon?"

"Goodness! Yes."

"Well, mightn't it be she, or a party she may be with?"

"Campers on the island in a snow storm? No girls from this college would be so silly," Helen declared.

"I'm not at all sure she was an Ardmore girl," said Ruth, reflectively.

"Who under the sun could she be, then?"

"Almost anybody else," laughed Ruth. "It is going to stop snowing altogether soon, Helen. See! the moon is breaking through the clouds."

"It will be lovely out," sighed Helen. "But hard walking."

Ruth gestured towards their two pairs of snowshoes crossed upon the wall. "Not on those," she said.

"Oh, Ruthie! Would you?"

"All we have to do is to tighten them and sally forth."

"Gracious! I'd be willing to be Sally Fifth for a spark of fun," declared Helen, eagerly.

"How about Heavy?" asked Ruth, as Helen hastened to take down the snowshoes which both girls had learned to use years before at Snow Camp, in the Adirondacks.

"Dead to the world already, I imagine," laughed Helen. "I saw her to her room, and I believe she was so tired and so full of dinner that she tumbled into bed almost before she got her clothes off. You'd never get her out on such a crazy venture!"

Helen was as happy as a lark over the chance of "fun." The two girls skilfully tightened the stringing of the shoes, and then, having put on coats, mittens, and drawn the tam-o'-shanters down over their ears, they crept out of their rooms and hastened downstairs and out of the dormitory building.

There was not a moving object in sight upon the campus or the sloping white lawns to the level of the frozen lake. The two chums thrust their toes into the straps of their snowshoes and set forth.



Chapter XV

An Odd Adventure


Six inches or more of snow had fallen. It was feathery and packed well under the snowshoes. The girls sank about two inches into the fleecy mass and there the shoes made a complete bed for themselves and the weight of their wearers.

"You know what I'd love to do this winter?" said Helen, as they trudged on.

"What, my dear?" asked Ruth, who seemed much distraught.

"I'd like to try skiing. The slope of College Hill would be just splendiferous for that! Away from the observatory to the lake -- and then some!"

"We'll start a skiing club among the freshies," Ruth said, warmly accepting the idea. "Wonder nobody has thought of it before."

"Ardmore hasn't waked up yet to all its possibilities," said Helen, demurely. "But this umpty-umph class of freshmen will show the college a thing or two before we pass from out its scholastic halls."

"Question!" cried Ruth, laughing. Then: "There! you can see that light again."

"Goodness! You're never going over to that island?" cried Helen.

"What did we come out for?" asked Ruth. "And scamp our study hour?"

"Goodness!" cried Helen, again, "just for fun."

"Well, it may be fun to find out just who built that fire and what for," said Ruth.

"And then again," objected her chum, "it may be no fun at all, but serious."

"I have a serious reason for finding out -- if I can," Ruth declared.

"What is it, dear?"

"I'll tell you later," said Ruth. "Follow me now."

"If I do I'll not wear diamonds, and I may get into trouble," objected Helen.

"You've never got into very serious trouble yet by following my leadership," laughed Ruth. "Come on, Fraid-cat."

"Ain't! But we don't know who is over there. Just to think! A camp in the snow!"

"Well, we have camped in the snow ourselves," laughed Ruth, harking back to an adventure at Snow Camp that neither of them would ever be likely to forget.

They scuffed along on the snowshoes, soon reaching the edge of the lake. Nobody was about the boathouse, for the ice would have to be swept and scraped by the horse-drawn machines before the girls could go skating again.

The moon was pushing through the scurrying clouds, and the snow had ceased falling.

"Look back!" crowed Helen. "Looks as though two enormous animals had come down the hillside, doesn't it?"

"The girls will wake up and view our tracks with wonder in the morning," said Ruth, with a smile. "Perhaps they'll think that some curious monsters have visited Ardmore."

"That would cause more wonderment than the case of Rebecca Frayne. What do you suppose is finally going to happen to that foolish girl?"

"I really cannot guess," Ruth returned, shaking her head sadly. "Poor thing!"

"Why! she can't be poor," gasped Helen. "Look at all those trunks she brought with her to Ardmore. And her dresses are tremendously fancy -- although we've not seen many of them yet."

Ruth stared at her chum for a moment without replying. It was right there and then that she came near to guessing the secret of Rebecca Frayne's trouble. But she forbore to say anything about it at the time, and went on beside her chum toward the white island, much disturbed in her mind.

Now and then they caught sight of the dancing flames of the campfire. But when they were nearer the island, the hill was so steep that they lost sight completely of the light.

"Suppose it's a man?" breathed Helen, suddenly, as they began to climb the shore of Bliss Island.

"He won't eat us," returned Ruth.

"No. They don't often. Only cannibals, and they are not prevalent in this locality," giggled Helen. "But if it is a man --  -- "

"Then we'll turn around and go back," said Ruth, coolly. "I haven't come out here to get acquainted with any male person."

"Bluie! Suppose he's a real nice boy?"

"There's no such an animal," laughed Ruth. "That is, not around here at the present moment."

"Oh yes. I see," Helen rejoined drily. "The nearest nice one is at the Seven Oaks Military Academy."

"So you say," Ruth said demurely. "But if it were Tom?"

"Dear old Tom and some of his chums!" cried Helen. "Wouldn't it be great? This Adamless Eden is rather palling on me, Chum. The other girls have visitors, but our friends are too far away."

"Hush!" advised Ruth. "Whoever it is up there will hear you."

Helen was evidently not at all enamored of this adventure. She lagged behind a little. Yet she would not allow Ruth to go on alone to interview the mysterious camper.

"I tell you what," the black-eyed girl said, after a moment and in a whisper. "I believe that fire is up near the big boulder we looked at -- you remember? The Stone Face, do they call it?"

"Quite possibly," Ruth rejoined briskly. "Come on if you're coming. I'm sure the Stone Face won't hurt us."

"Not unless it falls on us," giggled Helen.

The grove of big trees that covered this part of the hillside was open, and the chums very easily made their way toward the fire, even on snowshoes. But the shoes naturally made some noise as they scuffed over the snow, and in a minute Ruth stopped and slipped her feet out of the straps, motioning Helen to do the same. They wore overshoes so there was no danger of their getting their feet wet in the snow.

Hand in hand, Ruth and Helen crept forward. They saw the fire flickering just before them. There was a single figure between the fire and the very boulder of which Helen had spoken.

Reaching the edge of the grove the girls gazed without discovery at the camp in the snow. The boulder stood in a small open space, and it was so high and bulky that it sheltered the fire and the camper quite comfortably. As Ruth had suspected, the latter was the girl she had seen walking upon the southern shore of Bliss Island. She knew her by her figure, if not by her face, which was at the moment hidden.

"She's alone," whispered Helen, making the words with her lips more than with her voice.

"What can she be doing out here?" was the black-eyed girl's next demand.

Her chum put out a hand in a gesture of warning and at once walked out of the shelter of the trees and approached the fire. Helen lingered behind. After all, it was so strange a situation that she did not feel very courageous.

The moon had quite broken through the clouds now and as Ruth drew nearer to the fire and the girl, her shadow was projected before her upon the snow. The girl who looked like Maggie suddenly espied this shadow, raised her head, and leaped up with a cry.

"Don't be frightened, Maggie," said Ruth. "It's only us two girls."

"My -- my name is -- isn't Maggie," stammered the strange girl.

And sure enough, having once seen her closely, Ruth Fielding saw that she was quite wrong in her identification. This was not the girl who had drifted down the Lumano River to the Red Mill and taken refuge with Aunt Alvirah.

This was a much more assertive person than Maggie -- a girl with plenty of health, both of body and mind. Maggie impressed one as being mentally or nervously deficient. Not so this girl who was camping here in the snow on Bliss Island. Yet there was a resemblance to Maggie in the figure of the stranger, and Ruth noted a resemblance in her features, too.

"My goodness me!" she said, laughing pleasantly. "If you're not our Maggie you look near enough like her to be her sister."

"Well, I haven't any sister in that college," said the strange girl, shortly. "You're from Ardmore, aren't you?"

"Yes," Ruth said, Helen now having joined them. "And we saw your light --  -- "

"My what?" demanded the camping girl, who was warmly, though plainly dressed.

"Your campfire. You see," explained Ruth, finding it rather difficult after all to talk to this very self-possessed girl, "we skated around the island to-day --  -- "

"I saw you," said the stranger gruffly. "There were three of you."

"Yes. And I thought you looked like Maggie, then."

"Isn't this Maggie one of you?" sharply demanded the stranger.

"She's a girl whom -- whom I know," Ruth said quickly. "A really nice girl. And you do look like her. Doesn't she, Helen?"

"Why -- yes -- something like," drawled Helen.

"And did you have to come out here to see if I were your friend?" asked the other girl.

"When I saw the campfire -- yes," Ruth admitted. "It seemed so strange, you know."

"What seemed strange?" demanded the girl, very tartly. It was plain that she considered their visit an intrusion.

"Why, think of it yourself," Ruth cried, while Helen sniffed audibly. "A girl camping alone on this island -- and in a snowstorm."

"It isn't snowing now," said the girl, smiling grimly.

"But it was when we saw the fire at first," Ruth hastened to say. "You know yourself you would be interested."

"Not enough to come clear out here -- must be over a mile! -- to see about it," was the rejoinder. "I usually mind my own business."

"So do we, you may be sure!" spoke up Helen, quick to take offence. "Come away, Ruth."

But the girl of the Red Mill was not at all satisfied. She said, frankly:

"I do wish that you would tell us why you are here? Surely, you won't remain all night in this lonely place? There is nobody else on the island, is there?"

"I should hope not!" exclaimed the girl. "Only you two busybodies."

"But, really, we came because we were interested in what went on here. It seems so strange for a girl, alone --  -- "

"You've said that before," was the dry reply. "I am a girl alone. I am here on my own business. And that isn't yours."

"Oh!" ejaculated Helen, angrily.

"Well, if you don't like being spoken to plainly, you needn't stay," the strange girl flung at her.

"I see that very well," returned Helen, tossing her head. "Do come away, Ruth."

"Ha!" exclaimed the strange girl, suddenly looking at Ruth more intently. "Are you called Ruth?"

"Yes. Ruth Fielding is my name."

"Oh!" and the girl's face changed in its expression and a little flush came into her cheeks. "I've -- I've heard of you."

"Indeed! How?" cried Ruth, eagerly. She felt that this girl must really have some connection with Maggie at the mill, she looked so much like the waif.

"Oh," said the other girl slowly, looking away, "I heard you wrote picture plays. I saw one of them. That's all."

Ruth was silent for a moment. Helen kept tugging at her arm and urging her to go.

"We -- we can do nothing for you?" queried the girl of the Red Mill at last.

"You can get off the island -- that's as much as I care," said the strange girl, with a harsh laugh. "You're only intruding where you're not wanted."

"Well, I do declare!" burst out Helen again. "She is the most impolite thing. Do come away, Ruthie."

"We really came with the best intentions," Ruth added, as she turned away with her chum. "It -- it doesn't look right for a girl to be alone at a campfire on this island -- and at night, too."

"I sha'n't stay here all night," the girl said shortly. "You needn't fret. If you want to know, I just built the fire to get warm by before I started back."

"Back where?" Ruth could not help asking.

"That you don't know -- and you won't know," returned the strange girl, and turned her back upon them.



Chapter XVI

What Was In Rebecca's Trunk


The two chums did not speak a word to each other until they had recovered their snowshoes and set out down the rough side of Bliss Island for the ice. Then Helen sputtered:

"People like that! Did you ever see such a person? I never was so insulted --  -- "

"Pshaw! She was right -- in a way," Ruth said coolly. "We had no real business to pry into her affairs."

"Well!"

"I got you into it. I'm sorry," the girl of the Red Mill said. "I thought it really was Maggie, or I wouldn't have come over here."

"She's something like that Maggie girl," proclaimed Helen. "She was nice, I thought."

"Maybe this girl is nice, taken under other circumstances," laughed Ruth. "I really would like to know what she is over here for."

"No good, I'll be bound," said the pessimistic Helen.

"And another thing," Ruth went on to say, as she and her chum reached the level of the frozen lake, "did you notice that pick handle?"

"That what?" demanded Helen, in amazement.

"Pickaxe handle -- I believe it was," Ruth said thoughtfully. "It was thrust out of the snow pile she had scraped away from the boulder. And, moreover, the ground looked as though it had been dug into."

"Why, the ground is as hard as the rock itself," Helen cried. "There are six or eight inches of frost right now."

"I guess that's so," agreed Ruth. "Perhaps that's why she built such a big fire."

"What do you mean, Ruth Fielding?" cried her chum.

"I think she wanted to dig there for something," Ruth replied reflectively. "I wonder what for?"

When they had returned to Dare Hall and had got their things off and were warm again, they looked out of the window. The campfire on the island had died out.

"She's gone away, of course," sighed Ruth. "But I would like to know what she was there for."

"One of the mysteries of life," said Helen, as she made ready for bed. "Dear me, but I'm tired!"

She was asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. Not so Ruth. The latter lay awake some time wondering about the odd girl on the island and her errand there.

Ruth Fielding had another girl's troubles on her mind, however -- and a girl much closer to her. The girl on the island merely teased her imagination. Rebecca Frayne's difficulties seemed much more important to Ruth.

Of course, there was no real reason for Ruth to take up cudgels for her odd classmate. Indeed, she did not feel that she could do that, for she was quite convinced that Rebecca Frayne was wrong. Nevertheless, she was very sorry for the girl. The trouble over the tam-o'-shanter had become the most talked-of incident of the school term. For the several following days Rebecca was scarcely seen outside her room, save in going to and from her classes.

She did not again appear in the dining hall. How she arranged about meals Ruth and her friends could not imagine. Then the housekeeper admitted to Ruth that she had allowed the lonely girl to get her own little meals in her room, as she had cooking utensils and an alcohol lamp.

"It is not usually allowed, I know. But Miss Frayne seems to have come to college prepared to live in just that way. She is a small eater, anyway. And -- well, anything to avoid friction."

"Of course," Ruth said to Helen and Jennie Stone, "lots of girls live in furnished rooms and get their own meals -- working girls and students. But it is not a system generally allowed at college, and at Ardmore especially. We shall hear from the faculty about it before the matter is done with."

"Well, we're not doing it," scoffed Jennie. "And that Rebecca Frayne is behaving like a chump."

"But how she does stick to that awful tam!" groaned Helen.

"Stubborn as a mule," agreed Jennie.

"I saw her with another hat on to-day," said Ruth, reflectively.

"That's so! It was the one she wore the day she arrived," Helen said quickly. "A summer hat. I wonder what she did bring in that trunk, anyway? She has displayed no such charming array of finery as I expected."

Ruth did not discuss this point. She was more interested in the state of Rebecca's mind, though, of course, there was not much time for her to give to anything but her studies and regular duties now, for as the term advanced the freshmen found their hours pretty well filled.

Scrub teams for certain indoor sports had been made up, and even Jennie Stone took up the playing of basketball with vigor. She was really losing flesh. She kept a card tacked upon her door on which she set down the fluctuations of her bodily changes daily. When she lost a whole pound in weight she wrote it down in red ink.

Their activities kept the three friends well occupied, both physically and mentally. Yet Ruth Fielding could not feel wholly satisfied or content when she knew that one of her mates was in trouble. She had taken an interest in Rebecca Frayne at the beginning of the semester; yet of all the freshmen Rebecca was the one whom she knew the least.

"And that poor girl needs somebody for a friend -- I feel it!" Ruth told herself. "Of course, she is to blame for the situation in which she now is. But for that very reason she ought to have somebody with whom to talk it over."

Ruth determined to be that confidant of the girl who seemed to wish no associate and no confidant. She began to loiter in the corridors between recitation hours and at odd times. Whenever she knocked on Rebecca's door there was no reply. Other girls who had tried it quickly gave up their sympathetic attentions. If the foolish girl wished for no friends, let her go her own way. That became the attitude of the freshman class. Of course, the sophomores followed the lead of the seniors and the juniors, having as little to do with the unfortunate girl as possible.

But the day and hour came at last when Ruth chanced to be right at hand when Rebecca Frayne came in and unlocked her room door. Her arms were full of small packages. Ruth knew that she had walked all the way to the grocery store on the edge of Greenburg, which the college girls often patronized.

It had been a long, cold walk, and Rebecca's fingers were numb. She dropped a paper bag -- and it contained eggs!

Now, it is quite impossible to hide the fact of a dropped egg. At another time Ruth might have laughed; but now she soberly retrieved the paper bag before the broken eggs could do much damage, and stepped into the room after the nervous Rebecca.

"Oh, thank you!" gasped the girl. "Put -- put them down anywhere. Thank you!"

"My goodness!" said Ruth, laughing, "you can't put broken eggs down anywhere. Don't you see they are runny?"

"Never mind, Miss Fielding --  -- "

"Oh! you've a regular kitchenette here, haven't you?" said Ruth, emboldened to look behind a curtain. "How cunning. I'll put these eggs in this clean dish. Mercy, but they are scrambled!"

"Don't trouble, Miss Fielding. You are very kind."

"But scrambled eggs are pretty good, at that," Ruth went on, unheeding the other girl's nervousness. "If you can only get the broken shells out of them," and she began coolly to do this with a fork. "I should think you would not like eating alone, Rebecca."

The other girl stared at her. "How can I help it?" she asked harshly.

"Just by getting a proper tam and stop being stubborn," Ruth told her.

"Miss Fielding!" cried Rebecca, her face flushing. "Do you think I do this for -- for fun?"

"You must. It isn't a disease, is it?" and Ruth laughed aloud, determined to refuse to take the other's tragic words seriously.

"You -- you are unbearable!" gasped Rebecca.

"No, I'm not. I want to be your friend," Ruth declared boldly. "I want you to have other friends, too. No use flocking by one's self at college. Why, my dear girl! you are missing all that is best in college life."

"I'd like to know what is best in college life!" burst out Rebecca Frayne, sullenly.

"Friendship. Companionship. The rubbing of one mind against another," Ruth said promptly.

"Pooh!" returned the startled Rebecca. "I wouldn't want to rub my mind against some of these girls' minds. All I ever hear them talk about is dress or amusements."

"I don't think you know many of the other girls well enough to judge the calibre of their minds," said Ruth, gently.

"And why don't I?" demanded Rebecca, still with a sort of suppressed fury.

"We all judge more or less by appearances," Ruth admitted slowly. "I presume you, too, were judged that way."

"What do you mean, Miss Fielding?" asked Rebecca, more mildly.

"When you came here to Ardmore you made a first impression. We all do," Ruth said.

"Yes," Rebecca admitted, with a slight curl of her lip. She was naturally a proud-looking girl, and she seemed actually haughty now. "I was mistaken for you, I believe."

Ruth laughed heartily at that.

"I should be a good friend of yours," she said. "It was a great sell on those sophomores. They had determined to make poor little me suffer for some small notoriety I had gained at boarding school."

"I never went to boarding school," snapped Rebecca. "I never was anywhere till I came to college. Just to our local schools. I worked hard, let me tell you, to pass the examinations to get in here."

"And why don't you let your mind broaden and get the best there is to be had at Ardmore?" Ruth demanded, quickly. "The girls misunderstand you. I can see that. We freshmen have got to bow our heads to the will of the upper classes. It doesn't hurt -- much," and she laughed again.

"Do you think I am wearing this old tam because I am stubborn?" demanded the other girl, again with that fierceness that seemed so strange in one so young.

"Why -- aren't you?"

"No."

"Why do you wear it, then?" asked Ruth, wonderingly.

"Because I cannot afford to buy another!"

Rebecca Frayne said this in so tense a voice that Ruth was fairly staggered. The girl of the Red Mill gazed upon the other's flaming face for a full minute without making any reply. Then, faintly, she said:

"I -- I didn't understand, Rebecca. We none of us do, I guess. You came here in such style! That heavy trunk and those bags --  -- "

"All out of our attic," said the other, sharply. "Did you think them filled with frocks and furbelows? See here!"

Ruth had already noticed the packages of papers piled along one wall of the room. Rebecca pointed to them.

"Out of our attic, too," she said, with a scornful laugh that was really no laugh at all. "Old papers that have lain there since the Civil War."

"But, Rebecca --  -- "

"Why did I do it?" put in the other, in the same hard voice. "Because I was a little fool. Because I did not understand.

"I didn't know just what college was like. I never talked with a girl from college in my life. I thought this was a place where only rich girls were welcome."

"Oh, Rebecca!" cried Ruth. "That isn't so."

"I see it now," agreed the other girl, shortly. "But we always have had to make a bluff at our house. Since I can remember, at least. Grandfather was wealthy; but our generation is as poor as Job's turkey.

"I didn't want to appear poor when I arrived here; so I got out the old bags and the big trunk, filled them with papers, and brought them along. A friend lent me that car I arrived in. I -- I thought I'd make a splurge right at first, and then my social standing would not be questioned."

"Oh, Rebecca! How foolish," murmured Ruth.

"Don't say that!" stormed the girl. "I see that I started all wrong. But I can't help it now," and suddenly she burst into a passion of weeping.



Chapter XVII

What Was In Rebecca's Heart


It was some time before Ruth could quiet the almost hysterical girl. Rebecca Frayne had held herself in check so long, and the bitterness of her position had so festered in her mind, that now the barriers were burst she could not control herself.

But Ruth Fielding was sympathetic. And her heart went out to this lonely and foolish girl as it seldom had to any person in distress. She felt, too, did Ruth, as though it was partly her fault and the fault of the other freshmen that Rebecca was in this state of mind.

She was fearful that having actually forced herself upon Rebecca that the girl might, when she came to herself, turn against her. But at present Rebecca's heart was so full that it spilled over, once having found a confidant.

In Ruth Fielding's arms the unfortunate girl told a story that, if supremely silly from one standpoint, was a perfectly natural and not uncommon story.

She was a girl, born and brought up in a quiet, small town, living in the biggest and finest house in that town, yet having suffered actual privations all her life for the sake of keeping up appearances.

The Frayne family was supposed to be wealthy. Not as wealthy as a generation or so before; still, the Fraynes were looked upon as the leaders in local society.

There was now only an aunt, Rebecca, a younger sister, and a brother who was in New York struggling upward in a commission house.

"And if it were not for the little Fred can spare me and sends me twice a month, I couldn't stay here," Rebecca confessed during this long talk with Ruth. "He's the best boy who ever lived."

"He must be," Ruth agreed. "I'd be glad to have a brother like that."

Rebecca had been hungry for books. She had always hoped to take a college course.

"But I was ignorant of everything," she sighed.

Ruth gathered, too, that the aunt, who was at the nominal head of the Frayne household, was also ignorant. This Aunt Emmy seemed to be an empty-headed creature who thought that the most essential thing for a girl in life was to be fancifully dressed, and to attain a position in society.

Aunt Emmy had evidently filled Rebecca's head with such notions. The girl had come to Ardmore with a totally wrong idea of what it meant to be in college.

"Why! some of these girls act as waitresses," said Rebecca. "I couldn't do that even to obtain the education I want so much. Oh! Aunt Emmy would never hear to it."

"It's a perfectly legitimate way of helping earn one's tuition," Ruth said.

"The Fraynes have never done such things," the other girl said haughtily.

And right there and then Ruth decided that Rebecca Frayne was going to have a very hard time, indeed, at Ardmore unless she learned to look upon life quite differently from the way she had been taught at home.

Already Ruth Fielding had seen enough at Ardmore to know that many of the very girls whose duties Rebecca scorned, were getting more out of their college life than Rebecca Frayne could possibly get unless she took a radically different view of life and its comparative values from that her present standards gave her.

The girls who were waitresses, and did other work to help pay for their tuition or for their board were busy and happy and were respected by their mates. In addition, they were often the best scholars in the classes.

Rebecca was wrong in scorning those who combined domestic service with an attempt to obtain an education. But Ruth was wise enough to see that this feeling was inbred in Rebecca. It was useless to try to change her opinion upon it.

If Rebecca were poverty-stricken, her purse could not be replenished by any such means as these other girls found to help them over the hard places. In this matter of the tam-o'-shanter, for instance, it would be very difficult to help the girl. Ruth knew better than to offer to pay for the new tam-o'-shanter the freshman could not afford to buy. To make such an offer would immediately close the door of the strange girl's friendship to Ruth. So she did not hint at such a thing. She talked on, beginning to laugh and joke with Rebecca, and finally brought her out of her tears.

"Cheer up," Ruth said. "You are making the worst possible use of your time here -- keeping to yourself and being so afraid of making friends. We're not all rich girls, I assure you. And the girls on this corridor are particularly nice."

"I suppose that may be. But if everywhere I go they show so plainly they don't want me --  -- "

"That will stop!" cried Ruth, vigorously. "If I have to go to Dr. Milroth myself, it shall be stopped. It is hazing of the crudest kind. Oh! what a prettily crocheted table-mat. It's old-fashioned, but pretty."

"Aunty does that, almost all the time," Rebecca said, with a little laugh. "Fred once said -- in confidence, of course -- that half the family income goes for Aunt Emmy's wool."

"Do you do it, too?" Ruth asked suspiciously.

"Oh yes. I can."

"Say! could you crochet one of these tams?" cried Ruth, eagerly.

"Why -- I suppose so," admitted the other girl.

"Then, why not? Do it to please the seniors and juniors. It won't hurt to bow to a custom, will it? And you only need buy a few hanks of wool at a time."

Rebecca's face flamed again; but she took the suggestion, after all, with some meekness.

"I might do that," she admitted.

"All right. Then you'll be doing your part. And talk to the girls. Let them talk to you. Come down to the dining-room for your meals again. You know, the housekeeper, Mrs. Ebbets, will soon be getting into trouble about you. Somebody will talk to Dr. Milroth or to some other member of the upper faculty."

"I suppose so," groaned Rebecca. "They won't let poor little me alone."

"Oh, you can't expect to have your own way at school," cried Ruth, laughing. "Oh, and say!"

"Well, Miss Fielding?"

"Do call me Ruth," begged the girl of the Red Mill. "It won't cost you a cent more," but she said it so good-naturedly that Rebecca had to laugh.

"I will," said the other girl, vehemently. "You are the very nicest little thing!"

"Well, now that's settled," laughed Ruth, "do something for me, will you?"

"Any -- anything I can," agreed Rebecca, with some doubt.

"You know we girls on this corridor are going to have a sitting-room all to ourselves. That corner room that is empty. Everybody is going to buy -- is going to give something to help furnish the room."

"Oh, Ruth! I can't --  -- "

"Yes you can," interrupted Ruth, quickly. "When you stop this foolish eating by yourself, you can bring over your alcohol lamp. It's just what we want to make tea on. Now, say you will, Rebecca!"

"I -- I will. Why, yes, I can do that," Rebecca agreed.

"Goody! I'll tell the girls. And you'll be as welcome as the flowers in May, lamp or no lamp," she cried, kissing Rebecca again and bustling out of the room.



Chapter XVIII

Bearding The Lions


Ruth had shown a very cheerful face before Rebecca Frayne, but when she was once out of the room the girl of the Red Mill did not show such a superabundance of cheerfulness.

She knew well enough that Rebecca had become so unpopular that public opinion could not be changed regarding her in a moment.

Besides, there were the two upper classes to be considered. Their order regarding the freshmen's head-covering had been flagrantly disobeyed, and would have to be disobeyed for some time to come. A girl cannot crochet a tam-o'-shanter in a minute.

Having undertaken to straighten out Rebecca Frayne's troubles, however, Ruth did not publicly shrink from the task. She was one who made up her mind quickly, and having made it up, set to work immediately to carry the matter through.

Merry Dexter, the first senior she had met upon coming to Ardmore, was kindly disposed toward her, and Ruth knew that Miss Dexter was an influential member of her class. Therefore, Ruth took her trouble -- and Rebecca's -- directly to Miss Dexter.

Yet, she did not feel that she had a right to explain, even to this one senior, all that Rebecca Frayne had confided to her. She realized that the girl, with her false standards of respectability and social standing, would never be able to hold up her head at college if her real financial situation were known to the girls in general. Ruth was bound, however, to take Miss Dexter somewhat into her confidence to obtain a hearing. She put the matter before the senior as nicely as possible, saying in conclusion:

"And she will knit herself a tam of the proper color just as soon as possible. No girl, you know, Miss Dexter, likes to admit that she is poor. It is dreadfully embarrassing. So I hope that this matter will be adjusted without her situation being discussed."

"Goodness! I can't change things," the senior declared. "Not unless that girl agrees to do as she is told -- like the rest of you freshies."

"Then my opinion of your class, Miss Dexter," Ruth said firmly, "must be entirely wrong. I did not believe that they ordered us to wear baby blue tams just out of an arbitrary desire to make us obey. Had I believed that I would not have bought a new tam myself!"

"You wouldn't?"

"No, Miss Dexter. Nor would a great many of us freshmen. We believed the order had a deeper significance -- and it had. It helped our class get together. We are combined now, we are a social body. And I believe that if I took this matter up with Rebecca's class, and explained just her situation to them (which, of course, I do not want to do), the freshmen as a whole would back me in a revolt against the upper classes."

"You're pretty sure of that, Ruth Fielding, are you?" demanded the senior.

"Yes, I am. We'd all refuse to wear the new tams. You seniors and juniors would have a nice time sending us all to Coventry, wouldn't you? If you didn't want to eat with us, you'd all go hungry for a long time before the freshmen would do as Rebecca foolishly did."

Miss Dexter laughed at that. And then she hugged Ruth.

"I believe you are a dear girl, with a lot of good sense in your head," she said. "But you must come before our executive committee and talk to them."

"Oh, dear! Beard the lions in their den?" cried Ruth.

"Yes, my dear. I cannot be your spokesman."

Ruth found this a harder task than she had bargained for; but she went that same evening to a hastily called meeting of the senior committee. Perhaps Miss Dexter had done more for her than she agreed, however, for Ruth found these older girls very kind and she seemingly made them easily understand Rebecca's situation without being obliged to say in just so many words that the girl was actually poverty-stricken.

And it was probable, too, that Ruth Fielding helped herself in this incident as much as she did her classmate. The members of the older classes thereafter gave the girl of the Red Mill considerably more attention than she had previously received. Ruth began to feel surprised that she had so many warm friends and pleasant acquaintances in the college, even among the sophomores of Edith Phelps' stamp. Edith Phelps found her tart jokes about the "canned-drama authoress" falling rather flat, so she dropped the matter.

Older girls stopped on the walks to talk to Ruth. They sat beside her in chapel and at other assemblies, and seemed to like to talk with her. Although Ruth did not hold an office in her own class organization, yet she bade fair to become soon the most popular freshman at Ardmore.

Ruth was perfectly unconscious of this fact, for she had not a spark of vanity in her make-up. Her mind was so filled with other and more important things that her social conquests impressed her but little. She did, however, think a good bit about poor Rebecca Frayne's situation. She warned her personal friends among the freshmen, especially those at Dare Hall, to say nothing to Rebecca about the unfortunate affair.

Rebecca came into the dining-room again. Ruth knew that she had actually begun to crochet a baby blue tam-o'-shanter. But it was a question in Ruth's mind if the odd girl would be able to "keep up appearances" on the little money she had left and that which her brother could send her from time to time. It was quite tragic, after all. Rebecca was sure of good and sufficient food as long as she could pay her board; but the girl undoubtedly needed other things which she could not purchase.

Naturally, youth cannot give its entire attention to even so tragic a matter as this. Ruth's gay friends acted as counterweights in her mind to Rebecca's troubles.

The girls were out on the lake very frequently as the cold weather continued; but Ruth never saw again the strange girl whom she and Helen had interviewed at night on Bliss Island.

Hearing from Aunt Alvirah as she did with more or less frequency, the girl of the Red Mill was assured that Maggie seemed content and was proving a great help to the crippled old housekeeper. Maggie seemed quite settled in her situation.

"Just because that queer girl looked like Maggie doesn't prove that Maggie knows her," Ruth told herself. "Still -- it's odd."

Stormy weather kept the college girls indoors a good deal; and the general sitting-room on Ruth's corridor became the most social spot in the whole college.

The girls whose dormitory rooms were there, irrespective of class, all shared in the furnishing of the sitting-room. Second-hand furniture is always to be had of dealers near an institution like Ardmore. Besides, the girls all owned little things they could spare for the general comfort, like Rebecca Frayne's alcohol lamp.

Helen had a tea set; somebody else furnished trays. In fact, all the "comforts of home" were supplied to that sitting-room; and the girls were considered very fortunate by their mates in other parts of the hall, and, indeed, in the other three dormitory buildings.

But during the holiday recess something happened that bade fair to deprive Ruth and her friends of their special perquisite. Dr. McCurdy's wife's sister came to Ardmore. The McCurdys did not keep house, preferring to board. They could find no room for Mrs. Jaynes, until it was remembered that there was an unassigned dormitory room at Dare Hall.

Many of the girls had gone home over the brief holidays; but our three friends from Briarwood had remained at Ardmore.

So Ruth and Helen and Jennie Stone chanced to be among the girls present when the housekeeper of Dare Hall came into the sitting-room and, to quote Jennie, informed them that they must "vamoose the ranch."

"That is what Ann Hicks would call it," Jennie said, defending her language when taken to task for it. "We've just got to get out -- and it's a mean shame."

Dr. McCurdy was one of the important members of the faculty. Of course, the girls on that corridor had no real right to the extra room. All they could do was to voice their disappointment -- and they did that, one may be sure, with vociferation.

"And just when we had come to be so comfortably fixed here," groaned one, when the housekeeper had departed. "I know I shall dis-like that Mrs. Jaynes extremely."

"We won't speak to her!" cried Helen, in a somewhat vixenish tone.

"Maybe she won't care if we don't," laughed Ruth.

But it was no laughing matter, as they all felt. They made a gloomy party in the pretty sitting-room that last evening of its occupancy as a community resort.

"There's Clara Mayberry in her rocker again on that squeaky board," Rebecca Frayne remarked. "I hope she rocks on that board every evening over this woman's head who has turned us out."

"Let's all hope so," murmured Helen.

Jennie Stone suddenly sat upright in the rocker she was occupying, but continued to glare at the ceiling. A board in the floor of the room above had frequently annoyed them before. Clara Mayberry sometimes forgot and placed her rocker on that particular spot.

"If -- if she had to listen to that long," gasped Jennie suddenly, "she would go crazy. She's just that kind of nervous female. I saw her at chapel this morning."

"But even Clara couldn't stand the squeak of that board long," Ruth observed, smiling.

Without another word Jennie left the room. She came back later, so full of mystery, as Helen declared, that she seemed on the verge of bursting.

However, Jennie refused to explain herself in any particular; but the board in Clara Mayberry's room did not squeak again that evening.



Chapter XIX

A Deep, Dark Plot


"Heavy is actually losing flesh," Helen declared to Ruth. "I can see it."

"You mean you can't see it," laughed her chum. "That is, you can't see so much of it as there used to be. If she keeps on with the rowing machine work in the gym and the basket ball practise and dancing, she will soon be the thinnest girl who ever came to Ardmore."

"Oh, never!" cried Helen. "I don't believe I should like Heavy so much if she wasn't a little fat."

People who had not seen Jennie Stone for some time observed the change in her appearance more particularly than did her two close friends. This was proved when Mr. Cameron and Tom arrived.

For, as the girls did not go home for just a few days, Helen's father and her twin unexpectedly appeared at college on Christmas Eve, and their company delighted the chums immensely.

On Friday evenings the girls could have company, and on all Saturday afternoons, even during the college term. Also a girl could have a young man call on her Sunday evening, provided he took her to service at chapel.

The three Briarwood friends had had no such company heretofore. They made the most of Mr. Cameron and Tom, therefore, during Christmas week.

There was splendid sleighing, and the skating on the lake was at its very best. Ruth insisted upon including Rebecca Frayne in some of their parties, and Rebecca proved to be good fun.

Tom stared at Jennie Stone, round-eyed, when first he saw her.

"What's the matter with you, Tom Cameron?" the fleshy girl asked, rather tartly. "Didn't you ever see a good-looking girl before?"

"But say, Jennie!" he cried, "are you going into a decline?"

"I decline to answer," she responded. But she dimpled when she said it, and evidently considered Tom's rather blunt remark a compliment.

The Christmas holidays were over all too soon, it seemed to the girls. Yet they took up the class work again with vigor.

Their acquaintanceship was broadening daily, both in the student body and among the instructors. Most of the strangeness of this new college world had worn off. Ruth and Helen and Jennie were full-fledged "Ardmores" now, quite as devoted to the college as they had been to dear old Briarwood.

After New Year's there was a raw and rainy spell that spoiled many of the outdoor sports. Practice in the gymnasium increased, and Helen said that Jennie Stone was bound to work herself down to a veritable shadow if the bad weather continued long.

Ruth was in Rebecca's room one dingy, rainy afternoon, having skipped gymnasium work of all kind for the day. The proprietor of the room had finished her baby blue cap and had worn it the first time that week.

"I feel that they are not all staring at me now," she confessed to Ruth.

Ruth was at the piles of old papers which Rebecca had hidden under a half-worn portierre she had brought from home.

"Do you know," the girl of the Red Mill said reflectively, "these old things are awfully interesting, Becky?"

"What old things?"

"These papers. I've opened one bundle. They were all printed in Richmond during the Civil War. Why, paper must have been awfully scarce then. Some of these are actually printed on wrapping paper -- you can scarcely read the print."

"Ought to look at those Charleston papers," said Rebecca, carelessly. "There are full files of those, too, I believe. Why, some of them are printed on wall paper."

"No!"

"Yes they are. Ridiculous, wasn't it?"

Ruth sat silent for a while. Finally she asked:

"Are you sure, Becky, that you have quite complete files here of this Richmond paper? For all the war time, I mean?"

"Yes. And of the South Carolina paper, too. Father collected them during and immediately following the war. He was down there for years, you see."

"I see," Ruth said quietly, and for a long time said nothing more.

But that evening she wrote several letters which she did not show Helen, and took them herself to the mailbag in the lower hall.

Before this, Mrs. Jaynes, Dr. McCurdy's sister-in-law, was settled in the room which had formerly been used by the girls as their own particular sitting-room. She was not an attractive woman at all; so it was not hard for her youthful associates on that corridor of Dare Hall to declare war upon Mrs. Jaynes.

Indeed, without having been introduced to a single girl there, Mrs. Jaynes eyed them all as though she suspected they belonged to a tribe of Bushmen.

Naturally, during hours of relaxation, and occasionally at other times, the girls joked and laughed and raced through the halls and sang and otherwise acted as a crowd of young people usually act.

Mrs. Jaynes was plainly of that sort that believes that all youthfulness and ebullition of spirits should be suppressed. Luckily, she met the girls but seldom -- only when she was going to and from her room. On stormy days she remained shut up in her apartment most of the time, and Mrs. Ebbetts sent a maid up with her tray at meal time. She never ate in the Dare Hall dining-room.

Meantime, Jennie Stone had several mysterious sessions with certain of the girls who felt quite as she did regarding the usurpation of Dr. McCurdy's sister-in-law of the spare room. Had Ruth not been so busy in other directions she would have realized that a plot of some kind was in process of formation, for Helen was in it, as well.

Jennie Stone had made a friend of Clara Mayberry on the floor above. In fact, a number of the girls on the lower corridor affected by the presence of Mrs. Jaynes, were in and out of Clara's room all day long. None of these girls remained long at a time -- not more than half an hour; but another visitor always appeared before the first left, right through the day, from breakfast call till "lights out." And after retiring hour there began to be seen figures stealing through the corridors and on the stairway between the two floors. That is, there would have been seen such ghostly marauders had there been anybody to watch.

Mrs. Jaynes crossly complained to Mrs. Ebbetts that she was kept awake all night long -- and all day, for that matter! But as she never put her head out of her room after the lights were lowered in the corridors, she did not discover the soft-footed spectres of the night.

"But," she complained to Mrs. Ebbetts, "it is the noisiest room I ever was in. Such a squeaking you never heard! And all the time, day and night."

"I do not understand that at all," said the puzzled housekeeper.

"I'd like to know how the girl who had that room before I took it, stood that awful squeaking noise," said the visitor.

"Why, Mrs. Jaynes," said the housekeeper, "no girl slept there. It was a sitting-room."

"Even so, I cannot understand how anybody could endure the noise. If I believed in such things I should declare the room was haunted."

"Indeed, Madam!" gasped the housekeeper. "I do not understand it."

"Well, I cannot endure it. I shall tell my sister that I cannot remain here at Ardmore unless she finds me other lodgings. That awful squeak, squeak, squeak continues day and night. It is unbearable."

In the end, Dr. McCurdy found lodgings for his sister-in-law in Greenburg. The girls of Ruth's corridor were delighted, and that night held a regular orgy in the recovered sitting-room.

"Thank goodness!" sighed Jennie Stone, "no more up and down all night for us, either. We may sleep in peace, as well as occupy the room in peace."

"What do you mean, Heavy?" demanded Ruth.

"Oh, Ruthie! That's one time we put one over on you, dear," said the fleshy girl sweetly. "You were not asked to join in the conspiracy. We feared your known sympathetic nature would revolt."

"But explain!"

"Why, Clara let us use her rocking chair," Jennie said demurely. "It's a very nice chair. We all rocked in it, one after another, half-hour watches being assigned --  -- "

"Not at night?" cried the horror-stricken Ruth.

"Oh, yes. All day and all night. Every little minute that rocker was going upon the squeaky board. It's a wonder the board is not worn out," chuckled the wicked Jennie.

"Well, I never!" proclaimed Ruth, aghast. "What won't you think of next, Jennie Stone?"

"I don't know. I know I'm awfully smart," sighed Jennie. "I did so much of the rocking myself, however, that I don't much care if I never see a rocking-chair again."



Chapter XX

Two Surprises


Ruth Fielding knew that Rebecca Frayne was painfully embarrassed for money. She managed to find the wherewithal for her board, and her textbooks of course had been paid for at the beginning of the college year. But there are always incidentals and unforeseen small expenses, which crop up in a most unexpected manner and clamor for payment.

Rebecca never opened her lips about these troubles, despite the fact that she loved Ruth and was much with the girl of the Red Mill. But Ruth was keen-eyed. She knew that Rebecca suffered for articles of clothing. She saw that her raiment was becoming very, very shabby.

The girl in this trouble was foolish, of course. But foolishness is a disease not so easily cured. There was not the slightest chance of giving Rebecca anything that she needed; Ruth knew that quite well. Her finery -- and cheap enough it was -- the girl would flaunt to the bitter end.

Deep down she was a good girl in every respect; but she did put on airs and ape the wealthy girls she saw. What garments she owned had been ultra-fashionable in cut, if poor in texture, when she had come to college. But fashions change so frequently nowadays that already poor Rebecca Frayne was behind the styles -- and she knew it and grieved bitterly.

Most of her mates at Dare Hall, the freshmen especially, usually dressed in short cloth skirts and middy blouses, with a warm coat over all in cold weather. Would Rebecca be caught going to classes in such an outfit? Not much! That was why her better clothes wore out so quickly and now looked so shabby. Jennie Stone said, with disgust, and with more than a little truth, perhaps:

"That girl primps to go to recitations just as though she were bound for a party. I don't see how she finds time for study."

Ruth realized that Rebecca was made that way, and that was all there was to it. She wasted no strength, nor did she run the risk of being bad friends with the unwise girl, by criticising these silly things. Ruth believed in being helpful, or else keeping still.

Rebecca could never be induced to try to do the things that other poor girls did at college to help pay their expenses. Perhaps she was not really fitted for such services, and would only have failed.

Other girls acted as waitresses, did sewing, one looked after the linen for one of the dormitories, another darned hose and repaired lingerie. Dr. Frances Milroth's own personal secretary was a junior who was working her way through Ardmore and was taking a high mark, too, in her studies.

One girl helped Mrs. Leidenburg with her children during several hours of each day. Some girls were agents for articles which their college mates were glad to secure easily and quickly.

Indeed, the field of endeavor seemed rather well covered, and it would have been hard to discover anything new for Rebecca Frayne to do, had the girl even been willing to "go into trade," a thing Rebecca had told Ruth a Frayne had never done.

This attitude of the Frayne family seemed quite ridiculous to Ruth, but she knew it was absolutely useless to scold Rebecca.

Indeed, it was not Ruth Fielding's way to be a scold. If she could not be helpful she preferred to ignore that which she saw was wrong. And in Rebecca Frayne's case she was determined to be helpful if she could. Rebecca was a bright scholar. After all, she would shine in her class before all was said and done. They could not afford to lose such a really bright girl from among the freshmen.

Often on stormy days Ruth spent the time between recitations and dinner in Rebecca's room.

"I never saw anybody so fond of old papers as you are, Ruthie," Rebecca said. "Do take 'em all if you like. Of course, I'll never be silly enough to carry them back home with me. They are only useful to help build the fire."

"Don't dare destroy one of them, Rebecca Frayne!" Ruth had warned her -- and actually made her promise that she would not do so.

Then the replies to Ruth's letters came. She had gone all through the bundles of papers by this time, arranged them according to their dates of issue, and wrapped the different years' issues in strong paper. Rebecca could not see for the life of her, she said, what Ruth was about.

"Surely they can't be worth much as old paper, Ruthie. I know you are a regular little business woman; but junk men aren't allowed on the college grounds."

"Expressmen are, my dear," laughed Ruth.

"What do you mean? What are you going to do with those papers?"

"You said you didn't care --  -- "

"And I don't. They are yours to do with as you please," said the generous Rebecca Frayne.

"To punish you," Ruth said seriously, "I ought really to take you at your word," and she shook her head.

"What meanest thou, my fair young lady?" asked Rebecca, laughing.

"Read this," commanded Ruth, handing her, with the air of the stage hero "producing the papers," one of the letters she had received. "Cast your glance over this, Miss Frayne."

The other received the letter curiously, and read it with dawning surprise. She read it twice and then gazed at Ruth with almost speechless amazement.

"Well! what do you think of your Aunt Ruth now?" demanded the girl of the Red Mill, laughing.

"It -- it can't be so, Ruthie!" murmured Rebecca Frayne, the hand which held the letter fairly shaking.

"It's just as so as it can be," and Ruth continued to laugh.

The tears suddenly flooded into Rebecca's eyes. She could not turn quickly enough to hide them from Ruth's keen vision. But all she said was:

"Well, Ruthie! I congratulate you. Think of it! Two hundred dollars offered for each set of those old papers. Well!"

"You see, it would scarcely have been wise to have built the fire with them," Ruth said drily.

"I -- I should say not. And -- and they have lain in our attic for years."

"And you brought them to college as waste paper," Ruth added.

Rebecca was silent. Ruth, smiling roguishly, stole up behind her. Suddenly she put both arms around Rebecca Frayne and hugged her tight.

"Becky! Don't you understand?" she cried.

"Understand what?" Rebecca asked gruffly, trying to dash away her few tears.

"Why, honey, I did it for you. I believed the papers must be worth something. I had heard of a set of New York illustrated papers for the years of the Civil War selling for a big price. These, I believed, must be even more interesting to collectors of such things.

"So I wrote to Mr. Cameron, and he sent me the names of old book dealers, and they sent me the addresses of several collectors. This Mr. Radley has a regular museum of such things, and he offers the best price -- four hundred dollars for the lot if they prove to be as perfect as I said they were. And they are."

"Yes -- but --  -- "

"And, of course, the money is yours, Rebecca," said Ruth, promptly. "You don't for a moment suppose that I would take your valuable papers and cheat you out of the reward just because I happened to know more about their worth than you did? What do you take me for?"

"Oh -- oh, Ruthie!"

"What do you take me for?" again demanded Ruth Fielding, quite as though she were offended.

"For the best and dearest girl who ever lived!" cried Rebecca Frayne, and cast herself upon Ruth's breast, holding her tightly while she sobbed there.

This was one surprise. But there was another later, and this was a surprise for Ruth herself.

She was very glad to have been the means of finding Rebecca such a nice little fortune as this that came to her for the old periodicals. With what the girl's brother could send her, Rebecca would be pretty sure of sufficient money to carry her through her freshman year and pay for her second year's tuition at Ardmore.

"Something may be found then for Rebecca to do," thought Ruth, "that will not so greatly shock her notions of gentility. Dear me! she's as nice a girl as ever lived; but she is a problem."

Ruth had other problems, however, on her mind. One of these brought about the personal surprise mentioned above. She had found time finally to complete the scenario of "Crossed Wires," and after some changes had been made in it, Mr. Hammond had informed her that it would be put in the hands of a director for production. It called for so many outdoor scenes, however, that the new film would not be made until spring.

Spring was now fast approaching, and Ruth determined to be at the Red Mill on a visit when the first scenes were taken for her photo-drama.

Of course, if she went, Helen must go. They stood excellently well in all their classes, and it was not hard to persuade Dr. Milroth, who had good reports of both freshmen, to let them go to Cheslow.

Ruth's coming home was in the nature of a surprise to Uncle Jabez and Aunt Alvirah. The old housekeeper was outspoken in her joy at seeing "her pretty" once more. Uncle Jabez was startled into perhaps a warmer greeting of his niece than he ordinarily considered advisable.

"I declare for't, Ruth! Ain't nothin' the matter, is there?" he asked, holding her hand and staring into her face with serious intent.

"Oh, no, Uncle. Nothing at all the matter. Just ran home to see how you all were, and to watch them take the pictures of the old mill."

"Ain't lost any of that money, have ye?" persisted the miller.

"Not a penny. And Mr. Hammond sent me a nice check on account of royalties, too," and she dimpled and laughed at him.

"All right," grunted Uncle Jabez. "Ye wanter watch out for that there money. Business is onsartain. Ain't no knowin' when everything'll go to pot here. I never see the times so hard."

But Ruth was not much disturbed by such talk. Uncle Jabez had been prophesying disaster ever since she had known him.

Maggie welcomed Ruth cordially, as well as Ben. Maggie was still the puzzling combination of characteristics that she had seemed to Ruth from the first. She was willing to work, and was kind to Aunt Alvirah; but she always withdrew into herself if anybody tried to talk much to her.

The others at the Red Mill had become used to the girl's reticence; but to Ruth it remained just as tantalizing. She had the feeling that Maggie was by no means in her right environment.

"Doesn't she ever write letters?" Ruth asked Aunt Alvirah. "Doesn't she ever have a visitor?"

"Why, bless ye, my pretty! I don't know as she writes much," Aunt Alvirah said, as she moved about the kitchen in her old slow fashion. "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones! Well Ruthie, she reads a lot. She's all for books, I guess, like you be. But she don't never talk much. And a visitor? Why, come to think on't, she did have one visitor."

"Is that so?" cried the curious Ruth. "Let's hear about it. I feel gossipy, Aunt Alvirah," and she laughed.

She knew that Maggie was away from the house, and they were alone. She could trust Aunt Alvirah to say nothing to the girl regarding her queries.

"Yes, my pretty," the old woman said, "she did have one visitor. Another gal come to see her the very week you went away to college, Ruthie."

"Is that so? Who was she?"

"Maggie didn't say. I didn't ask her. Ye see, she ain't one ter confide in a body," explained Aunt Alvirah, shaking her head and lowering herself into her rocking chair. "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!"

"But didn't you see this visitor?"

"Why, yes, Ruthie. I seen her. It was funny, too," Aunt Alvirah said, shaking her head. "I meant to write to you about it; then I forgot.

"I hears somebody knock on the door one day, and I opened the door and there I declare stood Maggie herself. Or, I thought 'twas her."

"What?" gasped Ruth, very much interested.

"She looked a sight like her," said Aunt Alvirah, laughing to herself at the remembrance. "Yet I knowed Maggie had gone upstairs to make the beds, and this here girl who had knocked on the door was all dressed up."

"'Why, Maggie!' says I. And she says, kinder tart-like:

"'I ain't Maggie. But I want to see her.'

"So I axed her in; but she wouldn't come. I seen then maybe she was a little younger than Maggie is. Howsomever I called to Maggie, and she went out, and the two of 'em walked up and down the road for an hour. The other gal never come in. And I seen her start back toward Cheslow. Maggie never said no word about her from that day to this.

"Do you know what I think about it, Ruthie?" concluded Aunt Alvirah.

"No, Aunt Alvirah," said the girl of the Red Mill, reflectively.

"I think that was Maggie's sister. Maybe she works out for somebody in Cheslow."

Ruth merely nodded. She did not think much of that phase of the matter. What she was really puzzling over was her memory of the girl she and Helen had interviewed on the island in Lake Remona before the Christmas holidays.

That girl had looked very much like Maggie, too!



Chapter XXI

Many Things Happen


It was, of course, hard to tell by merely seeing them taken what the pictures about the old Red Mill would be like; but Ruth and Helen both acted in them as "extras" and were greatly excited over the film, one may be sure.

The director, not the cross Mr. Grimes this time, assured Ruth that he was confident "Crossed Wires" would make good on the screen. Hazel Gray played the lead in the picture, as she had in "The Heart of a School Girl," and Ruth and Helen were glad to meet the bright little screen actress again.

Miss Gray seemed to have forgotten all about Tom Cameron and Ruth, for some reason, felt glad. She ventured to ask Helen if her twin was still as enamored of the young actress as he had seemed to be the year before.

"Why, no," Helen said thoughtfully. "You know how it is with boys; they have one craze after another, Ruthie."

"No. Do they?" asked the other.

"Yes. Tom made a collection of the photographs of a slap-stick comedian at first. Then he decorated his room at Seven Oaks with all the pictures he could find of Miss Gray. Now, when I was over there with father the other day, what do you suppose is his chief decoration on his room walls?"

"I haven't the least idea," Ruth confessed.

"Great, ugly, brutal boxers! Prize-fighters! Awful pictures, Ruth! I suppose next he will make a collection of the photographs of burglars!" and Helen laughed.

The chums were whisked back to Ardmore, having been absent five days. They were so well prepared in their recitations, however, that they did not fall behind in any particular. Indeed, these two bright-minded girls found it not difficult to keep up with their classes.

Even Jennie Stone, leisure loving as she naturally was, had no real difficulty in being well to the front in her studies. And she had become one of the most faithful of devotees of gymnastic practice.

Ardmore's second basket ball five pushed the first team hard; and Jennie Stone was on the second five. As the spring training for the boats opened she, as well as Ruth and Helen, tried for the freshmen eight-oared shell. All three won places in that crew.

Jennie was still somewhat over-weight. But the instructor put her at bow and her weight counted there. Ruth was stroke and Helen Number 2. As practice went on it was proved that the freshman crew was a very well balanced one.

They more than once "bumped" the sophomore shell in trial races, and once came very near to catching the junior eight. The seniors and juniors began now to pay more attention to the freshman class; especially to those members who showed well in athletics.

Because of their characters and their class standing, several of the instructors besides Miss Cullam, the mathematics teacher, were the friends of the Briarwoods. Miss Cullam had shown a warm appreciation of Ruth Fielding's character all through the year. Not that Ruth was a prize pupil in Miss Cullam's study, for she was not. Mathematics was the one study it was hard for Ruth to interest herself in. But when the girl of the Red Mill had a hard thing to do, she always put her whole mind to it; and, therefore, she made a good mark in mathematics in spite of her distaste for the study.

"You are doing well, Miss Fielding," Miss Cullam declared. "Better than I expected. I have no doubt that you will pass well in the year's examinations."

"And you won't be afraid that I'll crib the answers, Miss Cullam?" Ruth asked, laughing.

"Hush! don't repeat gossip," Miss Cullam said smiling, however, rather ruefully. "Even when the gossip emanates from an old cross-patch of a teacher who gets nervous and worries about improbabilities. No. I do not believe any of my girls would take advantage of the examination papers. Yet, I would give a good deal to know just where those papers and that vase went."

"Has nothing ever been heard from Miss Rolff since she left Ardmore?" Ruth asked.

"No. Not a word. And it is hard on the sororities, too. Heretofore, the girls have enjoyed the benefits of the associations for three years. You, I am sure, Ruth, would have been invited by this time to join one of the sororities."

"And I should dearly love to," sighed Ruth. "The Kappa Alpha. It looks good to me. But there are other things in college -- and out of it, too. Oh see, Miss Cullam! Here is what I wanted to show you," and the girl of the Red Mill brought forth a large envelope from her handbag.

They were talking together in the library on this occasion, it being a Saturday afternoon when there was nothing particular to take up either the teacher's time or the pupil's. Ruth emptied the envelope on the table.

"See these photographs? They are stills taken in connection with my new scenario. I want you to see just how lovely a place the old Red Mill, where I live, is."

Miss Cullam adjusted her eyeglasses with a smile, and picked up the topmost picture which Mr. Hammond had sent to Ruth.

"That's dear old Aunt Alvirah herself feeding the chickens. She doesn't know that we took that picture of her. If I had said 'photograph' to the dear old creature, she would have been determined to put on her best bib and tucker!"

"That's the back yard. Isn't it, dear? Who is that on the porch?" asked Miss Cullam.

"On the porch? Why, is anybody on the porch? I don't remember that."

Ruth stooped to peer closer at the unmounted photograph in the teacher's hand.

"Why! there is somebody standing there," she murmured. "You can see the head and shoulders just as plain --  -- "

"And the face," said Miss Cullam, with strange eagerness.

"Oh, I know!" cried Ruth, and she laughed heartily. "Of course. That's Maggie."

"Maggie?"

"Yes. The girl who helps Aunt Alvirah. And she's quite an interesting character, Miss Cullam. I'll tell you about her some day."

"Yes?" said Miss Cullam, reflectively.

"Now, here is the front of the old house --  -- "

"Allow me to keep this picture for a little while, will you, Miss Fielding?" broke in the teacher, still staring at the clearly exposed face of Maggie on the porch.

"Why, yes, certainly," responded the girl, curiously.

"I wish to show this girl's face to somebody else. She seems very familiar to me," the mathematics teacher said.



Chapter XXII

Can It Be A Clue?


Ruth gave the matter of Maggie's photograph very little thought. Not at that time, at least. She merely handed the print over to Miss Cullam and forgot all about it.

These were busy days, both in the classroom and out of it. The warmth of late spring was in the air; every girl who felt at all the blood coursing in her veins, tried to be out of doors.

The whole college was eager regarding the coming boat races. Ardmore was to try out her first eight-oared crew with three of several colleges, and two of the trials would be held upon Lake Remona.

There were local races between the class crews every Saturday afternoon. Jennie Stone had to choose between basket ball and rowing, for there were Saturdays when both sports were in ascendency.

"No use. I can't be in two places at once," declared Jennie, regretfully resigning from the basketball team.

"No, honey," said Helen. "You're not big enough for that now. A few months ago you might have played basket ball and sent your shadow to pull an oar with us. See what it means to get thin."

"My! I feel like another girl," said the fleshy one ecstatically. "What do you suppose my father will say to me in June?"

"He'll say," suggested Helen, giggling, "'you took so much away, why do you bring so little back from college?'"

It was several days before Miss Cullam returned to Ruth the picture she had borrowed; and when she did she made a statement regarding it that very much astonished the girl of the Red Mill.

"I will tell you now, my dear; why I wished to keep the photograph," the teacher said. "I showed it to Dr. Milroth and to several of the other members of the faculty."

"Indeed?" responded Ruth, quite puzzled.

"Some of them agree with me. Dr. Milroth does not. Nevertheless, I wish you would tell me all about this Maggie who works for your aunt --  -- "

"Maggie!" gasped Ruth. "What do you mean, Miss Cullam? Was it because her face is in the picture that you borrowed it?"

"Yes, my dear. I think, as do some of the other instructors, that Maggie looks very much like the Miss Rolff who last year occupied the room you have and who left us so strangely before the close of the semester."

"Oh, Miss Cullam!"

"Foolish, am I?" laughed the teacher. "Well, I suppose so. You know all about Maggie, do you?"

"No!" gasped Ruth.

Eagerly she explained to the mathematics teacher how the strange girl had appeared at the Red Mill and why she had remained there. Miss Cullam was no less excited than Ruth when she heard these particulars.

"I must tell Dr. Milroth this," Miss Cullam declared. "Say nothing about it, Ruth Fielding. And she says her name is 'Maggie'? Of course! Margaret Rolff. I believe that is who she is."

"But to go out to housework," Ruth said doubtfully.

"That doesn't matter. We must learn more about this Maggie. Say nothing until I have spoken to Dr. Milroth again."

But if this was a clue to the identity and where-abouts of the girl who had left Ardmore so abruptly the year before, Ruth learned something the very next day that, unfortunately, put it quite beyond her ability to discover further details in the matter.

A letter arrived from Aunt Alvirah and after reading it once through Ruth hurried away to Miss Cullam with the surprising news it contained.

Maggie had left the Red Mill. Without any explanation save that she had been sent for and must go, the strange girl had left Aunt Alvirah and Uncle Jabez, and they did not know her destination. Ben, the hired man, had driven her to the Cheslow railway station and she had taken an eastbound train. Otherwise, nothing was known of the strange girl's movements.

"Oh, my dear!" cried Miss Cullam. "I am certain, then, that she is Margaret Rolff. Even Dr. Milroth has come to agree that it may be that strange girl. I hoped there was a chance of learning what really became of those missing examination papers -- and, of course, the vase. But how can we discover what became of them if the girl has disappeared again?"

"Well, it's a very strange thing, I am sure," Ruth admitted. "Of course, I'll write the folks at the Red Mill that if Maggie -- or whatever her real name is -- ever turns up there again, they must let me know at once."

"Yes, do," begged the teacher. "Now that the subject has come up again I feel more disturbed than ever over those papers. Were they lost, or weren't they? My dear Ruth! you don't know how I feel about that mystery. All these girls whom I think so highly of, are still under suspicion."

"I hope nothing like that will happen this year, dear Miss Cullam," Ruth said warmly. "I feel that we freshmen all want to pass our examinations honestly -- or not at all."

"That is exactly what I believe about the other girls," groaned the teacher. "But the sorority members admit that Margaret Rolff was instructed to remove the Egyptian vase from the library as a part of the stunt she was expected to do during the initiation ceremonies.

"And in that vase were my papers. Of course, the girls did not know the examination papers were there before the vase was taken. But what became of them afterward?"

"Why, Miss Cullam," Ruth said thoughtfully, "of course they must still be in the vase."

"Perhaps. Then, perhaps not," murmured the teacher. "Who knows?"



Chapter XXIII

The Squall


The first college eight went off to Gillings, and, as it was only a few miles by rail, half the student body, at least, went to root for the crew. The Ardmore boat was beaten.

"Oh, dear! To come home plucked in such a disgusting way," groaned Helen, who, with Jennie, as well as Ruth, was among the disgruntled and disappointed girls who had gone to see the race. "It is awful."

"It's taught them a lesson, I wager," Ruth said practically. "We have all been rowing in still water. The river at Gillings is rough, and the local eight was used to it. I say, girls!"

"Say it," said Jennie, gruffly. "It can't be anything that will hurt us after what we've seen to-day. Three whole boatlengths ahead!"

"Never mind," broke in Helen. "The races with Hampton and Beardsley will be on our own lake."

"And if there is a flutter of wind, our first eight will be beaten again," from Jennie Stone.

"No, no, girls!" Ruth cried. "I heard the coach tell them that hereafter she was going to make them row if there was a hurricane. And that's what we must do."

"Who must do, Ruthie? What do you mean?" asked Helen.

"The freshman eight."

"E-lu-ci-date," drawled Jennie.

"We must learn to handle our shell in rough water. If there is a breath of wind stirring we mustn't beat it to land," said Ruth, vigorously. "Let's learn to handle our shell in really rough water."

"Sounds reasonable," admitted Jennie. "Shall we all take out accident policies?"

"No. All learn to swim. That's the wisest course," laughed Ruth.

"Ain't it the trewth?" agreed Jennie, making a face. "I'm not much of a swimmest in fresh water. But I never could sink."

The freshmen with the chums in the eight-oared shell proved to be all fair swimmers. And that crew was not the only one that redoubled its practice after the disastrous race at Gillings College.

Each class crew did its very best. The coaches were extremely stern with the girls. Ardmore had a reputation for turning out champion crews, and the year before, on their own water, the Ardmore eight had beaten Gillings emphatically.

"But if we can win races only on our own course," The Jasper, the Ardmore College paper declared, "what is the use of supporting an athletic association and four perfectly useless crews?"

They had all been so sure of victory over Gillings -- both the student body and the faculty -- that the disgrace of their beating cut all the deeper.

"It is fortunate," said the same stern commenter, "that our races with Hampton, and again with Beardsley, will be on Lake Remona. At least, our crew knows the water here -- on a perfectly calm day, at any rate."

"I see Merry Dexter's fine Italian hand in that," Ruth declared, when she and her chums read the criticism of the chief college eight. "And if it is true of the senior shell, how much more so of our own? We must be ready to risk a little something for the sake of pulling a good race."

"Goodness!" murmured Helen. "When we're away off there in the middle of the course between the landing and Bliss Island, for instance, and a squall threatens, it is going to take pluck, my dear, to keep us all steady."

"I tell you what!" exclaimed Jennie Stone.

"Tell it, if you're sure it won't hurt us," laughed Helen.

"Let's get the coach to have us circle the island when we're out in practice. It's always a little rough off both ends of Bliss Island, and we should get used to rough water before our final home races."

For, before the season was over, the four Ardmore eights would compete, and that race was the one which the three under-classes particularly trained for.

Jennie's suggestion sounded practical to her chums; so there were three already agreed when it was broached to the freshmen eight. The coach thought well of it, too; for there was always a motor boat supposed to be in sight of the shells when they were out at practice.

This was in April, and, in Ardmore's latitude, a very uncertain month April is -- a time of showers and smiles, calms and uncertain gales. Nevertheless, so thoroughly were the freshmen eight devoted to practice that it had to be a pretty black looking afternoon, indeed, that kept them from stepping into their boat.

The boatkeeper was a weather-wise old man, who had guarded the Ardmore girls against disaster on the lake for a decade. Being so well used to reading the signs he never let the boats out when he considered the weather threatening in any measure.

One afternoon, when there had been a call passed for the freshmen eight to gather at the boathouse immediately after recitations, Johnnie, as the boatman was called, had been called away from his post. Only a green assistant was there to look after the boats, and he was much too bashful to "look after the girls," as Jennie, giggling, observed.

"I don't see why they don't put blinders on that young man," she said. "Whenever he has to look at one of us girls his freckles light up as though there was an electric bulb behind each individual one."

"Oh, Heavy! Behave!" murmured Helen, yet amused, too, by the bashfulness of the assistant.

"We are a sight, I admit," went on Jennie. "Everything in the shell, girls? Now! up with it. Come on, little Trix," she added to the coxswain. "Don't get your tiller-lines snarled, and bring your 'nose-warmer'" -- by which inelegant term she referred to the megaphone which, when they were really trying for speed was strapped to the coxswain's head.

The eight oarswomen picked the light shell up, shoulder high, and marched down the platform to the float. Taking their cue from the tam-o'-shanters the seniors had made them wear early in their college experience, the freshmen eight wore light blue bandannas wound around their heads, with the corners sticking up like rabbit-ears, blue blouses, short skirts over bloomers, and blue stockings with white shoes. Their appearance was exceedingly natty.

"If we don't win in the races, we'll be worth looking at," Helen once said pridefully.

The assistant boatkeeper remained at a distance and said not a word to them, although there was a bank of black cloud upon the western horizon into which the sun would plunge after a time.

"We're the first out," cried one of the girls. "There isn't another boat on the lake."

"Wrong, Sally," Ruth Fielding said. "I just saw a boat disappear behind Bliss Island."

"Not one of ours?" cried Jennie, looking about as they lowered the shell into the water.

"No. It was a skiff. Came from the other side, I guess. Or perhaps it came up the river from the railroad bridge."

"Now," said Trix Davenport, the coxswain, "are we going to ask that boy to get out the launch and follow us?"

"Oh, goodness me! No," said Helen, with assurance. "We don't want him tagging us. Do we, girls?"

"Perhaps it might be better," Ruth said slowly.

But the chorus of the other girls cried her down. Besides, she did not believe there was any danger. Of course, a rowing shell is an uncertain thing; but she had never yet seen an accident on the lake.

All stepped in, adjusted their oars, and the coxswain pushed off. Having adjusted the rudder-lines, Trix affixed the megaphone, and lifted her hand. The eight strained forward, and the coxswain began to beat time.

Ruth set the pace in a long, swinging stroke, and the other seven fell into time. The shell shot out from the landing just as the coach appeared around the corner of Dare Hall, on her way down from the gymnasium. She gave one glance at the sky, and then started to run.

"Those foolish girls!" she exclaimed. "Where's Johnny?"

The freshman eight was far out upon the lake when she reached the boathouse, and she quickly saw that the old boatkeeper was not in sight. She tried to signal the crew of the shell to return; but the girls in the frail craft were too interested in their practice to look back toward the shore. Indeed, in a very few minutes, they swept through the slightly rough water at the eastern end of the island and disappeared behind it. The coach, Miss Mallory, beckoned the assistant boatman and ordered out the launch. But there was something wrong with the engine, and he lost some time before getting the craft started.

Meanwhile, the cloudbank was rolling up from the west. The sun suddenly was quenched. A breath of cold wind swept down the lake and fretted the tiny waves. They sprang up in retaliation and slapped the bow of the launch, which finally got under its sputtering way.

Then a squall of wind swooped down and Miss Mallory was almost swept off her feet. The boatman steered carefully, but the engine was not yet working in good fashion. The coach made a mistake, too, in directing the launch. Instead of starting directly up the lake, and rounding the head of the island to meet the freshman shell, she ordered the boatman to trail the boat that had disappeared.

The launch was some time in beating around the lower end of the island.



Chapter XXIV

Treasure Hunting


The freshmen shell was well around the end of Bliss Island and behind it, before the squall broke. Pulling into the rising gale as they were and the water being always a little rough here, at first none of Ruth Fielding's associates in the craft realized that there was the least danger.

They were well off shore, for near the island the water was shallow and there were rocks. These rowing shells are made so lightly that a mere scraping of the keel over a sunken boulder would probably completely wreck the craft, and well the girls knew this.

Trix Davenport steered well out from the dangerous shallows. "Pull away, girls!" she shouted through her megaphone. "It's going to blow."

And just then the real squall swept down upon them. Ruth, although setting a good, long stroke, found of a sudden that the shell was scarcely moving ahead. The wind was so strong that they were only holding their own against it.

"Pull!" shouted the coxswain again.

Ruth bent forward, braced her feet firmly and drove the long oar-blade deep into the jumping little waves. Those waves quickly became larger and "jumpier." A white wreath formed upon their crests. The shell in a very few seconds was in the midst of white water.

Once with Uncle Jabez, and in a heavy punt, the girl of the Red Mill had been caught in the rapids of the Lumano below the mill, and had fought with skill and courage to help save the boat. This effort was soon to be as great -- and she realized it.

She set a pace that drove the shell on in the teeth of the squall; but the boat shivered with every stroke. It was as though they were trying to push the narrow, frail little shell into a solid wall.

In pulling her oar Ruth scarcely ever raised her eyes to a level with the coxswain's face; but when she chanced to, she saw that Trix was pallid and her eyes were clouded with fear.

Ruth hoped none of the other girls saw that mask of dread which the situation had forced upon their little coxswain. She wanted to cry out to Trix -- to warn her to hide her emotion. But she had no breath to spare for this.

Every ounce of breath and of muscle she owned, Ruth put into her stroke. She felt the rhythmic spring of the craft, and knew that her mates were keeping well up with her. They were doing their part bravely, even though they might be frightened.

And then, suddenly and fortunately, the freshman craft found a sheltered bit of water. A high shoulder of the hilly island broke the force of the wind.

"Ashore! Put us ashore!" Ruth managed to gasp so that Trix heard her.

"We -- we'll wreck the shell!" complained Trix. "It's so shallow."

"We'll not drown in shallow water," ejaculated Ruth, expelling the words between strokes.

The coxswain shot them shoreward. She caught a glimpse of another boat pulled up on the beach -- the skiff they had earlier seen rounding the point of the island.

In thirty seconds they were safe. The rain began to pour down upon them in a brisk torrent. But that did not matter.

"Rather be half drowned in the rain than wholly drowned in the lake!" Jennie Stone declared, as they scrambled out into the shallow water, more than ankle deep, and lifted the treacherous shell out of the lake.

"Goodness! what a near one that was!" Helen declared.

Ruth looked at the skiff drawn up on the shore, and then up into the grove of trees.

"I wonder where the girl is who was in that boat?" she said.

"Was it a girl?" asked Helen, with interest.

"Yes. She must have found shelter somewhere from this rain. Come on! We may be able to keep reasonably dry up there in the woods."

The other girls followed Ruth, for she was naturally their leader. The rain continued to beat down upon them; but before they reached the opening in which was situated the Stone Face, Ruth spied an evergreen, the drooping branches of which offered them reasonable shelter.

"Come on into the green tent, girls!" shouted Jennie Stone, plunging into the dimly lighted circle under the tree. "Oh! Goodness! What's that?"

"A dog!"

"A cow! and I'm afraid of co-o-ows!" wailed Sally Blanchard, seizing upon Ruth as the nearest savior.

"Don't be silly, child," vouchsafed Helen, who had followed Jennie. "How would a cow come upon this island -- a mile from shore?"

"Or a dog?" laughed Ruth. "What did you see, Jennie Stone?"

"She just tried to fool us," Helen declared.

"Didn't either," the stout girl said warmly. "Something ran out at the far side as I came in."

"An animal?" gasped Trix Davenport.

"Well," returned Jennie Stone, "it certainly wasn't a vegetable. At least, I never saw a vegetable run as fast as that thing did."

"You needn't try to scare us to death, Heavy," complained Helen. "Of course it must have been the girl Ruth said came ashore in that skiff."

"Well, I didn't think of her," admitted Jennie. "But she ran like a ferret. I'd like to know who she is."

"Remember the girl we found over here that night in the snowstorm?" whispered Helen to Ruth. "The girl who looked like that Maggie?"

"Oh, don't I!" exclaimed Ruth, shaking her head.

"What do you suppose she was after -- and what is this one over here on the island for?" pursued Helen, languidly.

Ruth made no reply, but her cheeks flushed and her eyes grew brighter. She stooped and peered out at the decreasing rainfall. There was a path leading straight toward the Stone Face. Had this girl whom Jennie had seen gone in that direction?

The other members of the freshman crew were so inordinately busy chattering and laughing and telling jokes and stories that nobody for the moment noticed Ruth Fielding, who stole out from the covert through the fast slackening rainfall without saying a word. Lightly running over the crest of the hill, she came in sight of the huge boulder at which she and Helen had experienced their never-to-be-forgotten adventure the winter before.

She saw nobody at the foot of the boulder, but she pressed on to the edge of the grove to make sure. And then she saw that somebody had certainly and very recently been at work near the boulder.

There was a pickaxe -- perhaps the very one she had seen there in the winter -- and a shovel. Some attempt had been made to dig over the gravelly soil for some yards from the foot of the boulder.

"Goodness me! what can this mean?" thought the girl of the Red Mill. "Something must be buried here! Treasure hunters! Fancy!" and she laughed a little uncertainly. "Can somebody believe that this is one of the hiding places of Captain Kidd's gold? Who ever heard the like?"

The rain ceased falling. There was a tooting of a horn down behind the island. The launch had come in sight of the shell and Miss Mallory was trying to signal the girls to return to the shore.

But Ruth did not go back. She heard the girls shout for her, but instead of complying she went straight across to the Stone Face and picked up the heavy pickaxe.

"I don't believe whoever has been digging has found anything yet," she told herself. "No. She's been here before -- for, of course, it is that girl. She couldn't have dug all this over in a few minutes. No. She has been here and dug unsuccessfully. Then she has come back to-day for another attempt at -- at the treasure, shall we call it? Well!"

There was already an excavation more than a foot in depth and several yards in circumference. Whatever it was the strange girl had been after she was not quite sure of its burial place.

In the winter when she had essayed to dig for the hidden thing there had been too much frost in the ground. Besides, doubtless Ruth and Helen's inquisitiveness had frightened the strange girl away. Now she was back again -- somewhere now on Bliss Island. She had not accomplished her purpose as yet. Ruth smote the hard ground at her feet with all her strength. The pick sunk to its helve in the earth, now softened by the spring rain.

"Oh! I hit something!" she gasped.

In all probability she would not have continued to dig had this success not met her at the beginning. Really, her swinging of the pickaxe had been idly done. But the steel rang sharply on something. She raised the pick and used it thereafter more cautiously. There certainly was something below the surface -- not very far down --  -- 

Dropping the pickaxe, Ruth gained possession of the shovel and threw aside the loose earth. Yes! there was some object hidden there -- some "treasure" which she desired to see.

In a few moments, becoming impatient of the shovel, she cast it aside and stooping, with her feet planted firmly in the muddy earth, she groped in the hole with both hands.

Before she dragged the object into sight Ruth Fielding was positive by its shape and the feel of it, of the nature of the object. As she rose up at last, firmly grasping the object, a sharp voice said behind her:

"Well, now that you've interfered and found it, suppose you hand it over to me. You haven't any business with that vase, you know!"



Chapter XXV

The End Of A Perfect Year


Helen Cameron came running over the hill and down the sloppy path through the grove. When she reached the Stone Face where Ruth and the strange girl were standing, she cried:

"What is the matter with you, Ruthie Fielding? Come on over to the boat. Miss Mallory sent me after you.... Why! who's this?"

"Don't you remember this girl, Helen?" asked Ruth, seriously.

"Why! it's the girl who was camping in the snow, isn't it?" said Helen, curiously eyeing the stranger. "How-do?"

But the other was not pleased to allow the situation to develop into merely a well-bred meeting of three former acquaintances. She did not vouchsafe Helen a glance, but said, directing her words toward Ruth:

"I want that vase. It doesn't belong to you."

"Goodness, Ruthie!" put in her chum, for the first time seeing the object in Ruth's hands. "What is that thing?"

"I just dug it up here. It is the Egyptian vase taken from the Ardmore library last year I believe."

"It doesn't matter where it came from. I want it," cried the strange girl, and she stepped forward quickly as though to seize the muddy vase.

But Helen sprang forward and pushed her back.

"Hold on! I guess if Ruth's got it, you'll have to wait and prove property," said Helen. "How about it, Ruth?"

"She must tell us all about it," said Ruth, firmly. "Perhaps I may let her have it -- if she tells us the truth."

"The truth!" exclaimed Helen.

"I won't tell you a thing!" cried the strange girl. "You haven't any right to that vase."

"Nor have you," Ruth told her.

"Well --  -- "

"Nor has Margaret Rolff," went on Ruth, coolly. "I take it you are acting for her, aren't you?"

"Why," cried Helen, beginning to understand. "That is the girl who left Ardmore last year?"

"And came to the Red Mill after spending the summer at a camp on the Lumano and helped Aunt Alvirah," Ruth added, with a smile.

"Well, I never! Not Maggie?" demanded Helen.

"I think I am right," Ruth said quietly. "Am I not?" to the other girl. "Our Maggie is Margaret Rolff, and you must be her sister. At least, you look enough like her to be some relative."

The other made a gesture of resignation and dropped her hands. "I might as well confess it," she admitted. "You are Ruth Fielding, and Margy told me long ago you might be trusted."

"And this is my particular friend, Helen Cameron," Ruth said, "who is to be fully trusted, too."

"I suppose so," said the girl. "My name is Betty. I'm Margy's younger sister. Poor Margy. She never was very strong. I mean that she was always giving in to other people -- was easily confused.

"She's bright enough, you know," pursued the other girl, warmly; "but she is nervous and easily put out. What those girls did to her last year at this college was a shame!"

Another hail from behind the hill warned Ruth that she must attend Miss Mallory's command or there would be trouble.

"We cannot wait to hear it all, Miss -- Betty, did you say your name was? Where are you staying?"

"I have been working in Greenburg all winter. We're poor girls and have no parents. Margy is with me now," said the girl. "And I want that vase. I want it for Margy. She will never be satisfied until she can give it back to the dean of the college herself and explain how she came to hide it, and then forgot where she hid the vase."

"Tell me where to find you in Greenburg," said Ruth, hastily. "No! I'll not let you have the vase now. I will not show it to anybody else, however, and we'll come over to town this evening and bring it with us, and talk with Maggie."

"Oh, Miss Fielding --  -- "

"That must satisfy you," said Ruth, firmly; and Betty Rolff had to be satisfied with this promise. She told the chums where she and Margaret were staying and then Ruth and Helen ran back to their friends, Ruth concealing the hastily wiped silver vase under the loose front of her blouse.

"Goodness!" she said to Helen, "I hope nobody will see it. Do I bulge much?"

There was so much excitement among the crew of the freshman eight, however, that Ruth's treasure-trove was not discovered. Under Miss Mallory's direction they launched the shell again, climbed aboard, and made a safe passage to the dock.

A notice was put up that very evening, however, to the effect that none of the racing shells were to be taken out unless the launch was manned and went with the frailer craft.

The students of Ardmore were allowed to leave the college grounds in the evening if they were properly chaperoned. And when Ruth went to Miss Cullam and explained a little of what was afoot, the mathematics instructor was only too glad to act in the capacity of chaperon.

Helen had telephoned for a car, and the three rode down to Greenburg immediately after dinner. Ruth carried the recovered vase, just as she had dug it out of the hole by the Stone Face on Bliss Island, wrapped in a paper. She had not had time either to clean it or to examine it more thoroughly.

They easily found the boarding house, the address of which Betty Rolff had given to Ruth. It was a respectable place, but was far from sumptuous. It was evident, as Ruth had been previously informed, that the Rolff girls were not very well off in this world's goods.

When the visitors climbed to the second floor bedroom where the sisters were lodged, Miss Cullam took the lead, walked straight in, seized Margaret Rolff in her arms and implanted a kiss upon the pale cheek of the girl who had for so many months been Aunt Alvirah's assistant at the Red Mill.

"You poor girl!" said the mathematics teacher. "What you must have been through! Now, I am delighted to see you again, and you must tell me all about it -- how you came to take the vase, and bury it, and all."

There was a good deal of talk on both sides before all this that Miss Cullam asked was explained. But the facts were made clear at last.

In the first place, Margaret Rolff had always been very much afraid of the dark and of being alone at night. But she wanted so much to become a member of the Kappa Alpha that she did not try to cry off when she received her instructions as a candidate for membership in that sorority.

The first part of her initiation test was easy enough. She secured the Egyptian vase from the reception room of the library without being apprehended. Then she was rowed across the lake to the island by several black-robed and hooded figures whom she did not know.

Left with a flashlight and a spade to bury the stolen vase within a short distance of the Stone Face, Margaret had tried her best to control her nerves and do as she was commanded. But she could never really remember whether she had buried the vase or not. The idea had been for her to bury it, and then another candidate would be made to search for it the next night.

Everything about the initiation went wrong, however, because Margaret lost her nerve. The members of the sorority could not find the place where the candidate had really dug her hole and buried the vase. And Margaret had fled in a panic from the college before further inquiry could be made.

"All this time," explained the practical sister, Betty, "Margy has wanted to know if she did bury the vase or not. She felt she had stolen from the college and could be punished for it. I think those girls that set her the task should be punished."

"They have been," said Miss Cullam, grimly. "Yet, it was really a misunderstanding all around. Now, let me see that vase, Ruth Fielding."

The latter was glad to do this. The teacher opened the package and immediately turned the vase upside down and shook it. There was evidently something inside, and after some work with the handiest of all feminine tools, a hatpin, a soggy mass of paper was dislodged from the Egyptian vase.

"The missing examination papers, girls!" sighed Miss Cullam, with much satisfaction. "There, Margaret! You may have the vase and return it to Dr. Milroth to-morrow if you like. And I hope you will return to the college and be with us next year.

"I have what I am after and feel more contented in my mind than I have for some months. Dear me, girls! you don't at all understand what a number of trials and perplexities are heaped upon the minds of us poor teachers."

*    *    *    *    *

There were many other incidents occurring at Ardmore before the end of what Helen Cameron declared was a "perfect year." But nothing created more interest than the recovery of the Egyptian vase with the missing examination papers, unless it was the boat races. Though to a few, perhaps, certain plans for the coming summer overtopped even these in importance. These were such a very great secret that the chums scarcely dared discuss them.

But those readers who may so desire will read about the happenings that developed from these plans of Ruth and her friends in the subsequent volume of the series, entitled, "Ruth Fielding in the Saddle; or, College Girls in the Land of Gold."

First of the races was that with the first eight of Beardsley; and the crew of Ardmore won. Then came the trial between Ardmore and Hampton College, and the former won that as well.

Ardmore was in high fettle at that. The Jasper was quite as enthusiastically complimentary now as it had been critical after the race with Gillings, for in winning the race against Hampton College, the Ardmore crew had been forced to row through very rough water.

Commencement came in June, and two days before the graduation exercises of the senior class, the local aquatic sports were held. The main incident of this carnival was the race between the class eights.

The shells were started at twenty-yard intervals, and in the order of the classes. The freshman eight, in which rowed Ruth, Helen and Jennie, had practised vigorously all these weeks and now they displayed the value of their exertions.

Within the first quarter they "bumped" the sophomore eight. This crew dropped out of the race immediately and the freshmen spun ahead, Ruth setting a wonderfully effective stroke, and little Trix Davenport swaying her body in time with the motion of the boat and shouting encouragement through her megaphone.

On and on crept the freshman eight until there was barely a hand's breadth between the nose of their shell and the stern of the junior craft. The crowd along shore cheered the younger girls vociferously, and although they did not quite "bump" the juniors before crossing the mile line --  -- 

"We came so near it there was no fun in it!" declared Jennie Stone, delightedly. "Oh, girls! some of us are going to be great rowists after a few more years at Ardmore."

"Dear me," panted Helen, making the last pun of the term. "It should be called Hard-more. I never worked so hard in my life as I have this first year at college."

"But it will never hurt us," laughed Ruth, later. "We have got on famously."

"You have, my dear," interposed Helen. "You stand A, number one in classes. And look at that new play of yours -- a big success! Money is rolling in on you --  -- "

"Think a little of yourself," proposed Ruth. "Don't you consider your time well spent here, my dear chum?"

"Sure! It is the end of a perfect year," agreed Helen.

"And think of me -- little me!" cried Jennie Stone, bursting into the chums' study at that moment, and in time to hear the last of the conversation. "Do you know what's happened, girls?"

"No! What?" demanded the curious Helen.

"I have lost another pound," said the ex-fat girl, in a sepulchral voice.

<eob>

The Lion Of The North: A Tale Of The Times Of Gustavus Adolphus

By

G. A. Henty



Chapter I The Invitation


It was late in the afternoon in the spring of the year 1630; the hilltops of the south of Scotland were covered with masses of cloud, and a fierce wind swept the driving rain before it with such force that it was not easy to make way against it. It had been raining for three days without intermission. Every little mountain burn had become a boiling torrent, while the rivers had risen above their banks and flooded the low lands in the valleys.

The shades of evening were closing in, when a lad of some sixteen years of age stood gazing across the swollen waters of the Nith rushing past in turbid flood. He scarce seemed conscious of the pouring rain; but with his lowland bonnet pressed down over his eyes, and his plaid wrapped tightly round him, he stood on a rising hummock of ground at the edge of the flood, and looked across the stream.

"If they are not here soon," he said to himself, "they will not get across the Nith tonight. None but bold riders could do so now; but by what uncle says, Captain Hume must be that and more. Ah! here they come."

As he spoke two horsemen rode down the opposite side of the valley and halted at the water's edge. The prospect was not a pleasant one. The river was sixty or seventy feet wide, and in the centre the water swept along in a raging current.

"You cannot cross here," the boy shouted at the top of his voice. "You must go higher up where the water's deeper."

The wind swept his words away, but his gestures were understood.

"The boy is telling us to go higher up," said one of the horsemen.

"I suppose he is," the other replied; "but here is the ford. You see the road we have travelled ends here, and I can see it again on the other side. It is getting dark, and were we to cross higher up we might lose our way and get bogged; it is years since I was here. What's the boy going to do now? Show us a place for crossing?"

The lad, on seeing the hesitation of the horsemen, had run along the bank up the stream, and to their surprise, when he had gone a little more than a hundred yards he dashed into the water. For a time the water was shallow, and he waded out until he reached the edge of the regular bank of the river, and then swam out into the current.

"Go back," the horseman shouted; but his voice did not reach the swimmer, who, in a few strokes, was in the full force of the stream, and was soon lost to the sight of the horsemen among the short foaming waves of the torrent.

"The boy will be drowned," one of the horsemen said, spurring his horse up the valley; but in another minute the lad was seen breasting the calmer water just above the ford.

"You cannot cross here, Captain Hume," he said, as he approached the horsemen. "You must go nigh a mile up the river."

"Why, who are you, lad?" the horseman asked, "and how do you know my name?"

"I'm the nephew of Nigel Graheme. Seeing how deep the floods were I came out to show you the way, for the best horse in the world could not swim the Nith here now."

"But this is the ford," Captain Hume said.

"Yes, this is the ford in dry weather. The bottom here is hard rock and easy to ride over when the river is but waist deep, but below and above this place it is covered with great boulders. The water is six feet deep here now, and the horses would be carried down among the rocks, and would never get across. A mile up the river is always deep, and though the current is strong there is nothing to prevent a bold horseman from swimming across."

"I thank you heartily, young sir," Captain Hume said. "I can see how broken is the surface of the water, and doubt not that it would have fared hard with us had we attempted to swim across here. In faith, Munro, we have had a narrow escape."

"Ay, indeed," the other agreed. "It would have been hard if you and I, after going through all the battlefields of the Low Countries, should have been drowned here together in a Scottish burn. Your young friend is a gallant lad and a good swimmer, for in truth it was no light task to swim that torrent with the water almost as cold as ice."

"Now, sirs, will you please to ride on," the boy said; "it is getting dark fast, and the sooner we are across the better."

So saying he went off at a fast run, the horses trotting behind him. A mile above he reached the spot he had spoken of. The river was narrower here, and the stream was running with great rapidity, swirling and heaving as it went, but with a smooth even surface.

"Two hundred yards farther up," the boy said, "is the beginning of the deep; if you take the water there you will get across so as to climb up by that sloping bank just opposite."

He led the way to the spot he indicated, and then plunged into the stream, swimming quietly and steadily across, and allowing the stream to drift him down.

The horsemen followed his example. They had swum many a swollen river, and although their horses snorted and plunged at first, they soon quieted down and swam steadily over. They just struck the spot which the boy had indicated. He had already arrived there, and, without a word, trotted forward.

It was soon dark, and the horsemen were obliged to keep close to his heels to see his figure. It was as much as they could do to keep up with him, for the ground was rough and broken, sometimes swampy, sometimes strewn with boulders.

"It is well we have a guide," Colonel Munro said to his companion; "for assuredly, even had we got safely across the stream, we should never have found our way across such a country as this. Scotland is a fine country, Hume, a grand country, and we are all proud of it, you know, but for campaigning, give me the plains of Germany; while, as for your weather here, it is only fit for a water rat."

Hume laughed at this outburst.

"I sha'n't be sorry, Munro, for a change of dry clothes and a corner by a fire; but we must be nearly there now if I remember right. Graheme's hold is about three miles from the Nith."

The boy presently gave a loud shout, and a minute later lights were seen ahead, and in two or three minutes the horsemen drew up at a door beside which two men were standing with torches; another strolled out as they stopped.

"Welcome, Hume! I am glad indeed to see you; and -- ah! is it you, Munro? it is long indeed since we met."

"That is it, Graheme; it is twelve years since we were students together at St. Andrews."

"I did not think you would have come on such a night," Graheme said.

"I doubt that we should have come tonight, or any other night, Nigel, if it had not been that that brave boy who calls you uncle swam across the Nith to show us the best way to cross. It was a gallant deed, and I consider we owe him our lives."

"It would have gone hard with you, indeed, had you tried to swim the Nith at the ford; had I not made so sure you would not come I would have sent a man down there. I missed Malcolm after dinner, and wondered what had become of him. But come in and get your wet things off. It is a cold welcome keeping you here. My men will take your horses round to the stable and see that they are well rubbed down and warmly littered."

In a quarter of an hour the party were assembled again in the sitting room. It was a bare room with heavily timbered ceiling and narrow windows high up from the ground; for the house was built for purposes of defence, like most Scottish residences in those days. The floor was thickly strewn with rushes. Arms and trophies of the chase hung on the walls, and a bright fire blazing on the hearth gave it a warm and cheerful aspect. As his guests entered the room Graheme presented them with a large silver cup of steaming liquor.

"Drain this," he said, "to begin with. I will warrant me a draught of spiced wine will drive the cold of the Nith out of your bones."

The travellers drank off the liquor.

"'Tis a famous drink," Hume said, "and there is nowhere I enjoy it so much as in Scotland, for the cold here seems to have a knack of getting into one's very marrow, though I will say there have been times in the Low Countries when we have appreciated such a draught. Well, and how goes it with you, Graheme?"

"Things might be better; in fact, times in Scotland have been getting worse and worse ever since King James went to England, and all the court with him. If it were not for an occasional raid among the wild folks of Galloway, and a few quarrels among ourselves, life would be too dull to bear here."

"But why bear it?" Captain Hume asked. "You used to have plenty of spirit in our old college days, Graheme, and I wonder at your rusting your life out here when there is a fair field and plenty of honour, to say nothing of hard cash, to be won in the Low Country. Why, beside Hepburn's regiment, which has made itself a name throughout all Europe, there are half a score of Scottish regiments in the service of the King of Sweden, and his gracious majesty Gustavus Adolphus does not keep them idle, I warrant you."

"I have thought of going a dozen times," Graheme said, "but you see circumstances have kept me back; but I have all along intended to cross the seas when Malcolm came of an age to take the charge of his father's lands. When my brother James was dying from that sword thrust he got in a fray with the Duffs, I promised him I would be a father to the boy, and see that he got his rights."

"Well, we will talk of the affair after supper, Graheme, for now that I have got rid of the cold I begin to perceive that I am well nigh famished."

As the officer was speaking, the servitors were laying the table, and supper was soon brought in. After ample justice had been done to this, and the board was again cleared, the three men drew their seats round the fire, Malcolm seating himself on a low stool by his uncle.

"And now to business, Nigel," Colonel Munro said. "We have not come back to Scotland to see the country, or to enjoy your weather, or even for the pleasure of swimming your rivers in flood.

"We are commissioned by the King of Sweden to raise some 3000 or 4000 more Scottish troops. I believe that the king intends to take part in the war in Germany, where the Protestants are getting terribly mauled, and where, indeed, it is likely that the Reformed Religion will be stamped out altogether unless the Swedes strike in to their rescue. My chief object is to fill up to its full strength of two thousand men the Mackay Regiment, of which I am lieutenant colonel. The rest of the recruits whom we may get will go as drafts to fill up the vacancies in the other regiments. So you see here we are, and it is our intention to beat up all our friends and relations, and ask them each to raise a company or half a company of recruits, of which, of course, they would have the command.

"We landed at Berwick, and wrote to several of our friends that we were coming. Scott of Jedburgh has engaged to raise a company. Balfour of Lauderdale, who is a cousin of mine, has promised to bring another; they were both at St. Andrew's with us, as you may remember, Graheme. Young Hamilton, who had been an ensign in my regiment, left us on the way. He will raise a company in Douglasdale. Now, Graheme, don't you think you can bring us a band of the men of Nithsdale?"

"I don't know," Graheme said hesitatingly. "I should like it of all things, for I am sick of doing nothing here, and my blood often runs hot when I read of the persecutions of the Protestants in Germany; but I don't think I can manage it."

"Oh, nonsense, Nigel!" said Hume; "you can manage it easily enough if you have the will. Are you thinking of the lad there? Why not bring him with you? He is young, certainly, but he could carry a colour; and as for his spirit and bravery, Munro and I will vouch for it."

"Oh, do, uncle," the lad exclaimed, leaping to his feet in his excitement. "I promise you I would not give you any trouble; and as for marching, there isn't a man in Nithsdale who can tire me out across the mountains."

"But what's to become of the house, Malcolm, and the land and the herds?"

"Oh, they will be all right," the boy said. "Leave old Duncan in charge, and he will look after them."

"But I had intended you to go to St. Andrews next year, Malcolm, and I think the best plan will be for you to go there at once. As you say, Duncan can look after the place."

Malcolm's face fell.

"Take the lad with you, Graheme," Colonel Munro said. "Three years under Gustavus will do him vastly more good than will St. Andrews. You know it never did us any good to speak of. We learned a little more Latin than we knew when we went there, but I don't know that that has been of any use to us; whereas for the dry tomes of divinity we waded through, I am happy to say that not a single word of the musty stuff remains in my brains. The boy will see life and service, he will have opportunities of distinguishing himself under the eye of the most chivalrous king in Europe, he will have entered a noble profession, and have a fair chance of bettering his fortune, all of which is a thousand times better than settling down here in this corner of Scotland."

"I must think it over," Graheme said; "it is a serious step to take. I had thought of his going to the court at London after he left the university, and of using our family interest to push his way there."

"What is he to do in London?" Munro said. "The old pedant James, who wouldn't spend a shilling or raise a dozen men to aid the cause of his own daughter, and who thought more of musty dogmatic treatises than of the glory and credit of the country he ruled over, or the sufferings of his co-religionists in Germany, has left no career open to a lad of spirit."

"Well, I will think it over by the morning," Graheme said. "And now tell me a little more about the merits of this quarrel in Germany. If I am going to fight, I should like at least to know exactly what I am fighting about."

"My dear fellow," Hume laughed, "you will never make a soldier if you always want to know the ins and outs of every quarrel you have to fight about; but for once the tenderest conscience may be satisfied as to the justice of the contention. But Munro is much better versed in the history of the affair than I am; for, to tell you the truth, beyond the fact that it is a general row between the Protestants and Catholics, I have not troubled myself much in the matter."

"You must know," Colonel Munro began, "that some twenty years ago the Protestant princes of Germany formed a league for mutual protection and support, which they called the Protestant Union; and a year later the Catholics, on their side, constituted what they called the Holy League. At that time the condition of the Protestants was not unbearable. In Bohemia, where they constituted two-thirds of the population, Rudolph II, and after him Mathias, gave conditions of religious freedom.

"Gradually, however, the Catholic party about the emperor gained the upper hand; then various acts in breach of the conditions granted to the Protestants were committed, and public spirit on both sides became much embittered. On the 23d of May, 1618, the Estates of Bohemia met at Prague, and the Protestant nobles, headed by Count Thurn, came there armed, and demanded from the Imperial councillors an account of the high handed proceedings. A violent quarrel ensued, and finally the Protestant deputies seized the councillors Martinitz and Slavata, and their secretary, and hurled them from the window into the dry ditch, fifty feet below. Fortunately for the councillors the ditch contained a quantity of light rubbish, and they and their secretary escaped without serious damage. The incident, however, was the commencement of war. Bohemia was almost independent of Austria, administering its own internal affairs. The Estates invested Count Thurn with the command of the army. The Protestant Union supported Bohemia in its action. Mathias, who was himself a tolerant and well meaning man, tried to allay the storm; but, failing to do so, marched an army into Bohemia.

"Had Mathias lived matters would probably have arranged themselves, but he died the following spring, and was succeeded by Ferdinand II. Ferdinand is one of the most bigoted Catholics living, and is at the same time a bold and resolute man; and he had taken a solemn vow at the shrine of Loretto that, if ever he came to the throne, he would re-establish Catholicism throughout his dominions. Both parties prepared for the strife; the Bohemians renounced their allegiance to him and nominated the Elector Palatine Frederick V, the husband of our Scotch princess, their king.

"The first blow was struck at Zablati. There a Union army, led by Mansfeldt, was defeated by the Imperial general Bucquoi. A few days later, however, Count Thurn, marching through Moravia and Upper Austria, laid siege to Vienna. Ferdinand's own subjects were estranged from him, and the cry of the Protestant army, 'Equal rights for all Christian churches,' was approved by the whole population -- for even in Austria itself there were a very large number of Protestants. Ferdinand had but a few soldiers, the population of the city were hostile, and had Thurn only entered the town he could have seized the emperor without any resistance.

"Thurn hesitated, and endeavoured instead to obtain the conditions of toleration which the Protestants required; and sixteen Austrian barons in the city were in the act of insisting upon Ferdinand signing these when the head of the relieving army entered the city. Thurn retired hastily. The Catholic princes and representatives met at Frankfort and elected Ferdinand Emperor of Germany. He at once entered into a strict agreement with Maximilian of Bavaria to crush Protestantism throughout Germany. The Bohemians, however, in concert with Bethlem Gabor, king of Hungary, again besieged Vienna; but as the winter set in they were obliged to retire. From that moment the Protestant cause was lost; Saxony and Hesse-Darmstadt left the Union and joined Ferdinand. Denmark, which had promised its assistance to the Protestants, was persuaded to remain quiet. Sweden was engaged in a war with the Poles.

"The Protestant army was assembled at Ulm; the army of the League, under the order of Maximilian of Bavaria, was at Donauworth. Maximilian worked upon the fears of the Protestant princes, who, frightened at the contest they had undertaken, agreed to a peace, by which they bound themselves to offer no aid to Frederick V.

"The Imperial forces then marched to Bohemia and attacked Frederick's army outside Prague, and in less than an hour completely defeated it. Frederick escaped with his family to Holland. Ferdinand then took steps to carry out his oath. The religious freedom granted by Mathias was abolished. In Bohemia, Moravia, Silesia, and Austria proper. Many of the promoters of the rebellion were punished in life and property. The year following all members of the Calvinistic sect were forced to leave their country, a few months afterwards the Lutherans were also expelled, and in 1627 the exercise of all religious forms except those of the Catholic Church was forbidden; 200 of the noble, and 30,000 of the wealthier and industrial classes, were driven into exile; and lands and property to the amount of 5,000,000 or 6,000,000 pounds were confiscated.

"The hereditary dominions of Frederick V were invaded, the Protestants were defeated, the Palatinate entirely subdued, and the electorate was conferred upon Maximilian of Bavaria; and the rigid laws against the Protestants were carried into effect in the Palatinate also. It had now become evident to all Europe that the Emperor of Austria was determined to stamp out Protestantism throughout Germany; and the Protestant princes, now thoroughly alarmed, besought aid from the Protestant countries, England, Holland, and Denmark. King James, who had seen unmoved the misfortunes which had befallen his daughter and her husband, and who had been dead to the general feeling of the country, could no longer resist, and England agreed to supply an annual subsidy; Holland consented to supply troops; and the King of Denmark joined the League, and was to take command of the army.

"In Germany the Protestants of lower Saxony and Brunswick, and the partisan leader Mansfeldt, were still in arms. The army under the king of Denmark advanced into Brunswick, and was there confronted by that of the league under Tilly, while an Austrian army, raised by Wallenstein, also marched against it. Mansfeldt endeavoured to prevent Wallenstein from joining Tilly, but was met and defeated by the former general. Mansfeldt was, however, an enterprising leader, and falling back into Brandenburg, recruited his army, joined the force under the Duke of Saxe-Weimar, and started by forced marches to Silesia and Moravia, to join Bethlem Gabor in Hungary. Wallenstein was therefore obliged to abandon his campaign against the Danes and to follow him. Mansfeldt joined the Hungarian army, but so rapid were his marches that his force had dwindled away to a mere skeleton, and the assistance which it would be to the Hungarians was so small that Bethlem Gabor refused to cooperate with it against Austria.

"Mansfeldt disbanded his remaining soldiers, and two months afterwards died. Wallenstein then marched north. In the meantime Tilly had attacked King Christian at Lutter, and completely defeated him. I will tell you about that battle some other time. When Wallenstein came north it was decided that Tilly should carry the war into Holland, and that Wallenstein should deal with the King of Denmark and the Protestant princes. In the course of two years he drove the Danes from Silesia, subdued Brandenburg and Mecklenburg, and, advancing into Pomerania, besieged Stralsund.

"What a siege that was to be sure! Wallenstein had sworn to capture the place, but he didn't reckon upon the Scots. After the siege had begun Lieutenant General Sir Alexander Leslie, with 5000 Scots and Swedes, fought his way into the town; and though Wallenstein raised fire upon it, though we were half starved and ravaged by plague, we held out for three months, repulsing every assault, till at last the Imperialists were obliged to draw off; having lost 12,200 men.

"This, however, was the solitary success on our side, and a few months since, Christian signed a peace, binding himself to interfere no more in the affairs of Germany. When Ferdinand considered himself free to carry out his plans, he issued an edict by which the Protestants throughout Germany were required to restore to the Catholics all the monasteries and land which had formerly belonged to the Catholic Church. The Catholic service was alone to be performed, and the Catholic princes of the empire were ordered to constrain their subjects, by force if necessary, to conform to the Catholic faith; and it was intimated to the Protestant princes that they would be equally forced to carry the edict into effect. But this was too much. Even France disapproved, not from any feeling of pity on the part of Richelieu for the Protestants, but because it did not suit the interests of France that Ferdinand should become the absolute monarch of all Germany.

"In these circumstances Gustavus of Sweden at once resolved to assist the Protestants in arms, and ere long will take the field. That is what has brought us here. Already in the Swedish army there are 10,000 Scotchmen, and in Denmark they also form the backbone of the force; and both in the Swedish and Danish armies the greater part of the native troops are officered and commanded by Scotchmen.

"Hitherto I myself have been in the Danish service, but my regiment is about to take service with the Swedes. It has been quietly intimated to us that there will be no objection to our doing so, although Christian intends to remain neutral, at any rate for a time. We suffered very heavily at Lutter, and I need 500 men to fill up my ranks to the full strength.

"Now, Graheme, I quite rely upon you. You were at college with Hepburn, Hume, and myself, and it will be a pleasure for us all to fight side by side; and if I know anything of your disposition I am sure you cannot be contented to be remaining here at the age of nine-and-twenty, rusting out your life as a Scotch laird, while Hepburn has already won a name which is known through Europe."



Chapter II Shipwrecked


Upon the following morning Nigel Graheme told his visitors that he had determined to accept their offer, and would at once set to work to raise a company.

"I have," he said, "as you know, a small patrimony of my own, and as for the last eight years I have been living here looking after Malcolm I have been laying by any rents, and can now furnish the arms and accoutrements for a hundred men without difficulty. When Malcolm comes of age he must act for himself, and can raise two or three hundred men if he chooses; but at present he will march in my company. I understand that I have the appointment of my own officers."

"Yes, until you join the regiment," Munro said. "You have the first appointments. Afterwards the colonel will fill up vacancies. You must decide how you will arm your men, for you must know that Gustavus' regiments have their right and left wings composed of musketeers, while the centre is formed of pikemen, so you must decide to which branch your company shall belong."

"I would choose the pike," Nigel said, "for after all it must be by the pike that the battle is decided."

"Quite right, Nigel. I have here with me a drawing of the armour in use with us. You see they have helmets of an acorn shape, with a rim turning up in front; gauntlets, buff coats well padded in front, and large breast plates. The pikes vary from fourteen to eighteen feet long according to the taste of the commander. We generally use about sixteen. If your company is a hundred strong you will have two lieutenants and three ensigns. Be careful in choosing your officers. I will fill in the king's commission to you as captain of the company, authorizing you to enlist men for his service and to appoint officers thereto."

An hour or two later Colonel Munro and Captain Hume proceeded on their way. The news speedily spread through Nithsdale that Nigel Graheme had received a commission from the King of Sweden to raise a company in his service, and very speedily men began to pour in. The disbandment of the Scottish army had left but few careers open at home to the youth of that country, and very large numbers had consequently flocked to the Continent and taken service in one or other of the armies there, any opening of the sort, therefore, had only to be known to be freely embraced. Consequently, in eight-and-forty hours Nigel Graheme had applications from a far larger number than he could accept, and he was enabled to pick and choose among the applicants. Many young men of good family were among them, for in those days service in the ranks was regarded as honourable, and great numbers of young men of good family and education trailed a pike in the Scotch regiments in the service of the various powers of Europe. Two young men whose property adjoined his own, Herries and Farquhar, each of whom brought twenty of his own tenants with him, were appointed lieutenants, while two others, Leslie and Jamieson, were with Malcolm named as ensigns. The noncommissioned officers were appointed from men who had served before. Many of the men already possessed armour which was suitable, for in those day's there was no strict uniformity of military attire, and the armies of the various nationalities differed very slightly from each other. Colonel Munro returned in the course of a fortnight, Nigel Graheme's company completing the number of men required to fill up the ranks of his regiment.

Captain Hume had proceeded further north. Colonel Munro stopped for a week in Nithsdale, giving instructions to the officers and noncommissioned officers as to the drill in use in the Swedish army. Military manoeuvres were in these days very different to what they have now become. The movements were few and simple, and easily acquired. Gustavus had, however, introduced an entirely new formation into his army. Hitherto troops had fought in solid masses, twenty or more deep. Gustavus taught his men to fight six deep, maintaining that if troops were steady this depth of formation should be able to sustain any assault upon it, and that with a greater depth the men behind were useless in the fight. His cavalry fought only three deep. The recruits acquired the new tactics with little difficulty. In Scotland for generations every man and boy had received a certain military training, and all were instructed in the use of the pike; consequently, at the end of a week Colonel Munro pronounced Nigel Graheme's company capable of taking their place in the regiment without discredit, and so went forward to see to the training of the companies of Hamilton, Balfour, and Scott, having arranged with Graheme to march his company to Dunbar in three weeks' time, when he would be joined by the other three companies. Malcolm was delighted with the stir and bustle of his new life. Accustomed to hard exercise, to climbing and swimming, he was a strong and well grown lad, and was in appearance fully a year beyond his age. He felt but little fatigued by the incessant drill in which the days were passed, though he was glad enough of an evening to lay aside his armour, of which the officers wore in those days considerably more than the soldiers, the mounted officers being still clad in full armour, while those on foot wore back and arm pieces, and often leg pieces, in addition to the helmet and breastplate. They were armed with swords and pistols, and carried besides what were called half pikes, or pikes some 7 feet long. They wore feathers in their helmets, and the armour was of fine quality, and often richly damascened, or inlaid with gold.

Very proud did Malcolm feel as on the appointed day he marched with the company from Nithsdale, with the sun glittering on their arms and a drummer beating the march at their head. They arrived in due course at Dunbar, and were in a few hours joined by the other three companies under Munro himself. The regiment which was now commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Munro had been raised in 1626 by Sir Donald Mackay of Farre and Strathnaver, 1500 strong, for the service of the King of Denmark. Munro was his cousin, and when Sir Donald went home shortly before, he succeeded to the command of the regiment. They embarked at once on board a ship which Munro had chartered, and were landed in Denmark and marched to Flensberg, where the rest of the regiment was lying.

A fortnight was spent in severe drill, and then orders were received from Oxenstiern, the chancellor of Sweden, to embark the regiment on board two Swedish vessels, the Lillynichol and the Hound. On board the former were the companies of Captains Robert Munro, Hector Munro, Bullion, Nigel Graheme, and Hamilton. Colonel Munro sailed in this ship, while Major Sennot commanded the wing of the regiment on board the Hound. The baggage horses and ammunition were in a smaller vessel.

The orders were that they were to land at Wolgast on the southern shore of the Baltic. Scarcely had they set sail than the weather changed, and a sudden tempest burst upon them. Higher and higher grew the wind, and the vessels were separated in the night. The Lillynichol laboured heavily in the waves, and the discomfort of the troops, crowded together between decks, was very great. Presently it was discovered that she had made a leak, and that the water was entering fast. Munro at once called forty-eight soldiers to the pumps. They were relieved every quarter of an hour, and by dint of the greatest exertions barely succeeded in keeping down the water. So heavily did the vessel labour that Munro bore away for Dantzig; but when night came on the storm increased in fury. They were now in shoal water, and the vessel, already half waterlogged, became quite unmanageable in the furious waves. Beyond the fact that they were fast driving on to the Pomeranian coast, they were ignorant of their position.

"This is a rough beginning," Nigel said to his nephew. "We bargained to run the risk of being killed by the Germans, but we did not expect to run the hazard of being drowned. I doubt if the vessel can live till morning. It is only eleven o'clock yet, and in spite of the pumps she is getting lower and lower in the water."

Before Malcolm had time to answer him there was a tremendous crash which threw them off their feet. All below struggled on deck, but nothing could be seen in the darkness save masses of foam as the waves broke on the rock on which they had struck. There were two more crashes, and then another, even louder and more terrible, and the vessel broke in two parts.

"Come aft all," Colonel Munro shouted; "this part of the wreck is fixed."

With great efforts all on board managed to reach the after portion of the vessel, which was wedged among the rocks, and soon afterwards the forepart broke up and disappeared. For two hours the sea broke wildly over the ship, and all had to hold on for life.

Malcolm, even in this time of danger, could not but admire the calmness and coolness of his young colonel. He at once set men to work with ropes to drag towards the vessel the floating pieces of wreck which were tossing about in the boiling surf. The masts and yards were hauled alongside, and the colonel instructed the men to make themselves fast to these in case the vessel should go to pieces.

Hour after hour passed, and at last, to the joy of all, daylight appeared. The boats had all been broken to pieces, and Munro now set the men to work to bind the spars and timbers together into a raft. One of the soldiers and a sailor volunteered to try to swim to shore with lines, but both were dashed to pieces.

At one o'clock in the day some natives were seen collecting on the shore, and these presently dragged down a boat and launched it, and with great difficulty rowed out to the ship. A line was thrown to them, and with this they returned to shore, where they made the line fast. The storm was now abating somewhat, and Munro ordered the debarkation to commence.

As many of the troops as could find a place on the raft, or could cling to the ropes fastened on its sides, started first, and by means of the line hauled the raft ashore. A small party then brought it back to the ship, while others manned the boat; and so after a number of trips the whole of the troops and crew were landed, together with all the weapons and armour that could be saved.

From the peasantry Munro now learned that they had been wrecked upon the coast of Rugenwalde, a low lying tract of country in the north of Pomerania. The forts upon it were all in the possession of the Imperialists, while the nearest post of the Swedes was eighty miles away.

The position was not a pleasant one. Many of the arms had been lost, and the gunpowder was of course destroyed. The men were exhausted and worn out with their long struggle with the tempest. They were without food, and might at any moment be attacked by their enemies.

"Something must be done, and that quickly," Munro said, "or our fate will be well nigh as bad as that of the Sinclairs; but before night we can do nothing, and we must hope that the Germans will not discover us till then."

Thereupon he ordered all the men to lie down under shelter of the bushes on the slopes facing the shore, and on no account to show themselves on the higher ground. Then he sent a Walloon officer of the regiment to the Pomeranian seneschal of the old castle of Rugenwalde which belonged to Bogislaus IV, Duke of Pomerania, to inform him that a body of Scotch troops in the service of the Swedish king had been cast on the coast, and begging him to supply them with a few muskets, some dry powder, and bullets, promising if he would do so that the Scotch would clear the town of its Imperial garrison.

The castle itself, which was a very old feudal building, was held only by the retainers of the duke, and the seneschal at once complied with Munro's request, for the Duke of Pomerania, his master, although nominally an ally of the Imperialists, had been deprived of all authority by them, and the feelings of his subjects were entirely with the Swedes.

Fifty old muskets, some ammunition, and some food were sent out by a secret passage to the Scots. There was great satisfaction among the men when these supplies arrived. The muskets which had been brought ashore were cleaned up and loaded, and the feeling that they were no longer in a position to fall helplessly into the hands of any foe who might discover them restored the spirits of the troops, and fatigue and hunger were forgotten as they looked forward to striking a blow at the enemy.

"What did the colonel mean by saying that our position was well nigh as bad as that of the Sinclairs?" Malcolm asked Captain Hector Munro, who with two or three other officers was sheltering under a thick clump of bushes.

"That was a bad business," Captain Munro replied. "It happened now nigh twenty years ago. Colonel Monkhoven, a Swedish officer, had enlisted 2300 men in Scotland for service with Gustavus, and sailed with them and with a regiment 900 strong raised by Sinclair entirely of his own clan and name. Sweden was at war with Denmark, and Stockholm was invested by the Danish fleet when Monkhoven arrived with his ships. Finding that he was unable to land, he sailed north, landed at Trondheim, and marching over the Norwegian Alps reached Stockholm in safety, where the appearance of his reinforcements discouraged the Danes and enabled Gustavus to raise the siege.

"Unfortunately Colonel Sinclair's regiment had not kept with Monkhoven, it being thought better that they should march by different routes so as to distract the attention of the Norwegians, who were bitterly hostile. The Sinclairs were attacked several times, but beat off their assailants; when passing, however, through the tremendous gorge of Kringellen, the peasantry of the whole surrounding country gathered in the mountains. The road wound along on one side of the gorge. So steep was the hill that the path was cut in solid rock which rose almost precipitously on one side, while far below at their feet rushed a rapid torrent. As the Sinclairs were marching along through this rocky gorge a tremendous fire was opened upon them from the pine forests above, while huge rocks and stones came bounding down the precipice.

"The Sinclairs strove in vain to climb the mountainside and get at their foes. It was impossible, and they were simply slaughtered where they stood, only one man of the whole regiment escaping to tell the story."

"That was a terrible massacre indeed," Malcolm said. "I have read of a good many surprises and slaughters in our Scottish history, but never of such complete destruction as that only one man out of 900 should escape. And was the slaughter never avenged?"

"No," Munro replied. "We Scots would gladly march north and repay these savage peasants for the massacre of our countrymen, but the King of Sweden has had plenty of occupation for his Scotchmen in his own wars. What with the Russians and the Poles and the Danes his hands have been pretty full from that day to this, and indeed an expedition against the Norsemen is one which would bring more fatigue and labour than profit. The peasants would seek shelter in their forests and mountains, and march as we would we should never see them, save when they fell upon us with advantage in some defile."

At nightfall the troops were mustered, and, led by the men who had brought the arms, they passed by the secret passage into the castle, and thence sallied suddenly into the town below. There they fell upon a patrol of Imperial cavalry, who were all shot down before they had time to draw their swords. Then scattering through the town, the whole squadron of cuirassiers who garrisoned it were either killed or taken prisoners. This easy conquest achieved, the first care of Munro was to feed his troops. These were then armed from the stores in the town, and a strong guard being placed lest they should be attacked by the Austrian force, which was, they learned, lying but seven miles away, on the other side of the river, the troops lay down to snatch a few hours of needed rest.

In the morning the country was scoured, and a few detached posts of the Austrians captured. The main body then advanced and blew up the bridge across the river. Five days later an order came from Oxenstiern, to whom Munro had at once despatched the news of his capture of Rugenwalde, ordering him to hold it to the last, the position being a very valuable one, as opening an entrance into Pomerania.

The passage of the river was protected by entrenchments, strong redoubts were thrown up round Rugenwalde, and parties crossing the river in boats collected provisions and stores from the country to the very gates of Dantzig. The Austrians rapidly closed in upon all sides, and for nine weeks a constant series of skirmishes were maintained with them.

At the end of that time Sir John Hepburn arrived from Spruce, having pushed forward by order of Oxenstiern by forced marches to their relief. Loud and hearty was the cheering when the two Scotch regiments united, and the friends, Munro and Hepburn, clasped hands. Not only had they been at college together, but they had, after leaving St. Andrews, travelled in companionship on the Continent for two or three years before taking service, Munro entering that of France, while Hepburn joined Sir Andrew Gray as a volunteer when he led a band to succour the Prince Palatine at the commencement of the war.

"I have another old friend in my regiment, Hepburn," the colonel said after the first greeting was over -- "Nigel Graheme, of course you remember him."

"Certainly I do," Hepburn exclaimed cordially, "and right glad will I be to see him again; but I thought your regiment was entirely from the north."

"It was originally," Munro said; "but I have filled up the gaps with men from Nithsdale and the south. I was pressed for time, and our glens of Farre and Strathnaver had already been cleared of all their best men. The other companies are all commanded by men who were with us at St. Andrews -- Balfour, George Hamilton, and James Scott."

"That is well," Hepburn said. "Whether from the north or the south Scots fight equally well; and with Gustavus 'tis like being in our own country, so large a proportion are we of his majesty's army. And now, Munro, I fear that I must supersede you in command, being senior to you in the service, and having, moreover, his majesty's commission as governor of the town and district."

"There is no one to whom I would more willingly resign the command. I have seen some hard fighting, but have yet my name to win; while you, though still only a colonel, are famous throughout Europe."

"Thanks to my men rather than to myself," Hepburn said, "though, indeed, mine is no better than the other Scottish regiments in the king's service; but we have had luck, and in war, you know, luck is everything."

There were many officers in both regiments who were old friends and acquaintances, and there was much feasting that night in the Scotch camp. In the morning work began again. The peasants of the district, 8000 strong, were mustered and divided into companies, armed and disciplined, and with these and the two Scotch regiments Hepburn advanced through Pomerania to the gates of Colberg, fifty miles away, clearing the country of the Austrians, who offered, indeed, but a faint resistance.

The Lord of Kniphausen, a general in the Swedish service, now arrived with some Swedish troops, and prepared to besiege the town. The rest of Munro's regiment accompanied him, having arrived safely at their destination, and the whole were ordered to aid in the investment of Colberg, while Hepburn was to seize the town and castle of Schiefelbrune, five miles distant, and there to check the advance of the Imperialists, who were moving forward in strength towards it.

Hepburn performed his mission with a party of cavalry, and reported that although the castle was dilapidated it was a place of strength, and that it could be held by a resolute garrison; whereupon Munro with 500 men of his regiment was ordered to occupy it. Nigel Graheme's company was one of those which marched forward on the 6th of November, and entering the town, which was almost deserted by its inhabitants, set to work to prepare it for defence. Ramparts of earth and stockades were hastily thrown up, and the gates were backed by piles of rubbish to prevent them being blown in by petards.

Scarcely were the preparations completed before the enemy were seen moving down the hillside.

"How many are there of them, think you?" Malcolm asked Lieutenant Farquhar.

"I am not skilled in judging numbers, Malcolm, but I should say that there must be fully five thousand."

There were indeed eight thousand Imperialists approaching, led by the Count of Montecuculi, a distinguished Italian officer, who had with him the regiments of Coloredo, Isslani, Goetz, Sparre, and Charles Wallenstein, with a large force of mounted Croats.

Munro's orders were to hold the town as long as he could, and afterwards to defend the castle to the last man. The Imperial general sent in a message requesting him to treat for the surrender of the place; but Munro replied simply, that as no allusion to the word treaty was contained in his instructions he should defend the place to the last. The first advance of the Imperialists was made by the cavalry covered by 1000 musketeers, but these were repulsed without much difficulty by the Scottish fire.

The whole force then advanced to the attack with great resolution. Desperately the Highlanders defended the town, again and again the Imperialists were repulsed from the slight rampart, and when at last they won their way into the place by dint of numbers, every street, lane, alley, and house was defended to the last. Malcolm was almost bewildered at the din, the incessant roll of musketry, the hoarse shouts of the contending troops, the rattling of the guns, and the shrieks of pain.

Every time the Imperialists tried to force their way in heavy columns up the streets the Scots poured out from the houses to resist them, and meeting them pike to pike hurled them backwards. Malcolm tried to keep cool, and to imitate the behaviour of his senior officers, repeating their orders, and seeing that they were carried out.

Time after time the Austrians attempted to carry the place, and were always hurled back, although outnumbering the Scots by nigh twenty to one. At last the town was in ruins, and was on fire in a score of places. Its streets and lanes were heaped with dead, and it was no longer tenable. Munro therefore gave orders that the houses should everywhere be set on fire, and the troops fall back to the castle.

Steadily and in good order his commands were carried out, and with levelled pikes, still facing the enemy, the troops retired into the castle. The Imperial general, seeing how heavy had been his losses in carrying the open town, shrank from the prospect of assaulting a castle defended by such troops, and when night fell he quietly marched away with the force under his command.



Chapter III Sir John Hepburn


Munro's first care, when he found that the Imperialists had retreated in the direction of Colberg, was to send out some horsemen to discover whether the Swedes were in a position to cover that town. The men returned in two hours with the report that Field Marshal Horn, with the Swedish troops from Stettin, had joined Kniphausen and Hepburn, and were guarding the passage between the enemy and Colberg.

Two days later a message arrived to the effect that Sir Donald Mackay, who had now been created Lord Reay, had arrived to take the command of his regiment, and that Nigel Graheme's company was to march and join him; while Munro with the rest of his command was to continue to hold the Castle of Schiefelbrune.

Shortly afterwards General Bauditzen arrived with 4000 men and 18 pieces of cannon to press the siege of Colberg, which was one of the strongest fortresses in North Germany. On the 13th of November the news arrived that Montecuculi was again advancing to raise the siege; and Lord Reay with his half regiment, Hepburn with half his regiment, and a regiment of Swedish infantry marched out to meet him, Kniphausen being in command. They took up a position in a little village a few miles from the town; and here, at four o'clock in the morning, they were attacked by the Imperialists, 7000 strong. The Swedish infantry fled almost without firing a shot, but the Scottish musketeers of Hepburn and Reay stood their ground.

For a time a desperate conflict raged. In the darkness it was utterly impossible to distinguish friend from foe, and numbers on both sides were mown down by the volleys of their own party. In the streets and gardens of the little village men fought desperately with pikes and clubbed muskets. Unable to act in the darkness, and losing many men from the storm of bullets which swept over the village, the Swedish cavalry who had accompanied the column turned and fled; and being unable to resist so vast a superiority of force, Kniphausen gave the word, and the Scotch fell slowly back under cover of the heavy mist which rose with the first breath of day, leaving 500 men, nearly half their force, dead behind them.

Nigel Graheme's company had suffered severely; he himself was badly wounded. A lieutenant and one of the ensigns were killed, with thirty of the men, and many others were wounded with pike or bullet. Malcolm had had his share of the fighting. Several times he and the men immediately round him had been charged by the Imperialists, but their long pikes had each time repulsed the assaults.

Malcolm had before this come to the conclusion, from the anecdotes he heard from the officers who had served through several campaigns, that the first quality of an officer is coolness, and that this is even more valuable than is reckless bravery. He had therefore set before himself that his first duty in action was to be perfectly calm, to speak without hurry or excitement in a quiet and natural tone.

In his first fight at Schiefelbrune he had endeavoured to carry this out, but although he gained much commendation from Nigel and the other officers of the company for his coolness on that occasion, he had by no means satisfied himself; but upon the present occasion he succeeded much better in keeping his natural feelings in check, forcing himself to speak in a quiet and deliberate way without flurry or excitement, and in a tone of voice in no way raised above the ordinary. The effect had been excellent, and the soldiers, in talking over the affair next day, were loud in their praise of the conduct of the young ensign.

"The lad was as cool as an old soldier," one of the sergeants said, "and cooler. Just as the Austrian column was coming on for the third time, shouting, and cheering, and sending their bullets in a hail, he said to me as quietly as if he was giving an order about his dinner, 'I think, Donald, it would be as well to keep the men out of fire until the last moment. Some one might get hurt, you see, before the enemy get close enough to use the pikes.' And then when they came close he said, 'Now, sergeant, I think it is time to move out and stop them.' When they came upon us he was fighting with his half pike with the best of us. And when the Austrians fell back and began to fire again, and we took shelter behind the houses, he walked about on the road, stooping down over those who had fallen, to see if all were killed, and finding two were alive he called out, 'Will one of you just come and help me carry these men under shelter? They may get hit again if they remain here.' I went out to him, but I can tell you I didn't like it, for the bullets were coming along the road in a shower. His helmet was knocked off by one, and one of the men we were carrying in was struck by two more bullets and killed, and the lad seemed to mind it no more than if it had been a rainstorm in the hills at home. I thought when we left Nithsdale that the captain was in the wrong to make so young a boy an officer, but I don't think so now. Munro himself could not have been cooler. If he lives he will make a great soldier."

The defence of the Scots had been so stubborn that Montecuculi abandoned his attempt to relieve Colberg that day, and so vigilant was the watch which the besiegers kept that he was obliged at last to draw off his troops and leave Colberg to its fate. The place held out to the 26th of February, when the garrison surrendered and were allowed to march out with the honours of war, with pikes carried, colours flying, drums beating, matches lighted, with their baggage, and with two pieces of cannon loaded and ready for action. They were saluted by the army as they marched away to the nearest town held by the Austrians, and as they passed by Schiefelbrune Munro's command were drawn up and presented arms to the 1500 men who had for three months resisted every attempt to capture Colberg by assault.

Nigel Graheme's wound was so severe that he was obliged for a time to relinquish the command of his company, which he handed over to Herries.

As there had been two vacancies among the officers Malcolm would naturally have been promoted to the duties of lieutenant, but at his urgent request his uncle chose for the purpose a young gentleman of good family who had fought in the ranks, and had much distinguished himself in both the contests. Two others were also promoted to fill up the vacancies as ensigns.

The troops after the capture of Colberg marched to Stettin, around which town they encamped for a time, while Gustavus completed his preparations for his march into Germany. While a portion of his army had been besieging Colberg, Gustavus had been driving the Imperialists out of the whole of Pomerania. Landing on the 24th of June with an army in all of 15,000 infantry, 2000 cavalry, and about 3000 artillery, he had, after despatching troops to aid Munro and besiege Colberg, marched against the Imperialists under Conti. These, however, retreated in great disorder and with much loss of men, guns, and baggage, into Brandenburg; and in a few weeks after the Swedish landing only Colberg, Greifswald, and Demming held out. In January Gustavus concluded a treaty with France, who agreed to pay him an annual subsidy of 400,000 thalers on the condition that Gustavus maintained in the field an army of 30,000 infantry and 6000 cavalry, and assured to the princes and peoples whose territory he might occupy the free exercise of their religion. England also promised a subsidy, and the Marquis of Hamilton was to bring over 6000 infantry; but as the king did not wish openly to take part in the war this force was not to appear as an English contingent. Another regiment of Highlanders was brought over by Colonel John Munro of Obstell, and also a regiment recruited in the Lowlands by Colonel Sir James Lumsden.

Many other parties of Scotch were brought over by gentlemen of rank. Four chosen Scottish regiments, Hepburn's regiment, Lord Reay's regiment, Sir James Lumsden's musketeers, and Stargate's corps, were formed into one brigade under the command of Hepburn. It was called the Green Brigade, and the doublets, scarfs, feathers, and standards were of that colour. The rest of the infantry were divided into the Yellow, Blue, and White Brigades.

One evening when the officers of Reay's regiment were sitting round the campfire Lieutenant Farquhar said to Colonel Munro:

"How is it that Sir John Hepburn has, although still so young, risen to such high honour in the counsel of the king; how did he first make his way?"

"He first entered the force raised by Sir Andrew Gray, who crossed from Leith to Holland, and then uniting with a body of English troops under Sir Horace Vere marched to join the troops of the Elector Palatine. It was a work of danger and difficulty for so small a body of men to march through Germany, and Spinola with a powerful force tried to intercept them. They managed, however, to avoid him, and reached their destination in safety.

"Vere's force consisted of 2200 men, and when he and Sir Andrew Gray joined the Margrave of Anspach the latter had but 4000 horse and 4000 foot with him. There was a good deal of fighting, and Hepburn so distinguished himself that although then but twenty years old he obtained command of a company of pikemen in Sir Andrew Gray's band, and this company was specially selected as a bodyguard for the king.

"There was one Scotchman in the band who vied even with Hepburn in the gallantry of his deeds. He was the son of a burgess of Stirling named Edmund, and on one occasion, laying aside his armour, he swam the Danube at night in front of the Austrian lines, and penetrated to the very heart of the Imperial camp. There he managed to enter the tent of the Imperialist general, the Count de Bucquoi, gagged and bound him, carried him to the river, swam across with him and presented him as a prisoner to the Prince of Orange, under whose command he was then serving.

"It was well for Hepburn that at the battle of Prague he was guarding the king, or he also might have fallen among the hosts who died on that disastrous day. When the elector had fled the country Sir Andrew Gray's bands formed part of Mansfeldt's force, under whom they gained great glory. When driven out of the Palatinate they still kept up the war in various parts of Germany and Alsace. With the Scotch companies of Colonel Henderson they defended Bergen when the Marquis of Spinola besieged it. Morgan with an English brigade was with them, and right steadily they fought. Again and again the Spaniards attempted to storm the place, but after losing 12,000 men they were forced to withdraw on the approach of Prince Maurice.

"The elector now made peace with the emperor, and Mansfeldt's bands found themselves without employment. Mansfeldt in vain endeavoured to obtain employment under one of the powers, but failing, marched into Lorraine. There, it must be owned, they plundered and ravaged till they were a terror to the country. At last the Dutch, being sorely pressed by the Spaniards, offered to take them into their pay, and the bands marched out from Lorraine in high spirits.

"They were in sore plight for fighting, for most of them had been obliged to sell even their arms and armour to procure food. Spinola, hearing of their approach pushed forward with a strong force to intercept them, and so came upon them at Fleurus, eight miles from Namur, on the 30th of August, 1622.

"The Scots were led by Hepburn, Hume, and Sir James Ramsay; the English by Sir Charles Rich, brother to the Earl of Warwick, Sir James Hayes, and others. The odds seemed all in favour of the Spaniards who were much superior in numbers, and were splendidly accoutred and well disciplined, and what was more, were well fed, while Mansfeldt's bands were but half armed and almost wholly starving.

"It was a desperate battle, and the Spaniards in the end remained masters of the field, but Mansfeldt with his bands had burst their way through them, and succeeded in crossing into Holland. Here their position was bettered; for, though there was little fighting for them to do, and they could get no pay, they lived and grew fat in free quarters among the Dutch. At last the force broke up altogether; the Germans scattered to their homes, the English crossed the seas, and Hepburn led what remained of Sir Andrew Gray's bands to Sweden, where he offered their services to Gustavus. The Swedish king had already a large number of Scotch in his service, and Hepburn was made a colonel, having a strong regiment composed of his old followers inured to war and hardship, and strengthened by a number of new arrivals. When in 1625 hostilities were renewed with Poland Hepburn's regiment formed part of the army which invaded Polish Prussia. The first feat in which he distinguished himself in the service of Sweden was at the relief of Mewe, a town in Eastern Prussia, which was blockaded by King Sigismund at the head of 30,000 Poles. The town is situated at the confluence of the Bersa with the Vistula, which washes two sides of its walls.

"In front of the other face is a steep green eminence which the Poles had very strongly entrenched, and had erected upon it ten batteries of heavy cannon. As the town could only be approached on this side the difficulties of the relieving force were enormous; but as the relief of the town was a necessity in order to enable Gustavus to carry out the campaign he intended, the king determined to make a desperate effort to effect it.

"He selected 3000 of his best Scottish infantry, among whom was Hepburn's own regiment, and 500 horse under Colonel Thurn. When they were drawn up he gave them a short address on the desperate nature of the service they were about to perform, namely, to cut a passage over a strongly fortified hill defended by 30,000 men. The column, commanded by Hepburn, started at dusk, and, unseen by the enemy, approached their position, and working round it began to ascend the hill by a narrow and winding path encumbered by rocks and stones, thick underwood, and overhanging trees.

"The difficulty for troops with heavy muskets, cartridges, breastplates, and helmets, to make their way up such a place was enormous, and the mountain side was so steep that they were frequently obliged to haul themselves up by the branches of the trees; nevertheless, they managed to make their way through the enemy's outposts unobserved, and reached the summit, where the ground was smooth and level.

"Here they fell at once upon the Poles, who were working busily at their trenches, and for a time gained a footing there; but a deadly fire of musketry with showers of arrows and stones, opened upon them from all points, compelled the Scots to recoil from the trenches, when they were instantly attacked by crowds of horsemen in mail shirts and steel caps. Hepburn drew off his men till they reached a rock on the plateau, and here they made their stand, the musketeers occupying the rock, the pikemen forming in a wall around it.

"They had brought with them the portable chevaux-de-frise carried by the infantry in the Swedish service. They fixed this along in front, and it aided the spearmen greatly in resisting the desperate charges of the Polish horsemen. Hepburn was joined by Colonel Mostyn, an Englishman, and Count Brahe, with 200 German arquebusiers, and this force for two days withstood the incessant attacks of the whole of the Polish army.

"While this desperate strife was going on, and the attention of the enemy entirely occupied, Gustavus managed to pass a strong force of men and a store of ammunition into the town, and the Poles, seeing that he had achieved his purpose, retired unmolested. In every battle which Gustavus fought Hepburn bore a prominent part. He distinguished himself at the storming of Kesmark and the defeat of the Poles who were marching to its relief.

"He took part in the siege and capture of Marienburg and in the defeat of the Poles at Dirschau. He was with Leslie when last year he defended Stralsund against Wallenstein, and inflicted upon the haughty general the first reverse he had ever met with. Truly Hepburn has won his honours by the edge of the sword."

"Wallenstein is the greatest of the Imperial commanders, is he not?" Farquhar asked.

"He and Tilly," Munro replied. "'Tis a question which is the greatest. They are men of a very different stamp. Tilly is a soldier, and nothing but a soldier, save that he is a fanatic in religion. He is as cruel as he is brave, and as portentously ugly as he is cruel.

"Wallenstein is a very different man. He has enormous ambition and great talent, and his possessions are so vast that he is a dangerous subject for any potentate, even the most powerful. Curiously enough, he was born of Protestant parents, but when they died, while he was yet a child, he was committed to the care of his uncle, Albert Slavata, a Jesuit, and was by him brought up a strict Catholic. When he had finished the course of his study at Metz he spent some time at the University of Altdorf, and afterwards studied at Bologna and Padua. He then travelled in Italy, Germany, France, Spain, England, and Holland, studying the military forces and tactics of each country.

"On his return to Bohemia he took service under the Emperor Rudolph and joined the army of General Basta in Hungary, where he distinguished himself greatly at the siege of Grau. When peace was made in 1606 Wallenstein returned to Bohemia, and though he was but twenty-three years old he married a wealthy old widow, all of whose large properties came to him at her death eight years afterwards.

"Five years later he raised at his own cost two hundred dragoons to support Ferdinand of Gratz in his war against the Venetians. Here he greatly distinguished himself, and was promoted to a colonelcy. He married a second time, and again to one of the richest heiresses of Austria. On the outbreak of the religious war of 1618 he raised a regiment of Cuirassiers, and fought at its head. Two years later he was made quartermaster general of the army, and marched at the head of an independent force into Moravia, and there re-established the Imperial authority.

"The next year he bought from the Emperor Ferdinand, for a little over 7,000,000 florins, sixty properties which the emperor had confiscated from Protestants whom he had either executed or banished. He had been made a count at the time of his second marriage; he was now named a prince, which title was changed into that of the Duke of Friedland. They say that his wealth is so vast that he obtains two millions and a half sterling a year from his various estates.

"When in 1625 King Christian of Denmark joined in the war against the emperor, Wallenstein raised at his own cost an army of 50,000 men and defeated Mansfeldt's army. After that he cleared the Danes out of Silesia, conquered Brandenburg and Mecklenburg, and laid siege to Stralsund, and there broke his teeth against our Scottish pikes. For his services in that war Wallenstein received the duchy of Mecklenburg.

"At present he is in retirement. The conquests which his army have made for the emperor aroused the suspicion and jealousy of the German princes, and it may be that the emperor himself was glad enough of an excuse to humble his too powerful subject. At any rate, Wallenstein's army was disbanded, and he retired to one of his castles. You may be sure we shall hear of him again. Tilly, you know, is the Bavarian commander, and we shall probably encounter him before long."

New Brandenburg and several other towns were captured and strongly garrisoned, 600 of Reay's regiment under Lieutenant Colonel Lindsay being left in New Brandenburg. Nigel Graheme was still laid up, but his company formed part of the force.

"This is ill fortune indeed," Malcolm said to Lieutenant Farquhar, "thus to be shut up here while the army are marching away to win victories in the field."

"It is indeed, Malcolm, but I suppose that the king thinks that Tilly is likely to try and retake these places, and so to threaten his rear as he marches forward. He would never have placed as strong a force of his best soldiers here if he had not thought the position a very important one."

The troops were quartered in the larger buildings of New Brandenburg; the officers were billeted upon the burghers. The position of the country people and the inhabitants of the towns of Germany during this long and desolating war was terrible; no matter which side won, they suffered. There were in those days no commissariat wagons bringing up stores from depots and magazines to the armies. The troops lived entirely upon the country through which they marched. In exceptional cases, when the military chest happened to be well filled, the provisions acquired might be paid for, but as a rule armies upon the march lived by foraging. The cavalry swept in the flocks and herds from the country round. Flour, forage, and everything else required was seized wherever found, and the unhappy peasants and villagers thought themselves lucky if they escaped with the loss of all they possessed, without violence, insult, and ill treatment. The slightest resistance to the exactions of the lawless foragers excited their fury, and indiscriminate slaughter took place. The march of an army could be followed by burned villages, demolished houses, crops destroyed, and general ruin, havoc, and desolation.

In the cases of towns these generally escaped indiscriminate plunder by sending deputies forward to meet advancing armies, when an offer would be made to the general to supply so much food and to pay so much money on condition that private property was respected. In these cases the main body of the troops was generally encamped outside the town. Along the routes frequently followed by armies the country became a desert, the hapless people forsook their ruined homes, and took refuge in the forests or in the heart of the hills, carrying with them their portable property, and driving before them a cow or two and a few goats.

How great was the general slaughter and destruction may be judged by the fact that the population of Germany decreased by half during the war, and in Bohemia the slaughter was even greater. At the commencement of the war the population of Bohemia consisted of 3,000,000 of people, inhabiting 738 towns and 34,700 villages. At the end of the war there were but 780,000 inhabitants, 230 towns, and 6000 villages. Thus three out of four of the whole population had been slaughtered during the struggle.

Malcolm was, with Lieutenant Farquhar, quartered upon one of the principal burghers of New Brandenburg, and syndic of the weavers. He received them cordially.

"I am glad," he said, "to entertain two Scottish officers, and, to speak frankly, your presence will be of no slight advantage, for it is only the houses where officers are quartered which can hope to escape from the plunder and exactions of the soldiers. My wife and I will do our best to make you comfortable, but we cannot entertain you as we could have done before this war began, for trade is altogether ruined. None have money wherewith to buy goods. Even when free from the presence of contending armies, the country is infested with parties of deserters or disbanded soldiers, who plunder and murder all whom they meet, so that none dare travel along the roads save in strong parties. I believe that there is scarce a village standing within twenty miles, and many parts have suffered much more than we have. If this war goes on, God help the people, for I know not what will become of them. This is my house, will you please to enter."

Entering a wide hall, he led them into a low sitting room where his wife and three daughters were at work. They started up with looks of alarm at the clatter of steel in the hall.

"Wife," the syndic said as he entered, "these are two gentlemen, officers of the Scottish regiment; they will stay with us during the occupation of the town. I know that you and the girls will do your best to make their stay pleasant to them."

As the officers removed their helmets the apprehensions of the women calmed down on perceiving that one of their guests was a young man of three or four and twenty, while the other was a lad, and that both had bright pleasant faces in no way answering the terrible reputation gained by the invincible soldiers of the Swedish king.

"I hope," Farquhar said pleasantly, "that you will not put yourselves out of your way for us. We are soldiers of fortune accustomed to sleep on the ground and to live on the roughest fare, and since leaving Scotland we have scarcely slept beneath a roof. We will be as little trouble to you as we can, and our two soldier servants will do all that we need."

Farquhar spoke in German, for so large a number of Germans were serving among the Swedes that the Scottish officers had all learned to speak that language and Swedish, German being absolutely necessary for their intercourse with the country people. This was the more easy as the two languages were akin to each other, and were less broadly separated from English in those days than they are now.

It was nearly a year since Farquhar and Malcolm had landed on the shores of the Baltic, and living as they had done among Swedes and Germans, they had had no difficulty in learning to speak both languages fluently.



Chapter IV New Brandenburg


Farquhar and Malcolm Graheme were soon at home with their hosts. The syndic had offered to have their meals prepared for them in a separate chamber, but they begged to be allowed to take them with the family, with whom they speedily became intimate.

Three weeks after the capture of New Brandenburg the news came that Tilly with a large army was rapidly approaching.

Every effort was made to place the town in a position of defence. Day after day messengers came in with the news that the other places which had been garrisoned by the Swedes had been captured, and very shortly the Imperialist army was seen approaching. The garrison knew that they could expect no relief from Gustavus, who had ten days before marched northward, and all prepared for a desperate resistance. The townsfolk looked on with trembling apprehension, their sympathies were with the defenders, and, moreover, they knew that in any case they might expect pillage and rapine should the city be taken, for the property of the townspeople when a city was captured was regarded by the soldiery as their lawful prize, whether friendly to the conquerors or the reverse. The town was at once summoned to surrender, and upon Lindsay's refusal the guns were placed in position, and the siege began.

As Tilly was anxious to march away to the north to oppose Gustavus he spared no effort to reduce New Brandenburg as speedily as possible, and his artillery fired night and day to effect breaches in the walls. The Scotch officers saw little of their hosts now, for they were almost continually upon the walls.

At the first news of the approach of the Imperialists the syndic had sent away his daughters to the house of a relative at Stralsund, where his son was settled in business. When Farquhar and Malcolm returned to eat a meal or to throw themselves on their beds to snatch a short sleep, the syndic anxiously questioned them as to the progress of the siege. The reports were not hopeful. In several places the walls were crumbling, and it was probable that a storm would shortly be attempted. The town itself was suffering heavily, for the balls of the besiegers frequently flew high, and came crashing among the houses. Few of the inhabitants were to be seen in the streets; all had buried their most valuable property, and with scared faces awaited the issue of the conflict.

After six days' cannonade the walls were breached in many places, and the Imperialists advanced to the assault. The Scotch defended them with great resolution, and again and again the Imperialists recoiled, unable to burst their way through the lines of pikes or to withstand the heavy musketry fire poured upon them from the walls and buildings.

But Tilly's army was so strong that he was able continually to bring up fresh troops to the attack, while the Scotch were incessantly engaged. For eight-and-forty hours the defenders resisted successfully, but at last, worn out by fatigue, they were unable to withstand the onslaught of the enemy, and the latter forced their way into the town. Still the Scots fought on. Falling back from the breaches, they contested every foot of the ground, holding the streets and lanes with desperate tenacity, and inflicting terrible losses upon the enemy.

At last, twelve hours later, they were gathered in the marketplace, nearly in the centre of the town, surrounded on all sides by the enemy. Several times the Scottish bugles had sounded a parley, but Tilly, furious at the resistance, and at the loss which the capture of the town had entailed, had issued orders that no quarter should be given, and his troops pressed the now diminished band of Scotchmen on all sides.

Even now they could not break through the circle of spears, but from every window and roof commanding them a deadly fire was poured in. Colonel Lindsay was shot dead. Captain Moncrieff, Lieutenant Keith, and Farquhar fell close to Malcolm. The shouts of "Kill, kill, no quarter," rose from the masses of Imperialists. Parties of the Scotch, preferring to die sword in hand rather than be shot down, flung themselves into the midst of the enemy and died fighting.

At last, when but fifty men remained standing, these in a close body rushed at the enemy and drove them by the fury of their attack some distance down the principal street. Then numbers told. The band was broken up, and a desperate hand-to-hand conflict raged for a time.

Two of the Scottish officers alone, Captain Innes and Lieutenant Lumsden, succeeded in breaking their way down a side lane, and thence, rushing to the wall, leapt down into the moat, and swimming across, succeeded in making their escape, and in carrying the news of the massacre to the camp of Gustavus, where the tale filled all with indignation and fury. Among the Scotch regiments deep vows of vengeance were interchanged, and in after battles the Imperialists had cause bitterly to rue having refused quarter to the Scots at New Brandenburg.

When the last melee was at its thickest, and all hope was at an end, Malcolm, who had been fighting desperately with his half pike, found himself for a moment in a doorway. He turned the handle, and it opened at once. The house, like all the others, was full of Imperialists, who had thrown themselves into it when the Scots made their charge, and were now keeping up a fire at them from the upper windows. Closing the door behind him, Malcolm stood for a moment to recover his breath. He had passed unscathed through the three days' fighting, though his armour and helmet were deeply dinted in many places.

The din without and above was tremendous. The stroke of sword on armour, the sharp crack of the pistols, the rattle of musketry, the shouts of the Imperialists, and the wild defiant cries of the Highlanders mingled together.

As Malcolm stood panting he recalled the situation, and, remembering that the syndic's house was in the street behind, he determined to gain it, feeling sure that his host would shelter him if he could. Passing through the house he issued into a courtyard, quickly stripped off his armour and accoutrements, and threw them into an outhouse. Climbing on the roof of this he got upon the wall, and ran along it until behind the house of the syndic. He had no fear of being observed, for the attention of all in the houses in the street he had left would be directed to the conflict below.

The sound of musketry had already ceased, telling that the work of slaughter was well nigh over, when Malcolm dropped into the courtyard of the syndic; the latter and his wife gave a cry of astonishment as the lad entered the house, breathless and pale as death.

"Can you shelter me awhile?" he said. "I believe that all my countrymen are killed."

"We will do our best, my lad," the syndic said at once. "But the houses will be ransacked presently from top to bottom."

"Let him have one of the servant's disguises," the wife said; "they can all be trusted."

One of the serving men was at once called in, and he hurried off with Malcolm.

The young Scotchmen had made themselves very popular with the servants by their courtesy and care to avoid giving unnecessary trouble, and in a few minutes Malcolm was attired as a serving man, and joined the servants who were busy in spreading the tables with provisions, and in broaching a large cask of wine to allay the passions of the Imperialists.

It was not long before they came. Soon there was a thundering knocking at the door, and upon its being opened a number of soldiers burst in. Many were bleeding from wounds. All bore signs of the desperate strife in which they had been engaged.

"You are welcome," the host said, advancing towards them. "I have made preparations for your coming; eat and drink as it pleases you."

Rushing to the wine casks, the soldiers appeased their thirst with long draughts of wine, and then fell upon the eatables. Other bands followed, and the house was soon filled from top to bottom with soldiers, who ransacked the cupboards, loaded themselves with such things as they deemed worth carrying away, and wantonly broke and destroyed what they could not. The servants were all kept busy bringing up wine from the cellars. This was of good quality, and the soldiers, well satisfied, abstained from personal violence.

All night long pandemonium reigned in the town. Shrieks and cries, oaths and sounds of conflict arose from all quarters, as citizens or their wives were slaughtered by drunken soldiers, or the latter quarrelled and fought among themselves for some article of plunder. Flames broke out in many places, and whole streets were burned, many of the drunken soldiers losing their lives in the burning houses; but in the morning the bugles rang out, the soldiers desisted from their orgies, and such as were able to stand staggered away to join their colours.

A fresh party marched into the town; these collected the stragglers, and seized all the horses and carts for the carriage of the baggage and plunder. The burgomaster had been taken before Tilly and commanded to find a considerable sum of money the first thing in the morning, under threat that the whole town would be burned down, and the inhabitants massacred if it was not forthcoming.

A council of the principal inhabitants was hastily summoned at daybreak. The syndics of the various guilds between them contributed the necessary sum either in money or in drafts, and at noon Tilly marched away with his troops, leaving the smoking and ruined town behind him. Many of the inhabitants were forced as drivers to accompany the horses and carts taken away. Among these were three of the syndic's serving men, Malcolm being one of the number.

It was well that the Pomeranian dialect differed so widely from the Bavarian, so Malcolm's German had consequently passed muster without suspicion. The Imperialist army, although dragging with them an immense train of carts laden with plunder, marched rapidly. The baggage was guarded by horsemen who kept the train in motion, galloping up and down the line, and freely administering blows among their captives whenever a delay or stoppage occurred.

The whole country through which they passed was desolated and wasted, and the army would have fared badly had it not been for the herds of captured cattle they drove along with them, and the wagons laden with flour and wine taken at New Brandenburg and the other towns they had stormed. The marches were long, for Tilly was anxious to accomplish his object before Gustavus should be aware of the direction he was taking.

This object was the capture of the town of Magdeburg, a large and important city, and one of the strongholds of Protestantism. Here he was resolved to strike a blow which would, he believed, terrify Germany into submission.

When Gustavus heard that Tilly had marched west, he moved against Frankfort-on-the-Oder, where the Imperialists were commanded by Count Schomberg. The latter had taken every measure for the defence of the town, destroying all the suburbs, burning the country houses and mills, and cutting down the orchards and vineyards.

Gustavus, accompanied by Sir John Hepburn, at once reconnoitred the place and posted his troops. The Blue and Yellow Brigades were posted among the vineyards on the road to Custrin; the White Brigade took post opposite one of the two gates of the town. Hepburn and the Green Brigade were stationed opposite the other.

As the Swedes advanced the Imperialist garrison, who were 10,000 strong, opened fire with musketry and cannon from the walls. The weakest point in the defence was assigned by Schomberg to Colonel Walter Butler, who commanded a regiment of Irish musketeers in the Imperialist service. In the evening Hepburn and some other officers accompanied the king to reconnoitre near the walls. A party of Imperialists, seeing some officers approaching, and judging by their waving plumes they were of importance, sallied quietly out of a postern gate unperceived and suddenly opened fire. Lieutenant Munro, of Munro's regiment, was shot in the leg, and Count Teuffel, a colonel of the Life Guards, in the arm. A body of Hepburn's regiment, under Major Sinclair, rushed forward and drove in the Imperialists, a lieutenant colonel and a captain being captured.

So hotly did they press the Imperialists that they were able to make a lodgment, on some high ground near the rampart, on which stood an old churchyard surrounded by a wall, and whence their fire could sweep the enemy's works. Some cannon were at once brought up and placed in position here, and opened fire on the Guben gate. Captain Gunter, of Hepburn's regiment, went forward with twelve men, and in spite of a very heavy fire from the walls reconnoitred the ditch and approaches to the walls.

The next day all was ready for the assault. It was Palm Sunday, the 3d of April, and the attack was to take place at five o'clock in the afternoon. Before advancing, Hepburn and several of the other officers wished to lay aside their armour, as its weight was great, and would impede their movements. The king, however, forbade them to do so.

"No," he said; "he who loves my service will not risk life lightly. If my officers are killed, who is to command my soldiers?"

Fascines and scaling ladders were prepared. The Green Brigade were to head the assault, and Gustavus, addressing them, bade them remember New Brandenburg.

At five o'clock a tremendous cannonade was opened on the walls from all the Swedish batteries, and under cover of the smoke the Green Brigade advanced to the assault. From the circle of the walls a cloud of smoke and fire broke out from cannon and arquebus, muskets, and wall pieces. Sir John Hepburn and Colonel Lumsden, side by side, led on their regiments against the Guben gate; both carried petards.

In spite of the tremendous fire poured upon them from the wall they reached the gate, and the two colonels fixed the petards to it and retired a few paces. In a minute there was a tremendous explosion, and the gate fell scattered in fragments. Then the Scottish pikemen rushed forward. As they did so there was a roar of cannon, and a storm of bullets ploughed lanes through the close ranks of the pikemen, for the Imperialists, expecting the attack, had placed cannon, loaded to the muzzle with bullets, behind the gates.

Munro's regiment now leapt into the moat, waded across, and planting their ladders under a murderous fire, stormed the works flanking the gate, and then joined their comrades, who were striving to make an entrance. Hepburn, leading on the pikemen, was hit on the knee, where he had in a former battle been badly wounded.

"Go on, bully Munro," he said jocularly to his old schoolfellow, "for I am wounded."

A major who advanced to take his place at the head of the regiment was shot dead, and so terrible was the fire that even the pikemen of Hepburn's regiment wavered for a moment; but Munro and Lumsden, with their vizors down and half pikes in their hands, cheered on their men, and, side by side, led the way.

"My hearts!" shouted Lumsden, waving his pike -- "my brave hearts, let's enter."

"Forward!" shouted Munro; "advance pikes!"

With a wild cheer the Scots burst forward; the gates were stormed, and in a moment the cannon, being seized, were turned, and volleys of bullets poured upon the dense masses of the Imperialists. The pikemen pressed forward in close column, shoulder to shoulder, the pikes levelled in front, the musketeers behind firing on the Imperialists in the houses.

In the meantime Gustavus, with the Blue and Yellow Swedish Brigades, stormed that part of the wall defended by Butler with his Irishmen. These fought with extreme bravery, and continued their resistance until almost every man was killed, when the two brigades burst into the town, the White Brigade storming the wall in another quarter. Twice the Imperialist drums beat a parley, but their sound was deadened by the roar of musketry and the boom of cannon from wall and battery, and the uproar and shouting in every street and house. The Green Brigade, under its commander, maintained its regular order, pressing forward with resistless strength. In vain the Austrians shouted for quarter. They were met by shouts of -- "Remember New Brandenburg!"

Even now, when all was lost, Tilly's veterans fought with extreme bravery and resolution; but at last, when Butler had fallen, and Schomberg and Montecuculi, and a few other officers had succeeded in escaping, all resistance ceased. Four colonels, 36 officers, and 3000 men were killed. Fifty colours and ten baggage wagons, laden with gold and silver plate, were captured.

Many were taken prisoners, and hundreds were drowned in the Oder, across which the survivors of the garrison made their escape. Plundering at once began, and several houses were set on fire; but Gustavus ordered the drums to beat, and the soldiers to repair to their colours outside the town, which was committed to the charge of Sir John Hepburn, with his regiment.

The rumour that Magdeburg was the next object of attack circulated among Tilly's troops the day after they marched west from New Brandenburg. It originated in some chance word dropped by a superior officer, and seemed confirmed by the direction which they were taking which was directly away from the Swedish army. There was a report, too, that Count Pappenheim, who commanded a separate army, would meet Tilly there, and that every effort would be made to capture the town before Gustavus could march to its assistance.

Malcolm could easily have made his escape the first night after leaving New Brandenburg; but the distance to be traversed to join the Swedish army was great, confusion and disorder reigned everywhere, and he had decided that it would be safer to remain with the Imperialist army until Gustavus should approach within striking distance. On the road he kept with the other two men who had been taken with the horses from the syndic of the weavers, and, chatting with them when the convoy halted, he had not the least fear of being questioned by others. Indeed, none of those in the long train of carts and wagons paid much attention to their fellows, all had been alike forced to accompany the Imperialists, and each was too much occupied by the hardships of his own lot, and by thoughts of the home from which he had been torn, to seek for the companionship of his comrades in misfortune.

As soon, however, as Malcolm heard the report of Tilly's intentions, he saw that it was of the utmost importance that the King of Sweden should be informed of the Imperialist plans as early as possible, and he determined at once to start and endeavour to make his way across the country. At nightfall the train with the baggage and plunder was as usual so placed that it was surrounded by the camps of the various brigades of the army in order to prevent desertion. The previous night an escape would have been comparatively easy, for the soldiers were worn out by their exertions at the siege of New Brandenburg, and were still heavy from the drink they had obtained there; but discipline was now restored, and the sentries were on the alert. A close cordon of these was placed around the baggage train; and when this was passed, there would still be the difficulty of escaping through the camps of soldiery, and of passing the outposts. Malcolm waited until the camp became quiet, or rather comparatively quiet, for the supplies of wine were far from exhausted, and revelling was still going on in various parts of the camp, for the rigid discipline in use in modern armies was at that time unknown, and except when on duty in the ranks a wide amount of license was permitted to the soldiers. The night was fine and bright, and Malcolm saw that it would be difficult to get through the line of sentries who were stationed some thirty or forty yards apart.

After thinking for some time he went up to a group of eight or ten horses which were fastened by their bridles to a large store wagon on the outside of the baggage camp. Malcolm unfastened the bridles and turned the horses heads outwards. Then he gave two of them a sharp prick with his dagger, and the startled animals dashed forward in affright, followed by their companions. They passed close to one of the sentries, who tried in vain to stop them, and then burst into the camp beyond, where their rush startled the horses picketed there. These began to kick and struggle desperately to free themselves from their fastenings. The soldiers, startled at the sudden noise, sprang to their feet, and much confusion reigned until the runaway horses were secured and driven back to their lines.

The instant he had thus diverted the attention of the whole line of sentries along that side of the baggage camp, Malcolm crept quietly up and passed between them. Turning from the direction in which the horses had disturbed the camp, he made his way cautiously along. Only the officers had tents, the men sleeping on the ground around their fires. He had to move with the greatest caution to avoid treading upon the sleepers, and was constantly compelled to make detours to get beyond the range of the fires, round which groups of men were sitting and carousing.

At last he reached the outside of the camp, and taking advantage of every clump of bushes he had no difficulty in making his way through the outposts, for as the enemy was known to be far away, no great vigilance was observed by the sentries. He had still to be watchful, for fires were blazing in a score of places over the country round, showing that the foragers of the army were at their usual work of rapine, and he might at any moment meet one of these returning laden with spoil.

Once or twice, indeed, he heard the galloping of bodies of horse, and the sound of distant pistol shots and the shrieks of women came faintly to his ears. He passed on, however, without meeting with any of the foraging parties, and by morning was fifteen miles away from Tilly's camp. Entering a wood he threw himself down and slept soundly for some hours. It was nearly noon before he started again. After an hour's walking he came upon the ruins of a village. Smoke was still curling up from the charred beams and rafters of the cottages, and the destruction had evidently taken place but the day before. The bodies of several men and women lay scattered among the houses; two or three dogs were prowling about, and these growled angrily at the intruder, and would have attacked him had he not flourished a club which he had cut in the woods for self defence.

Moving about through the village he heard a sound of wild laughter, and going in that direction saw a woman sitting on the ground. In her lap was a dead child pierced through with a lance. The woman was talking and laughing to it, her clothes were torn, and her hair fell in wild disorder over her shoulders. It needed but a glance to tell Malcolm that the poor creature was mad, distraught by the horrors of the previous day.

A peasant stood by leaning on a stick, mournfully regarding her. He turned suddenly round with the weapon uplifted at the sound of Malcolm's approach, but lowered it on seeing that the newcomer was a lad.

"I hoped you were a soldier," the peasant said, as he lowered his stick. "I should like to kill one, and then to be killed myself. My God, what is life worth living for in this unhappy country? Three times since the war began has our village been burned, but each time we were warned of the approach of the plunderers, and escaped in time. Yesterday they came when I was away, and see what they have done;" and he pointed to his wife and child, and to the corpses scattered about.

"It is terrible," Malcolm replied. "I was taken a prisoner but two days since at the sack of New Brandenburg, but I have managed to escape. I am a Scot, and am on my way now to join the army of the Swedes, which will, I hope, soon punish the villains who have done this damage."

"I shall take my wife to her mother," the peasant said, "and leave her there. I hope God will take her soon, and then I will go and take service under the Swedish king, and will slay till I am slain. I would kill myself now, but that I would fain avenge my wife and child on some of these murderers of Tilly's before I die."

Malcolm felt that the case was far beyond any attempt at consolation.

"If you come to the Swedish army ask for Ensign Malcolm Graheme of Reay's Scottish regiment, and I will take you to one of the German corps, where you will understand the language of your comrades." So saying he turned from the bloodstained village and continued his way.



Chapter V Marauders


Malcolm had brought with him from Tilly's camp a supply of provisions sufficient for three or four days, and a flask of wine. Before he started from New Brandenburg the syndic had slipped into his band a purse containing ten gold pieces, and whenever he came to a village which had escaped the ravages of the war he had no difficulty in obtaining provisions.

It was pitiable at each place to see the anxiety with which the villagers crowded round him upon his arrival and questioned him as to the position of the armies and whether he had met with any parties of raiders on the way. Everywhere the cattle had been driven into the woods; boys were posted as lookouts on eminences at a distance to bring in word should any body of men be seen moving in that direction; and the inhabitants were prepared to fly instantly at the approach of danger.

The news that Tilly's army was marching in the opposite direction was received with a deep sense of thankfulness and relief, for they were now assured of a respite from his plunderers, although still exposed to danger from the arrival of some of the numerous bands. These, nominally fighting for one or other of the parties, were in truth nothing but marauders, being composed of deserters and desperadoes of all kinds, who lived upon the misfortunes of the country, and were even more cruel and pitiless than were the regular troops.

At one of these villages Malcolm exchanged his attire as a serving man of a rich burgher for that of a peasant lad. He was in ignorance of the present position of the Swedish army, and was making for the intrenched camp of Schwedt, on the Oder, which Gustavus had not left when he had last heard of him.

On the fourth day after leaving the camp of Tilly, as Malcolm was proceeding across a bare and desolate country he heard a sound of galloping behind him, and saw a party of six rough looking horsemen coming along the road. As flight would have been useless he continued his way until they overtook him. They reined up when they reached him.

"Where are you going, boy, and where do you belong to?" the leader of the party asked.

"I am going in search of work," Malcolm answered. "My village is destroyed and my parents killed."

"Don't tell me that tale," the man said, drawing a pistol from his holster. "I can tell by your speech that you are not a native of these parts."

There was nothing in the appointments of the men to indicate which party they favoured, and Malcolm thought it better to state exactly who he was, for a doubtful answer might be followed by a pistol shot, which would have brought his career to a close.

"You are right," he said quietly; "but in these times it is not safe always to state one's errand to all comers. I am a Scotch officer in the army of the King of Sweden. I was in New Brandenburg when it was stormed by Tilly. I disguised myself, and, passing unnoticed, was forced to accompany his army as a teamster. The second night I escaped, and am now making my way to Schwedt, where I hope to find the army."

The man replaced his pistol.

"You are an outspoken lad," he said laughing, "and a fearless one. I believe that your story is true, for no German boor would have looked me in the face and answered so quietly; but I have heard that the Scotch scarce know what danger is, though they will find Tilly and Pappenheim very different customers to the Poles."

"Which side do you fight on?" Malcolm asked.

"A frank question and a bold one!" the leader laughed. "What say you, men? Whom are we for just at present? We were for the Imperialists the other day, but now they have marched away, and as it may be the Swedes will be coming in this direction, I fancy that we shall soon find ourselves on the side of the new religion."

The men laughed. "What shall we do with this boy? To begin with, if he is what he says, no doubt he has some money with him."

Malcolm at once drew out his purse. "Here are nine gold pieces," he said. "They are all I have, save some small change."

"That is better than nothing," the leader said, pocketing the purse. "And now what shall we do with him?"

"He is a Protestant," one of the men replied; "best shoot him."

"I should say," another said, "that we had best make him our cook. Old Rollo is always grumbling at being kept at the work, and his cooking gets worse and worse. I could not get my jaws into the meat this morning."

A murmur of agreement was raised by the other horsemen.

"So be it," the leader said. "Dost hear, lad? You have the choice whether you will be cook to a band of honourable gentlemen or be shot at once."

"The choice pleases me not," Malcolm replied. "Still, if it must needs be, I would prefer for a time the post of cook to the other alternative."

"And mind you," the leader said sharply, "at the first attempt to escape we string you up to the nearest bough. Carl, do you lead him back and set him to work, and tell the men there to keep a sharp watch upon him."

One of the men turned his horse, and, with Malcolm walking by his side, left the party. They soon turned aside from the road, and after a ride of five miles across a rough and broken country entered a wood. Another half mile and they reached the foot of an eminence, on the summit of which stood a ruined castle. Several horses were picketed among the trees at the foot of the hill, and two men were sitting near them cleaning their arms. The sight of these deterred Malcolm from carrying into execution the plan which he had formed -- namely, to strike down his guard with his club as he dismounted, to leap on his horse, and ride off.

"Who have you there, Carl?" one of the men asked as they rose and approached the newcomers.

"A prisoner," Carl said, "whom the captain has appointed to the honourable office of cook instead of old Rollo, whose food gets harder and tougher every day. You are to keep a sharp eye over the lad, who says he is a Scotch officer of the Swedes, and to shoot him down if he attempts to escape."

"Why, I thought those Scots were very devils to fight," one of the men said, "and this is but a boy. How comes he here?"

"He told the captain his story, and he believed it," Carl said carelessly, "and the captain is not easily taken in. He was captured by Tilly at New Brandenburg, which town we heard yesterday he assaulted and sacked, killing every man of the garrison; but it seems this boy put on a disguise, and being but a boy I suppose passed unnoticed, and was taken off as a teamster with Tilly's army. He gave them the slip, but as he has managed to fall into our hands I don't know that he has gained much by the exchange. Now, youngster, go up to the castle."

Having picketed his horse the man led the way up the steep hill. When they reached the castle Malcolm saw that it was less ruined than it had appeared to be from below. The battlements had indeed crumbled away, and there were cracks and fissures in the upper parts of the walls, but below the walls were still solid and unbroken, and as the rock was almost precipitous, save at the point at which a narrow path wound up to the entrance, it was still capable of making a stout defence against attack.

A strong but roughly made gate, evidently of quite recent make, hung on the hinges, and passing through it Malcolm found himself in the courtyard of the castle. Crossing this he entered with his guide what had once been the principal room of the castle. A good fire blazed in the centre; around this half a dozen men were lying on a thick couch of straw. Malcolm's guide repeated the history of the newcomer, and then passed through with him into a smaller apartment, where a man was attending to several sauce pans over a fire.

"Rollo," he said, "I bring you a substitute. You have been always grumbling about being told off for the cooking, just because you happened to be the oldest of the band. Here is a lad who will take your place, and tomorrow you can mount your horse and ride with the rest of us."

"And be poisoned, I suppose, with bad food when I return," the man grumbled -- "a nice lookout truly."

"There's one thing, you old grumbler, it is quite certain he cannot do worse than you do. My jaws ache now with trying to eat the food you gave us this morning. Another week and you would have starved the whole band to death."

"Very well," the man said surlily; "we will see whether you have gained by the exchange. What does this boy know about cooking?"

"Very little, I am afraid," Malcolm said cheerfully; "but at least I can try. If I must be a cook I will at least do my best to be a good one. Now, what have you got in these pots?"

Rollo grumblingly enumerated their contents, and then putting on his doublet went out to join his comrades in the hall, leaving Malcolm to his new duties.

The latter set to work with a will. He saw that it was best to appear contented with the situation, and to gain as far as possible the goodwill of the band by his attention to their wants. In this way their vigilance would become relaxed, and some mode of escape might open itself to him. At dusk the rest of the band returned, and Malcolm found that those who had met him with the captain were but a portion of the party, as three other companies of equal strength arrived at about the same time, the total number mounting up to over thirty.

Malcolm was conscious that the supper was far from being a success; but for this he was not responsible, as the cooking was well advanced when he undertook it; however the band were not dissatisfied, for it was much better than they had been accustomed to, as Malcolm had procured woodwork from the disused part of the castle, and had kept the fire briskly going; whereas his predecessor in the office had been too indolent to get sufficient wood to keep the water on the boil.

In the year which Malcolm had spent in camp he had learned a good deal of rough cookery, for when on active duty the officers had often to shift for themselves, and consequently next day he was able to produce a dinner so far in advance of that to which the band was accustomed that their approbation was warmly and loudly expressed.

The stew was juicy and tender, the roast done to a turn, and the bread, baked on an iron plate, was pronounced to be excellent. The band declared that their new cook was a treasure. Malcolm had already found that though he could move about the castle as he chose, one of the band was now always stationed at the gate with pike and pistols, while at night the door between the room in which he cooked and the hall was closed, and two or three heavy logs thrown against it.

Under the pretence of getting wood Malcolm soon explored the castle. The upper rooms were all roofless and open to the air. There were no windows on the side upon which the path ascended, and by which alone an attack upon the castle was possible. Here the walls were pierced only by narrow loopholes for arrows or musketry. On the other sides the windows were large, for here the steepness of the rock protected the castle from attack.

The kitchen in which he cooked and slept had no other entrance save that into the hall, the doorway into the courtyard being closed by a heap of fallen stones from above. Two or three narrow slits in the wall allowed light and air to enter. Malcolm saw that escape at night, after he had once been shut in, was impossible, and that in the daytime he could not pass out by the gate; for even if by a sudden surprise he overpowered the sentry there, he would be met at the bottom of the path by the two men who were always stationed as guards to the horses, and to give notice of the approach of strangers.

The only chance of escape, therefore, was by lowering himself from one of the windows behind, down the steep rock. To do this a rope of some seventy feet long was necessary, and after a careful search through the ruins he failed to discover even the shortest piece of rope.

That afternoon some of the band on their return from foraging drove in half a dozen cattle, and one of these was with much difficulty compelled to climb up the path to the castle, and was slaughtered in the yard.

"There, Scot, are victuals for the next week; cut it up, and throw the head and offal down the rock behind."

As Malcolm commenced his unpleasant task a thought suddenly struck him, and he laboured away cheerfully and hopefully. After cutting up the animal into quarters he threw the head, the lower joints of the legs, and the offal, from the window. The hide he carried, with the four quarters, into his kitchen, and there concealed it under the pile of straw which served for his bed.

When the dinner was over, and the usual carousal had begun, and he knew there was no chance of any of the freebooters coming into the room, he spread out the hide on the floor, cut off the edges, and trimmed it up till it was nearly circular in form, and then began to cut a strip two inches wide round and round till he reached the centre. This gave him a thong of over a hundred feet long. Tying one end to a ring in the wall he twisted the long strip until it assumed the form of a rope, which was, he was sure, strong enough to bear many times his weight.

This part of the work was done after the freebooters had retired to rest. When he had finished cutting the hide he went in as usual and sat down with them as they drank, as he wished to appear contented with his position. The freebooters were discussing an attack upon a village some thirty miles away. It lay in a secluded position, and had so far escaped pillage either by the armies or wandering bands. The captain said he had learned that the principal farmer was a well-to-do man with a large herd of cattle, some good horses, and a well stocked house. It was finally agreed that the band should the next day carry out another raid which had already been decided upon, and that they should on the day following that sack and burn Glogau.

As soon as the majority of the band had started in the morning Malcolm made his way with his rope to the back of the castle, fastened it to the window, and launched himself over the rock, which, although too steep to climb, was not perpendicular; and holding by the rope Malcolm had no difficulty in lowering himself down. He had before starting taken a brace of pistols and a sword from the heap of weapons which the freebooters had collected in their raids, and as soon as he reached the ground he struck off through the wood.

Enough had been said during the conversation the night before to indicate the direction in which Glogau lay, and he determined, in the first place, to warn the inhabitants of the village of the fate which the freebooters intended for them.

He walked miles before seeing a single person in the deserted fields. He had long since left the wood, and was now traversing the open country, frequently turning round to examine the country around him, for at any moment after he had left, his absence from the castle might be discovered, and the pursuit begun. He hoped, however, that two or three hours at least would elapse before the discovery was made.

He had, before starting, piled high the fire in the hall, and had placed plenty of logs for the purpose of replenishing it close at hand. He put tankards on the board, and with them a large jug full of wine, so that the freebooters would have no occasion to call for him, and unless they wanted him they would be unlikely to look into the kitchen. Except when occasionally breaking into a walk to get breath, he ran steadily on. It was not until he had gone nearly ten miles that he saw a goatherd tending a few goats, and from him he learned the direction of Glogau, and was glad to find he had not gone very far out of the direct line. At last, after asking the way several times, he arrived within a short distance of the village. The ground had now become undulating, and the slopes were covered with trees. The village lay up a valley, and it was evident that the road he was travelling was but little frequented, ending probably at the village itself. Proceeding for nearly two miles through a wood he came suddenly upon Glogau.

It stood near the head of the valley, which was here free of trees, and some cultivated fields lay around it. The houses were surrounded by fruit trees, and an air of peace and tranquillity prevailed such as Malcolm had not seen before since he left his native country. One house was much larger than the rest; several stacks stood in the rick yard, and the large stables and barns gave a proof of the prosperity of its owner. The war which had already devastated a great part of Germany had passed by this secluded hamlet.

No signs of work were to be seen, the village was as still and quiet as if it was deserted. Suddenly Malcolm remembered that it was the Sabbath, which, though always kept strictly by the Scotch and Swedish soldiers when in camp, for the most part passed unobserved when they were engaged in active service. Malcolm turned his steps towards the house; as he neared it he heard the sound of singing within. The door was open, and he entered and found himself on the threshold of a large apartment in which some twenty men and twice as many women and children were standing singing a hymn which was led by a venerable pastor who stood at the head of the room, with a powerfully built elderly man, evidently the master of the house, near him.

The singing was not interrupted by the entrance of the newcomer. Many eyes were cast in his direction, but seeing that their leaders went on unmoved, the little congregation continued their hymn with great fervour and force. When they had done the pastor prayed for some time, and then dismissed the congregation with his blessing. They filed out in a quiet and orderly way, but not until the last had left did the master of the house show any sign of observing Malcolm, who had taken his place near the door.

Then he said gravely, "Strangers do not often find their way to Glogau, and in truth we can do without them, for a stranger in these times too often means a foe; but you are young, my lad, though strong enough to bear weapons, and can mean us no ill. What is it that brings you to our quiet village?"

"I have, sir, but this morning escaped from the hands of the freebooters at Wolfsburg, and I come to warn you that last night I heard them agree to attack and sack your village tomorrow; therefore, before pursuing my own way, which is to the camp of the Swedish king, in whose service I am, I came hither to warn you of their intention."

Exclamations of alarm arose from the females of the farmer's family, who were sitting at the end of the room. The farmer waved his hand and the women were instantly silent.

"This is bad news, truly," he said gravely; "hitherto God has protected our village and suffered us to worship Him in our own way in peace and in quiet in spite of the decrees of emperors and princes. This gang of Wolfsburg have long been a scourge to the country around it, and terrible are the tales we have heard of their violence and cruelty. I have for weeks feared that sooner or later they would extend their ravages even to this secluded spot."

"And, indeed, I thank you, brave youth, for the warning you have given us, which will enable us to send our womenkind, our cattle and horses, to a place of safety before these scourges of God arrive here. Gretchen, place food and wine before this youth who has done us so great a service; doubtless he is hungry and thirsty, for 'tis a long journey from Wolfsburg hither."

"What think you, father, shall I warn the men at once of the coming danger, or shall I let them sleep quietly this Sabbath night for the last time in their old homes?"

"What time, think you, will these marauders leave their hold?" the pastor asked Malcolm.

"They will probably start by daybreak," Malcolm said, "seeing that the journey is a long one; but this is not certain, as they may intend to remain here for the night, and to return with their plunder on the following day to the castle."

"But, sir," he went on, turning to the farmer, "surely you will not abandon your home and goods thus tamely to these freebooters. You have here, unless I am mistaken, fully twenty stout men capable of bearing arms; the marauders number but thirty in all, and they always leave at least five to guard the castle and two as sentries over the horses; thus you will not have more than twenty-three to cope with. Had they, as they expected, taken you by surprise, this force would have been ample to put down all resistance here; but as you will be prepared for them, and will, therefore, take them by surprise, it seems to me that you should be able to make a good fight of it, stout men-at-arms though the villains be."

"You speak boldly, sir, for one but a boy in years," the pastor said; "it is lawful, nay it is right to defend one's home against these lawless pillagers and murderers, but as you say, evil though their ways are, these freebooters are stout men-at-arms, and we have heard that they have taken a terrible vengeance on the villages which have ventured to oppose them."

"I am a Scottish officer in the King of Sweden's army," Malcolm said, "and fought at Schiefelbrune and New Brandenburg, and in the fight when the Imperialists tried to relieve Colberg, and having, I hope, done my duty in three such desperate struggles against the Imperialist veterans, I need not shrink from an encounter with these freebooters. If you decide to defend the village I am ready to strike a blow at them, for they have held me captive for five days, and have degraded me by making me cook for them."

A slight titter was heard among the younger females at the indignant tone in which Malcolm spoke of his enforced culinary work.

"And you are truly one of those Scottish soldiers of the Swedish hero who fight so stoutly for the Faith and of whose deeds we have heard so much!" the pastor said. "Truly we are glad to see you. Our prayers have not been wanting night and morning for the success of the champions of the Reformed Faith. What say you, my friend? Shall we take the advice of this young soldier and venture our lives for the defence of our homes?"

"That will we," the farmer said warmly. "He is used to war, and can give us good advice. As far as strength goes, our men are not wanting. Each has his sword and pike, and there are four or five arquebuses in the village. Yes, if there be a chance of success, even of the slightest, we will do our best as men in defence of our homes."



Chapter VI The Attack On The Village


"And now," the farmer said to Malcolm, "what is your advice? That we will fight is settled. When, where, and how? This house is strongly built, and we could so strengthen its doors and windows with beams that we might hold out for a long time against them."

"No," Malcolm said, "that would not be my advice. Assuredly we might defend the house; but in that case the rest of the village, the herds and granaries, would fall into their hands. To do any good, we must fight them in the wood on their way hither. But although I hope for a favourable issue, I should strongly advise that you should have the herds and horses driven away. Send off all your more valuable goods in the wagons, with your women and children, to a distance. We shall fight all the better if we know that they are all in safety. Some of the old men and boys will suffice for this work. And now, methinks, you had best summon the men, for there will be work for them tonight."

The bell which was used to call the hands from their work in the fields and woods at sunset soon sounded, and the men in surprise came trooping in at the summons. When they were assembled the farmer told them the news he had heard, and the determination which had been arrived at to defend the village.

After the first movement of alarm caused by the name of the dreaded band of the Wolfsburg had subsided Malcolm was glad to see an expression of stout determination come over the faces of the assemblage, and all declared themselves ready to fight to the last. Four of the elder men were told off at once to superintend the placing of the more movable household goods of the village in wagons, which were to set out at daybreak with the cattle and families.

"Now," Malcolm said, "I want the rest to bring mattocks and shovels and to accompany me along the road. There is one spot which I marked as I came along as being specially suited for defence."

This was about half a mile away, and as darkness had now set in the men lighted torches, and with their implements followed him. At the spot which he had selected there was for the distance of a hundred yards a thick growth of underwood bordering the track on either side. Across the road, at the end of the passage nearest to the farm, Malcolm directed ten of the men to dig a pit twelve feet wide and eight feet deep. The rest of the men he set to work to cut nearly through the trunks of the trees standing nearest the road until they were ready to fall.

Ten trees were so treated, five on either side of the road. Standing, as they did, among the undergrowth, the operation which had been performed on them was invisible to any one passing by. Ropes were now fastened to the upper part of the trees and carried across the road, almost hidden from sight by the foliage which met over the path. When the pit was completed the earth which had been taken from it was scattered in the wood out of sight. Light boughs were then placed over the hole. These were covered with earth and sods trampled down until the break in the road was not perceptible to a casual eye.

This was done by Malcolm himself, as the lightest of the party, the boughs sufficing to bear his weight, although they would give way at once beneath that of a horse. The men all worked with vigour and alacrity as soon as they understood Malcolm's plans. Daylight was breaking when the preparations were completed. Malcolm now divided the party, and told them off to their respective posts. They were sixteen in all, excluding the pastor.

Eight were placed on each side of the road. Those on one side were gathered near the pit which had been dug, those on the other were opposite to the tree which was farthest down the valley. The freebooters were to be allowed to pass along until the foremost fell into the pit. The men stationed there were at once to haul upon the rope attached to the tree near it and to bring it down. Its fall would bar the road and prevent the horsemen from leaping the pit. Those in the rear were, if they heard the crash before the last of the marauders had passed through, to wait until they had closed up, which they were sure to do when the obstacle was reached, and then to fell the tree to bar their retreat.

The instant this was done both parties were to run to other ropes and to bring down the trees upon the horsemen gathered on the road, and were then to fall upon them with axe, pike, and arquebus.

"If it works as well as I expect," Malcolm said, "not one of them will escape from the trap."

Soon after daybreak bowls of milk and trays of bread and meat were brought down to the workers by some of the women. As there was no immediate expectation of attack, the farmer himself, with the pastor, went back to the village to cheer the women before their departure.

"You need not be afraid, wife," the farmer said. "I shall keep to my plans, because when you have once made a plan it is foolish to change it; but I deem not that there is any real need for sending you and the wagons and beasts away. This young Scotch lad seems made for a commander, and truly, if all his countrymen are like himself, I wonder no longer that the Poles and Imperialists have been unable to withstand them. Truly he has constructed a trap from which this band of villains will have but little chance of escape, and I trust that we may slay them without much loss to ourselves. What rejoicings will there not be in the fifty villages when the news comes that their oppressors have been killed! The good God has assuredly sent this youth hither as His instrument in defeating the oppressors, even as He chose the shepherd boy David out of Israel to be the scourge of the Philistines."

By this time all was ready for a start, and having seen the wagons fairly on their way the farmer returned to the wood, the pastor accompanying the women. Three hours passed before there were any signs of the marauders, and Malcolm began to think that the idea might have occurred to them that he had gone to Glogau, and that they might therefore have postponed their raid upon that village until they could make sure of taking it by surprise, and so capturing all the horses and valuables before the villagers had time to remove them. Glogau was, however, quite out of Malcolm's direct line for the Swedish camp, and it was hardly likely that the freebooters would think that their late captive would go out of his way to warn the village, in which he had no interest whatever; indeed they would scarcely be likely to recall the fact that he had been present when they were discussing their proposed expedition against it.

All doubts were, however, set at rest when a boy who had been stationed in a high tree near the edge of the wood ran in with the news that a band of horsemen were riding across the plain, and would be there in a few minutes. Every one fell into his appointed place. The farmer himself took the command of the party on one side of the road, Malcolm of that on the other. Matches were blown, and the priming of the arquebuses looked to; then they gathered round the ropes, and listened for the tramp of horses.

Although it was but a few minutes before it came, the time seemed long to those waiting; but at last a vague sound was heard, which rapidly rose into a loud trampling of horses. The marauders had been riding quietly until they neared the wood, as speed was no object; but as they wished to take the village by surprise -- and it was just possible that they might have been seen approaching -- they were now riding rapidly.

Suddenly the earth gave way under the feet of the horses of the captain and his lieutenant, who were riding at the head of the troop, and men and animals disappeared from the sight of those who followed. The two men behind them pulled their horses back on their haunches, and checked them at the edge of the pit into which their leaders had fallen.

As they did so a loud crack was heard, and a great tree came crashing down, falling directly upon them, striking them and their horses to the ground. A loud cry of astonishment and alarm rose from those behind, followed by curses and exclamations of rage. A few seconds after the fall of the tree there was a crash in the rear of the party, and to their astonishment the freebooters saw that another tree had fallen there, and that a barricade of boughs and leaves closed their way behind as in front. Deprived of their leaders, bewildered and alarmed at this strange and unexpected occurrence, the marauders remained irresolute. Two or three of those in front got off their horses and tried to make their way to the assistance of their comrades who were lying crushed under the mass of foliage, and of their leaders in the pit beyond.

But now almost simultaneously two more crashes were heard, and a tree from each side fell upon them. Panic stricken now the horsemen strove to dash through the underwood, but their progress was arrested, for among the bushes ropes had been fastened from tree to tree; stakes had been driven in, and the bushes interlaced with cords. The trees continued to fall till the portion of the road occupied by the troop was covered by a heap of fallen wood and leaf. Then for the first time the silence in the wood beyond them was broken, the flashes of firearms darted out from the brushwood, and then with a shout a number of men armed with pikes and axes sprang forward to the attack.

A few only of the marauders were in a position to offer any resistance whatever. The greater portion were buried under the mass of foliage. Many had been struck down by the trunks or heavy arms of the trees. All were hampered and confused by the situation in which they found themselves. Under such circumstances it was a massacre rather than a fight. Malcolm, seeing the inability of the freebooters to oppose any formidable resistance, sheathed his sword, and left it to the peasants to avenge the countless murders which the band had committed, and the ruin and misery which they had inflicted upon the country.

In a few minutes all was over. The brigands were shot down, piked, or slain by the heavy axes through the openings in their leafy prison. Quarter was neither asked for nor given. The freebooters knew that it would be useless, and died cursing their foes and their own fate in being thus slaughtered like rats in a trap. Two or three of the peasants were wounded by pistol shots, but this was all the injury that their success cost them.

"The wicked have digged a pit, and they have fallen into it themselves," the farmer said as he approached the spot where Malcolm was standing, some little distance from the scene of slaughter. "Verily the Lord hath delivered them into our hands. I understand, my young friend, why you as a soldier did not aid in the slaughter of these villains. It is your trade to fight in open battle, and you care not to slay your enemies when helpless; but with us it is different. We regard them as wild beasts, without heart or pity, as scourges to be annihilated when we have the chance; just as in winter we slay the wolves who come down to attack our herds."

"I blame you not," Malcolm said. "When men take to the life of wild beasts they must be slain as such. Now my task is done, and I will journey on at once to join my countrymen; but I will give you one piece of advice before I go.

"In the course of a day or two the party left at Wolfsburg will grow uneasy, and two of their number are sure to ride hither to inquire as to the tarrying of the band. Let your men with arquebuses keep watch night and day and shoot them down when they arrive. Were I in your place I would then mount a dozen of your men and let them put on the armour of these dead robbers and ride to Wolfsburg, arriving there about daybreak. If they see you coming they will take you to be the band returning. The two men below you will cut down without difficulty, and there will then be but three or four to deal with in the castle.

"I recommend you to make a complete end of them; and for this reason: if any of the band survive they will join themselves with some other party and will be sure to endeavour to get them to avenge this slaughter; for although these bands have no love for each other, yet they would be ready enough to take up each other's quarrel as against country folk, especially when there is a hope of plunder. Exterminate them, then, and advise your men to keep their secret. Few can have seen the brigands riding hither today. When it is found that the band have disappeared the country around will thank God, and will have little curiosity as to how they have gone. You will of course clear the path again and bury their bodies; and were I you I would prepare at once another ambush like that into which they have fallen, and when a second band of marauders comes into this part of the country set a watch night and day. Your men will in future be better armed than hitherto, as each of those freebooters carries a brace of pistols. And now, as I would fain be off as soon as possible, I would ask you to let your men set to work with their axes and cut away the boughs and to get me out a horse. Several of them must have been killed by the falling trees, and some by the fire of the arquebuses; but no doubt there are some uninjured."

In a quarter of an hour a horse was brought up, together with the helmet and armour worn by the late captain of the band.

As Malcolm mounted, the men crowded round him and loaded him with thanks and blessings for the danger from which he had delivered them, their wives and families.

When the fugitives had left the village a store of cooked provisions had been left behind for the use of the defenders during the day. As the women could not be fetched back before nightfall, the farmer had despatched a man for some of this food and the wallets on the saddle were filled with sufficient to last Malcolm for three or four days.

A brace of pistols were placed in the holsters, and with a last farewell to the farmer Malcolm gave the rein to his horse and rode away from the village. He travelled fast now and without fear of interruption. The sight of armed men riding to join one or other of the armies was too common to attract any attention, and avoiding large towns Malcolm rode unmolested across the plain.

He presently heard the report that the Swedes had captured Frankfort-on-the-Oder, and as he approached that town, after four days' riding, heard that they had moved towards Landsberg. Thither he followed them, and came up to them outside the walls of that place six days after leaving Glogau. The main body of the Swedish army had remained in and around Frankfort, Gustavus having marched against Landsberg with only 3200 musketeers, 12 pieces of cannon, and a strong body of horse. Hepburn and Reay's Scotch regiments formed part of the column, and Malcolm with delight again saw the green scarves and banners.

As he rode into the camp of his regiment he was unnoticed by the soldiers until he reached the tents of the officers, before which Colonel Munro was standing talking with several others. On seeing an officer approach in full armour they looked up, and a cry of astonishment broke from them on recognizing Malcolm.

"Is it you, Malcolm Graheme, or your wraith?" Munro exclaimed.

"It is I in the flesh, colonel, sound and hearty."

"Why, my dear lad," Munro exclaimed, holding out his hand, "we thought you had fallen at the sack of New Brandenburg. Innes and Lumsden were believed to be the only ones who had escaped."

"I have come through it, nevertheless," Malcolm said; "but it is a long story, colonel, and I would ask you first if the king has learned what Tilly is doing."

"No, he has received no news whatever of him since he heard of the affair at New Brandenburg, and is most anxious lest he should fall upon the army at Frankfort while we are away. Do you know aught about him?"

"Tilly marched west from New Brandenburg," Malcolm said, "and is now besieging Magdeburg."

"This is news indeed," Munro said; "you must come with me at once to the king."

Malcolm followed Colonel Munro to the royal tent, which was but a few hundred yards away. Gustavus had just returned after visiting the advanced lines round the city. On being told that Colonel Munro wished to speak to him on important business, he at once came to the entrance of his tent.

"Allow me to present to you, sire, Malcolm Graheme, a very gallant young officer of my regiment. He was at New Brandenburg, and I deemed that he had fallen there; how he escaped I have not yet had time to learn, seeing that he has but now ridden into the camp; but as he is bearer of news of the whereabouts of Tilly and his army, I thought it best to bring him immediately to you."

"Well, sir," Gustavus said anxiously to Malcolm, "what is your news?"

"Tilly is besieging Magdeburg, sire, with his whole strength."

"Magdeburg!" Gustavus exclaimed incredulously. "Are you sure of your news? I deemed him advancing upon Frankfort."

"Quite sure, sire, for I accompanied his column to within two marches of the city, and there was no secret of his intentions. He started for that town on the very day after he had captured New Brandenburg."

"This is important, indeed," Gustavus said; "follow me," and he turned and entered the tent. Spread out on the table was a large map, which the king at once consulted.

"You see, Colonel Munro, that to relieve Magdeburg I must march through Kustrin, Berlin, and Spandau, and the first and last are strong fortresses. I can do nothing until the Elector of Brandenburg declares for us, and gives us leave to pass those places, for I dare not march round and leave them in my rear until sure that this weak prince will not take sides with the Imperialists. I will despatch a messenger tonight to him at Berlin demanding leave to march through his territory to relieve Magdeburg. In the meantime we will finish off with this place, and so be in readiness to march west when his answer arrives. And now, sir," he went on, turning to Malcolm, "please to give me the account of how you escaped first from New Brandenburg, and then from Tilly."

Malcolm related briefly the manner of his escape from the massacre at New Brandenburg, and how, after accompanying Tilly's army as a teamster for two days, he had made his escape. He then still more briefly related how he had been taken prisoner by a band of freebooters, but had managed to get away from them, and had drawn them into an ambush by peasants, where they had been slain, by which means he had obtained a horse and ridden straight to the army.

Gustavus asked many questions, and elicited many more details than Malcolm had deemed it necessary to give in his first recital.

"You have shown great prudence and forethought," the king said when he had finished, "such as would not be looked for in so young a soldier."

"And he behaved, sire, with distinguished gallantry and coolness at Schiefelbrune, and in the destructive fight outside Colberg," Colonel Munro put in. "By the slaughter on the latter day he would naturally have obtained his promotion, but he begged to be passed over, asserting that it was best that at his age he should remain for a time an ensign."

"Such modesty is unusual," the king said, "and pleases me; see the next time a step is vacant, colonel, that he has it. Whatever his age, he has shown himself fit to do man's work, and years are of no great value in a soldier; why, among all my Scottish regiments I have scarcely a colonel who is yet thirty years old."

Malcolm now returned with Colonel Munro to the regiment, and there had to give a full and minute account of his adventures, and was warmly congratulated by his fellow officers on his good fortune in escaping from the dangers which had beset him. The suit of armour was a handsome one, and had been doubtless stripped off from the body of some knight or noble murdered by the freebooters. The leg pieces Malcolm laid aside, retaining only a cuirass, back piece, and helmet, as the full armour was too heavy for service on foot.

Two days later the king gave orders that the assault upon Landsberg was to be made that night. The place was extremely strong, and Gustavus had in his previous campaign twice failed in attempts to capture it. Since that time the Imperialists had been busy in strengthening the fortification, and all the peasantry for ten miles round had been employed in throwing up earthworks; but its principal defence was in the marsh which surrounded it, and which rendered the construction of approaches by besiegers almost impossible. Its importance consisted in the fact that from its great strength its garrison dominated the whole district known as the Marc of Brandenburg. It was the key to Silesia, and guarded the approaches to Pomerania, and its possession was therefore of supreme importance to Gustavus. The garrison consisted of five thousand Imperialist infantry and twelve troops of horse, the whole commanded by Count Gratz. The principal approach to the town was guarded by a strong redoubt armed with numerous artillery.

Colonel Munro had advanced his trenches to within a short distance of this redoubt, and had mounted the twelve pieces of cannon to play upon it, but so solid was the masonry of the fort that their fire produced but little visible effect. Gustavus had brought from Frankfort as guide on the march a blacksmith who was a native of Landsberg, and this man had informed him of a postern gate into the town which would not be likely to be defended, as to reach it it would be necessary to cross a swamp flanked by the advanced redoubt and covered with water.

For two days previous to the assault the troops had been at work cutting bushes and trees, and preparing the materials for constructing a floating causeway across the mud and water. As soon as night fell the men were set to work laying down the causeway, and when this was finished the column advanced to the attack. It consisted of 250 pikemen under Colonel Munro, and the same number of the dragoons under Colonel Deubattel. Hepburn with 1000 musketeers followed a short distance behind them.

The pikemen led the way, and passed along the floating causeway without difficulty, but the causeway swayed and often sank under the feet of the cavalry behind them. These, however, also managed to get across. Their approach was entirely unobserved, and they effected an entrance into the town.

Scarcely had they done so when they came upon a body of three hundred Imperialists who were about to make a sally under Colonel Gratz, son of the governor. The pikemen at once fell upon them. Taken by surprise the Imperialists fought nevertheless stoutly, and eighty of the Scots fell under the fire of their musketry. But the pikemen charged home; Colonel Gratz was killed, with many of his men, and the rest taken prisoners. Hepburn marching on behind heard the din of musketry and pressed forward; before reaching the town he found a place in the swamp sufficiently firm to enable his men to march across it, and, turning off, he led his troops between the town and the redoubt, and then attacked the latter in the rear where its defences were weak, and after three minutes' fighting with its surprised and disheartened garrison the latter surrendered.

The redoubt having fallen, and Munro's men having effected a lodgment in the town, while the retreat on one side was cut off by the force of Gustavus, and on the other by a strong body of cavalry under Marshal Horn, the governor sent a drummer to Colonel Munro to say that he was ready to surrender, and to ask for terms. The drummer was sent to Gustavus, who agreed that the garrison should be allowed to march away with the honours of war, taking their baggage and effects with them. Accordingly at eight o'clock the Count of Gratz at the head of his soldiers marched out with colours flying and drums beating, and retired into Silesia. A garrison was placed in Landsberg, and the blacksmith appointed burgomaster of the town. Landsberg fell on the 15th of April, and on the 18th the force marched back to Frankfort.



Chapter VII A Quiet Time


In spite of the urgent entreaties of Gustavus and the pressing peril of Magdeburg, the wavering Duke of Brandenburg could not bring himself to join the Swedes. He delivered Spandau over to them, but would do no more. The Swedish army accordingly marched to Berlin and invested his capital. The duke sent his wife to Gustavus to beseech him to draw off his army and allow him to remain neutral; but Gustavus would not listen to his entreaties, and insisted, as the only condition upon which he would raise the siege, that the duke should ally himself with him, and that the troops of Brandenburg should join his army.

These conditions the duke was obliged to accept, but in the meantime his long hesitation and delay had caused the loss of Magdeburg, which after a gallant defence was stormed by the troops of Pappenheim and Tilly on the 10th of May. The ferocious Tilly had determined upon a deed which would, he believed, frighten Germany into submission; he ordered that no quarter should be given, and for five days the city was handed over to the troops.

History has no record since the days of Attila of so frightful a massacre. Neither age nor sex was spared, and 30,000 men, women, and children were ruthlessly massacred. The result for a time justified the anticipations of the ferocious leader. The terrible deed sent a shudder of horror and terror through Protestant Germany. It seemed, too, as if the catastrophe might have been averted had the Swedes shown diligence and marched to the relief of the city; for in such a time men were not inclined to discuss how much of the blame rested upon the shoulders of the Duke of Brandenburg, who was, in fact, alone responsible for the delay of the Swedes.

Many of the princes and free towns which had hitherto been staunch to the cause of Protestantism at once hastened to make their peace with the emperor. For a time the sack of Magdeburg greatly strengthened the Imperialist cause. No sooner did the news reach the ears of the Duke of Brandenburg than his fears overcame him, and he wrote to Gustavus withdrawing from the treaty he had made, and saying that as Spandau had only been delivered to him in order that he might march to the relief of Magdeburg he was now bound in honour to restore it.

Gustavus at once ordered Spandau to be evacuated by his troops, and again marched with the army against Berlin, which he had but a few days before left. Here he again dictated terms, which the duke was forced to agree to.

The Swedish army now marched to Old Brandenburg, thirty-four miles west of Berlin, and there remained for some time waiting until some expected reinforcements should reach it.

The place was extremely unhealthy, and great numbers died from malaria and fever, thirty of Munro's musketeers dying in a single week. During this time the king was negotiating with the Elector of Saxony and the Landgrave of Hesse. These were the two most powerful of the Protestant princes in that part of Germany, and Tilly resolved to reduce them to obedience before the army of Gustavus was in a position to move forward, for at present his force was too small to enable him to take the field against the united armies of Tilly and Pappenheim.

He first fell upon the Landgrave of Hesse, and laid Thuringen waste with fire and sword. Frankenhausen was plundered and burned to the ground. Erfurt saved itself from a similar fate by the payment of a large sum of money, and by engaging to supply great stores of provisions for the use of the Imperial army. The Landgrave of Hesse-Cassel was next summoned by Tilly, who threatened to carry fire and sword through his dominions unless he would immediately disband his troops, pay a heavy contribution and receive the Imperial troops into his cities and fortresses; but the landgrave refused to accept the terms.

Owing to the unhealthiness of the district round Old Brandenburg, Gustavus raised his camp there, and marched forward to Werben near the junction of the Elbe with the Havel. He was joined there by his young queen, Maria Eleonora, with a reinforcement of 8000 men, and by the Marquis of Hamilton with 6200, for the most part Scotch, who had been raised by him with the consent of Charles I, to whom the marquis was master of the horse.

Werben was distant but a few miles from Magdeburg, and Pappenheim, who commanded the troops in that neighbourhood, seeing that Gustavus was now in a position to take the field against him, sent an urgent message to Tilly for assistance; and the Imperial general, who was on the point of attacking the Landgrave of Hesse-Cassel, at once marched with his army and effected a junction with Pappenheim, their combined force being greatly superior to that of Gustavus even after the latter had received his reinforcements.

Malcolm had not accompanied the army in its march from Old Brandenburg. He had been prostrated by fever, and although he shook off the attack it left him so weak and feeble that he was altogether unfit for duty. The army was still lying in its swampy quarters, and the leech who had attended him declared that he could never recover his strength in such an unhealthy air. Nigel Graheme, who had now rejoined the regiment cured of his wound, reported the surgeon's opinion to Munro.

"I am not surprised," the colonel said, "and there are many others in the same state; but whither can I send them? The Elector of Brandenburg is so fickle and treacherous that he may at any moment turn against us."

"I was speaking to Malcolm," Nigel replied, "and he said that he would he could go for a time to recruit his health in that village among the hills where he had the fight with the freebooters who made him captive. He said he was sure of a cordial welcome there, and it is but three days' march from here."

"'Tis an out-of-the-way place," Munro said, "and if we move west we shall be still further removed from it. There are Imperial bands everywhere harrying the country unguarded by us, and one of these might at any moment swoop down into that neighbourhood."

"That is true; but, after all, it would be better that he should run that risk than sink from weakness as so many have done here after getting through the first attack of fever."

"That is so, Nigel, and if you and Malcolm prefer that risk to the other I will not say you nay; but what is good for him is good for others, and I will ask the surgeon to make me a list of twenty men who are strong enough to journey by easy stages, and who yet absolutely require to get out of this poisonous air to enable them to effect their recovery. We will furnish them with one of the baggage wagons of the regiment, so that they can ride when they choose. Tell the paymaster to give each man in advance a month's pay, that they may have money to pay what they need. Horses are scarce, so we can give them but two with the wagon, but that will be sufficient as they will journey slowly. See that a steady and experienced driver is told off with them. They had best start at daybreak tomorrow morning."

At the appointed time the wagon was in readiness, and those who had to accompany Malcolm gathered round, together with many of their comrades who had assembled to wish them Godspeed. The pikes and muskets, helmets and breast pieces were placed in the wagon, and then the fever stricken band formed up before it.

Munro, Nigel, and most of the officers came down to bid farewell to Malcolm, and to wish him a speedy return in good health. Then he placed himself at the head of the band and marched off, the wagon following in the rear. Before they had been gone a mile several of the men had been compelled to take their places in the wagon, and by the time three miles had been passed the rest had one by one been forced to give in.

Malcolm was one of the last. He took his seat by the driver, and the now heavily freighted wagon moved slowly across the country. A store of provisions sufficient for several days had been placed in the wagon, and after proceeding fifteen miles a halt was made at a deserted village, and two of the houses in the best condition were taken possession of, Malcolm and the sergeant of the party, a young fellow named Sinclair, occupying the one, and the men taking up their quarters in another.

The next morning the benefit of the change and the removal from the fever tainted air made itself already apparent. The distance performed on foot was somewhat longer than on the preceding day; the men were in better spirits, and marched with a brisker step than that with which they had left the camp. At the end of the fourth day they approached the wood in which the village was situated.

"I will go on ahead," Malcolm said. "Our approach will probably have been seen, and unless they know who we are we may meet with but a rough welcome. Halt the wagon here until one returns with news that you may proceed, for there may be pitfalls in the road."

Malcolm had kept the horse on which he had ridden to Landsberg, and it had been tied behind the wagon. During the last day's march he had been strong enough to ride it. He now dismounted, and taking the bridle over his arm he entered the wood. He examined the road cautiously as he went along. He had gone about half way when the farmer with four of his men armed with pikes suddenly appeared in the road before him.

"Who are you," the farmer asked, "and what would you here?"

"Do you not remember me?" Malcolm said. "It is but three months since I was here."

"Bless me, it is our Scottish friend! Why, lad, I knew you not again, so changed are you. Why, what has happened to you?"

"I have had the fever," Malcolm said, "and have been like to die; but I thought that a change to the pure air of your hills and woods here would set me up. So I have travelled here to ask your hospitality."

By this time the farmer had come up and had grasped Malcolm's hand.

"All that I have is yours," he said warmly. "The lookout saw a wagon coming across the plain with three or four men walking beside it, and he thought that many more were seated in it; so thinking that this might be a ruse of some freebooting band, I had the alarm bell rung, and prepared to give them a hot reception."

"I have brought some sick comrades with me," Malcolm said. "I have no thought of quartering them on you. That would be nigh as bad as the arrival of a party of marauders, for they are getting strength, and will, I warrant you, have keen appetites ere long; but we have brought tents, and will pay for all we have."

"Do not talk of payment," the farmer said heartily. "As long as there is flour in the storehouse and bacon on the beams, any Scottish soldier of Gustavus is welcome to it, still more if they be comrades of thine."

"Thanks, indeed," Malcolm replied. "I left them at the edge of the wood, for I knew not what welcome you might have prepared here; and seeing so many men you might have shot at them before waiting to ask a question."

"That is possible enough," the farmer said, "for indeed we could hardly look for friends. The men are all posted a hundred yards further on."

The farmer ordered one of his men to go on and bring up the wagon, and then with Malcolm walked on to the village. A call that all was right brought out the defenders of the ambush. It had been arranged similarly to that which had been so successful before, except that instead of the pit, several strong ropes had been laid across the road, to be tightened breast high as soon as an enemy came close to them.

"These are not as good as the pit," the farmer said as they passed them; "but as we have to use the road sometimes we could not keep a pit here, which, moreover, might have given way and injured any one from a neighbouring village who might be riding hither. We have made a strong stockade of beams among the underwood on either side, so that none could break through into the wood from the path."

"That is good," Malcolm said; "but were I you I would dig a pit across the road some twelve feet wide, and would cover it with a stout door with a catch, so that it would bear wagons crossing, but when the catch is drawn it should rest only on some light supports below, and would give way at once if a weight came on it. It would, of course, be covered over with turf. It will take some time to make, but it will add greatly to your safety."

"It shall be done," the farmer said. "Wood is in plenty, and some of my men are good carpenters. I will set about it at once."

On arriving at the village Malcolm was cordially welcomed by the farmer's wife and daughters. The guest chamber was instantly prepared for him and refreshments laid on the table, while the maids, under the direction of the farmer's wife, at once began to cook a bounteous meal in readiness for the arrival of the soldiers. A spot was chosen on some smooth turf under the shade of trees for the erection of the tents, and trusses of clean straw carried there for bedding.

Malcolm as he sat in the cool chamber in the farm house felt the change delightful after the hot dusty journey across the plain. There was quite an excitement in the little village when the wagon drove up. The men lifted the arms and baggage from the wagon. The women offered fruit and flagons of wine, and fresh cool water, to the soldiers. There was not only general pleasure throughout the village caused by the novelty of the arrival of the party from the outer world, but a real satisfaction in receiving these men who had fought so bravely against the oppressors of the Protestants of Germany. There was also the feeling that so long as this body of soldiers might remain in the village they would be able to sleep in peace and security, safe from the attacks of any marauding band. The tents were soon pitched by the peasants under the direction of Sergeant Sinclair, straw was laid down in them, and the canvas raised to allow the air to sweep through them.

Very grateful were the weary men for the kindness with which they were received, and even the weakest felt that they should soon recover their strength.

In an hour two men came up from the farm house carrying a huge pot filled with strong soup. Another brought a great dish of stew. Women carried wooden platters, bowls of stewed fruit, and loaves of bread; and the soldiers, seated upon the grass, fell to with an appetite such as they had not experienced for weeks. With the meal was an abundant supply of the rough but wholesome wine of the country.

To the Scottish soldiers after the hardships they had passed through, this secluded valley seemed a perfect paradise. They had nought to do save to eat their meals, to sleep on the turf in the shade, or to wander in the woods and gardens free to pick what fruit they fancied. Under these circumstances they rapidly picked up strength, and in a week after their arrival would hardly have been recognized as the feeble band who had left the Swedish camp at Old Brandenburg.

On Sunday the pastor arrived. He did not live permanently at the village, but ministered to the inhabitants of several villages scattered among the hills, holding services in them by turns, and remaining a few days in each. As the congregation was too large for the room in the farm house the service was held in the open air. The Scotch soldiers were all present, and joined heartily in the singing, although many of them were ignorant of the language, and sang the words of Scotch hymns to the German tunes.

Even the roughest of them, and those who had been longest away from their native country, were much moved by the service. The hush and stillness, the air of quiet and peace which prevailed, the fervour with which all joined in the simple service, took them back in thought to the days of their youth in quiet Scottish glens, and many a hand was passed hastily across eyes which had not been moistened for many a year.

The armour and arms were now cleaned and polished, and for a short time each day Malcolm exercised them. The martial appearance and perfect discipline of the Scots struck the villagers with admiration the first time they saw them under arms, and they earnestly begged Malcolm that they might receive from him and Sergeant Sinclair some instruction in drill.

Accordingly every evening when work was done the men of the village were formed up and drilled. Several of the soldiers took their places with them in the ranks in order to aid them by their example. After the drill there was sword and pike exercise, and as most of the men had already some knowledge of the use of arms they made rapid progress, and felt an increased confidence in their power to defend the village against the attacks of any small bands of plunderers. To Malcolm the time passed delightfully. His kind hosts vied with each other in their efforts to make him comfortable, and it was in vain that he assured them that he no longer needed attention and care. A seat was always placed for him in the coolest nook in the room, fresh grapes and other fruit stood in readiness on a table hard by. The farmer's daughters, busy as they were in their household avocations, were always ready to sit and talk with him when he was indoors, and of an evening to sing him the country melodies.

At the end of a fortnight the men were all fit for duty again, but the hospitable farmer would not hear of their leaving, and as news from time to time reached them from the outer world, and Malcolm learned that there was no chance of any engagement for a time between the hostile armies, he was only too glad to remain.

Another fortnight passed, and Malcolm reluctantly gave the word that on the morrow the march must be recommenced. A general feeling of sorrow reigned in the village when it was known that their guests were about to depart, for the Scottish soldiers had made themselves extremely popular. They were ever ready to assist in the labours of the village. They helped to pick the apples from the heavily laden trees, they assisted to thrash out the corn, and in every way strove to repay their entertainers for the kindness they had shown them.

Of an evening their camp had been the rendezvous of the whole village. There alternately the soldiers and the peasants sang their national songs, and joined in hearty choruses. Sometimes there were dances, for many of the villagers played on various instruments; and altogether Glogau had never known such a time of festivity and cheerfulness before.

Late in the evening of the day before they had fixed for their departure the pastor rode into the village.

"I have bad news," he said. "A party of Pappenheim's dragoons, three hundred strong, are raiding in the district on the other side of the hills. A man came in just as I mounted my horse, saying that it was expected they would attack Mansfeld, whose count is a sturdy Protestant. The people were determined to resist to the last, in spite of the fate of Magdeburg and Frankenhausen, but I fear that their chance of success is a small one; but they say they may as well die fighting as be slaughtered in cold blood."

"Is Mansfeld fortified?" Malcolm asked.

"It has a wall," the pastor replied, "but of no great strength. The count's castle, which stands on a rock adjoining it, might defend itself for some time, but I question whether it can withstand Pappenheim's veterans.

"Mansfeld itself is little more than a village. I should not say it had more than a thousand inhabitants, and can muster at best about two hundred and fifty men capable of bearing arms."

"How far is it from here?" Malcolm asked after a pause.

"Twenty-four miles by the bridle path across the hills."

"When were the Imperialists expected to arrive?"

"They were ten miles away this morning," the pastor replied; "but as they were plundering and burning as they went they will not probably arrive before Mansfeld before the morning. Some of the more timid citizens were leaving, and many were sending away their wives and families."

"Then," Malcolm said, "I will march thither at once. Twenty good soldiers may make all the difference, and although I have, of course, no orders for such an emergency, the king can hardly blame me even if the worst happens for striking a blow against the Imperialists here. Will you give me a man," he asked the farmer, "to guide us across the hills?"

"That will I right willingly," the farmer said; "but it seems to me a desperate service to embark in. These townspeople are of little good for fighting, and probably intend only to make a show of resistance in order to procure better terms. The count himself is a brave nobleman, but I fear that the enterprise is a hopeless one."

"Hopeless or not," Malcolm said, "I will undertake it, and will at once put the men under arms. The wagon and horses with the baggage I will leave here till I return, that is if we should ever come back again."

A tap of the drum and the soldiers came running in hastily from various cottages where they were spending their last evening with their village friends, wondering at the sudden summons to arms. As soon as they had fallen in, Malcolm joined them.

"Men," he said, "I am sorry to disturb you on your last evening here, but there is business on hand. A party of Pappenheim's dragoons are about to attack the town of Mansfeld, where the people are of the Reformed Religion. The siege will begin in the morning, and ere that time we must be there. We have all got fat and lazy, and a little fighting will do us good."

The thought of a coming fray reconciled the men to their departure from their quiet and happy resting place. Armour was donned, buckles fastened, and arms inspected, and in half an hour, after a cordial adieu from their kind hosts, the detachment marched off, their guide with a lighted torch leading the way. The men were in light marching order, having left everything superfluous behind them in the wagon; and they marched briskly along over hill and through forest without a halt, till at three o'clock in the morning the little town of Mansfeld, with its castle rising above it, was visible before them in the first light of morning.

As they approached the walls a musketoon was fired, and the alarm bell of the church instantly rang out. Soon armed men made their appearance on the walls. Fearing that the burghers might fire before waiting to ascertain who were the newcomers, Malcolm halted his band, and advanced alone towards the walls.

"Who are you who come in arms to the peaceful town of Mansfeld?" an officer asked from the wall.

"I am an officer of his Swedish Majesty, Gustavus, and hearing that the town was threatened with attack by the Imperialists, I have marched hither with my detachment to aid in the defence."

A loud cheer broke from the walls. Not only was the reinforcement a most welcome one, small as it was, for the valour of the Scottish soldiers of the King of Sweden was at that time the talk of all Germany, but the fact that a detachment of these redoubted troops had arrived seemed a proof that the main army of the Swedish king could not be far away. The gates were at once opened, and Malcolm with his band marched into Mansfield.



Chapter VIII The Siege Of Mansfeld


"Will it please your worship at once to repair to the castle?" the leader of the townspeople said. "The count has just sent down to inquire into the reason of the alarm."

"Yes," Malcolm replied, "I will go at once. In the meantime, sir, I pray you to see to the wants of my soldiers, who have taken a long night march and will be none the worse for some refreshment. Hast seen aught of the Imperialists?"

"They are at a village but a mile distant on the other side of the town," the citizen said. "Yesterday we counted eighteen villages in flames, and the peasants who have come in say that numbers have been slain by them."

"There is little mercy to be expected from the butchers of Magdeburg," Malcolm replied; "the only arguments they will listen to are steel and lead, and we will not be sparing of these."

A murmur of assent rang through the townsfolk who had gathered round, and then the burgomaster himself led Malcolm up the ascent to the castle. The news that the newcomers were a party of Scots had already been sent up to the castle, and as Malcolm entered the gateway the count came forward to welcome him.

"You are welcome indeed, fair sir," he said. "It seems almost as if you had arrived from the clouds to our assistance, for we had heard that the Swedish king and his army were encamped around Old Brandenburg.

"His majesty has moved west, I hear," Malcolm said; "but we have been a month away from the camp. My detachment consisted of a body of invalids who came up among the hills to get rid of the fever which was playing such havoc among our ranks. I am glad to say that all are restored, and fit as ever for a meeting with the Imperialists. I heard but yestereven that you were expecting an attack, and have marched all night to be here in time. My party is a small one, but each man can be relied upon; and when it comes to hard fighting twenty in good soldiers may turn the day."

"You are heartily welcome, sir, and I thank you much for coming to our aid. The townspeople are determined to do their best, but most of them have little skill in arms. I have a score or two of old soldiers here in the castle, and had hoped to be able to hold this to the end; but truly I despaired of a successful defence of the town. But enter, I pray you; the countess will be glad to welcome you."

Malcolm accompanied the count to the banquet hall of the castle. The countess, a gentle and graceful woman, was already there; for indeed but few in Mansfeld had closed an eye that night, for it was possible that the Imperialists might attack without delay. By her side stood her daughter, a girl of about fourteen years old. Malcolm had already stated his name to the count, and the latter now presented him to his wife.

"We have heard so much of the Scottish soldiers," she said as she held out her hand, over which Malcolm bent deeply, "that we have all been curious to see them, little dreaming that a band of them would appear here like good angels in our hour of danger."

"It was a fortunate accident which found me within reach when I heard of the approach of the Imperialists. The names of the Count and Countess of Mansfeld are so well known and so highly esteemed through Protestant Germany that I was sure that the king would approve of my hastening to lend what aid I might to you without orders from him."

"I see you have learned to flatter," the countess said smiling. "This is my daughter Thekla."

"I am glad to see you," the girl said; "but I am a little disappointed. I had thought that the Scots were such big fierce soldiers, and you are not very big -- not so tall as papa; and you do not look fierce at all -- not half so fierce as my cousin Caspar, who is but a boy."

"That is very rude, Thekla," her mother said reprovingly, while Malcolm laughed gaily.

"You are quite right, Fraulein Thekla. I know I do not look very fierce, but I hope when my moustache grows I shall come up more nearly to your expectations. As to my height, I have some years to grow yet, seeing that I am scarce eighteen, and perhaps no older than your cousin."

"Have you recently joined, sir?" the countess asked.

"I have served through the campaign," Malcolm replied, "and have seen some hard knocks given, as you may imagine when I tell you that I was at the siege of New Brandenburg."

"When your soldiers fought like heroes, and, as I heard, all died sword in hand save two or three officers who managed to escape."

"I was one of the three, countess; but the tale is a long one, and can be told after we have done with the Imperialists. Now, sir," he went on, turning to the count, "I am at your orders, and will take post with my men at any point that you may think fit."

"Before doing that," the count said, "you must join us at breakfast. You must be hungry after your long march, and as I have been all night in my armour I shall do justice to it myself. You will, of course, take up your abode here. As to other matters I have done my best, and the townspeople were yesterday all told off to their places on the walls. I should think it were best that your band were stationed in the marketplace as a reserve, they could then move to any point which might be seriously threatened. Should the Imperialists enter the town the citizens have orders to fall back here fighting. All their most valuable goods were sent up here yesterday, together with such of their wives and families as have not taken flight, so that there will be nothing to distract them from their duty."

"That is good," Malcolm said. "The thought that one is fighting for home and family must nerve a man in the defence, but when the enemy once breaks in he would naturally think of home first and hasten away to defend it to the last, instead of obeying orders and falling back with his comrades in good order and discipline."

The meal was a cheerful one. Malcolm related more in detail how he and his detachment happened to be so far removed from the army.

Just as the meal came to an end a drum beat in the town and the alarm bells began to ring. The count and Malcolm sallied out at once to the outer wall, and saw a small party of officers riding from the village occupied by the Imperialists towards the town.

"Let us descend," the count said. "I presume they are going to demand our surrender."

They reached the wall of the town just as the Imperialist officers approached the gate.

"In the name of his majesty the emperor," one of them cried out, "I command you to open the gate and to surrender to his good will and pleasure."

"The smoking villages which I see around me," Count Mansfeld replied, "are no hopeful sign of any good will or pleasure on the part of his majesty towards us. As to surrendering, we will rather die. But I am willing to pay a fair ransom for the town if you will draw off your troops and march away."

"Beware, sir!" the officer said. "I have a force here sufficient to compel obedience, and I warn you of the fate which will befall all within these walls if you persist in refusing to admit us."

"I doubt not as to their fate," the count replied; "there are plenty of examples before us of the tender mercy which your master's troops show towards the towns you capture.

"Once again I offer you a ransom for the town. Name the sum, and if it be in reason such as I and the townspeople can pay, it shall be yours; but open the gates to you we will not."

"Very well," the officer said; "then your blood be on your own heads." And turning his horse he rode with his companions back towards the village.

On their arrival there a bustle was seen to prevail. A hundred horsemen rode off and took post on an eminence near the town, ready to cut off the retreat of any who might try to escape, and to enter the town when the gates were forced open. The other two hundred men advanced on foot in a close body towards the principal gate.

"They will try and blow it open with petards," Malcolm said. "Half of my men are musketeers and good shots, and I will, with your permission, place them on the wall to aid the townsfolk there, for if the gate is blown open and the enemy force their way in it will go hard with us."

The count assented, and Malcolm posted his musketeers on the wall, ordering Sergeant Sinclair with the remainder to set to work to erect barricades across the street leading from the gate, so that, in case this were blown in, such a stand might be made against the Imperialists as would give the townspeople time to rally from the walls and to gather there.

The Imperialists heralded their advance by opening fire with pistols and musketoons against the wall, and the defenders at once replied. So heavy was the fire that the head of the column wavered, many of the leading files being at once shot down, but, encouraged by their officers, they rallied, and pushed forward at a run. The fire of the townspeople at once became hurried and irregular, but the Scots picked off their men with steady aim. The leader of the Imperialists, who carried a petard, advanced boldly to the edge of the ditch. The fosse was shallow and contained but little water, and he at once dashed into it and waded across, for the drawbridge had, of course, been raised. He climbed up the bank, and was close to the gate, when Malcolm, leaning far over the wall, discharged his pistol at him. The ball glanced from the steel armour.

Malcolm drew his other pistol and again fired, this time more effectually, for the ball struck between the shoulder and the neck at the junction of the breast and back pieces, and passed down into the body of the Austrian, who, dropping the petard, fell dead; but a number of his men were close behind him.

"Quick, lads!" Malcolm cried. "Put your strength to this parapet. It is old and rotten. Now, all together! Shove!"

The soldiers bent their strength against the parapet, while some of the townspeople, thrusting their pikes into the rotten mortar between the stones, prised them up with all their strength. The parapet tottered, and then with a tremendous crash fell, burying five or six of the Imperialists and the petard beneath the ruins.

A shout of exultation rose from the defenders, and the Imperialists at once withdrew at full speed. They halted out of gunshot, and then a number of men were sent back to the village, whence they returned carrying ladders, some of which had been collected the day before from the neighbouring villages and others manufactured during the night. The enemy now divided into three parties, which advanced simultaneously against different points of the wall.

Notwithstanding the storm of shot poured upon them as they advanced, they pressed forward until they reached the wall and planted their ladders, and then essayed to climb; but at each point the stormers were stoutly met with pike and sword, while the musketeers from the flanking towers poured their bullets into them.

The troops proved themselves worthy of their reputation, for it was not until more than fifty had fallen that they desisted from the attempt and drew off.

"Now we shall have a respite," Malcolm said. "If there are no more of them in the neighbourhood methinks they will retire altogether, but if they have any friends with cannon anywhere within reach they will probably send for them and renew the attack."

The day passed quietly. Parties of horsemen were seen leaving the village to forage and plunder the surrounding country, but the main body remained quietly there. The next day there was still no renewal of the attack, but as the enemy remained in occupation of the village Malcolm guessed that they must be waiting for the arrival of reinforcements. The following afternoon a cloud of dust was seen upon the plain, and presently a column of infantry some four hundred strong, with three cannon, could be made out. The townspeople now wavered in their determination. A few were still for resistance, but the majority held that they could not attempt to withstand an assault by so strong a force, and that it was better to make the best terms they could with the enemy.

A parlementaire was accordingly despatched to the Imperialists asking what terms would be granted should the place surrender.

"We will grant no terms whatever," the colonel in command of the Imperialists said. "The town is at our mercy, and we will do as we will with it and all within it; but tell Count Mansfeld that if he will surrender the castle as well as the town at once, and without striking another blow, his case shall receive favourable consideration."

"That will not do," the count said. "They either guarantee our lives or they do not. I give not up my castle on terms like these, but I will exercise no pressure on the townspeople. If they choose to defend themselves till the last I will fight here with them; if they choose to surrender they can do so; and those who differ from their fellows and put no faith in Tilly's wolves can enter the castle with me."

The principal inhabitants of the town debated the question hotly. Malcolm lost patience with them, and said: "Are you mad as well as stupid? Do you not see the smoking villages round you? Do you not remember the fate of Magdeburg, New Brandenburg, and the other towns which have made a resistance? You have chosen to resist. It was open to you to have fled when you heard the Imperialists were coming. You could have opened the gates then with some hope at least of your lives; but you decided to resist. You have killed some fifty or sixty of their soldiers. You have repulsed them from a place which they thought to take with scarce an effort. You have compelled them to send for reinforcements and guns. And now you are talking of opening the gates without even obtaining a promise that your lives shall be spared. This is the extremity of folly, and all I can say is, if you take such a step you will well deserve your fate."

Malcolm's indignant address had its effect, and after a short discussion the townspeople again placed themselves at the count's disposal, and said that they would obey his orders.

"I will give no orders," the count said. "My Scottish friend here agrees with me that it is useless to try to defend the town. We might repulse several attacks, but in the end they would surely break in, for the walls are old and weak, and will crumble before their cannon. Were there any hope of relief one would defend them to the last, but as it is it would be but a waste of blood, for many would be slain both in the defence and before they could retreat to the castle; therefore we propose at once to withdraw. We doubt not that we can hold the castle. Any who like to remain in their houses and trust to the tender mercy of Tilly's wolves can do so."

There was no more hesitation, and a cannonball, the first which the Imperialists had fired, at that moment crashed into a house hard by, and sharpened their decision wonderfully.

"I have no great store of provisions in the castle," the count said, "and although I deem it not likely that we shall have to stand a long siege we must be prepared for it. There are already more than 700 of your wives and children there, therefore while half of the force continue to show themselves upon the walls, and so deter the enemy from attempting an assault until they have opened some breaches, let the rest carry up provisions to the castle. Any houses from which the women have fled are at once to be broken open. All that we leave behind the enemy will take, and the less we leave for them the better; therefore all stores and magazines of food and wine must be considered as public property. Let the men at once be divided into two bodies -- the one to guard the walls, the other to search for and carry up provisions. They can be changed every three or four hours."

The resolution was taken and carried into effect without delay. Most of the horses and carts in the town had left with the fugitives, those that remained were at once set to work. The carts were laden with large barrels of wine and sacks of flour, while the men carried sides of bacon, kegs of butter, and other portable articles on their heads. The Imperialists, seeing the movement up the steep road to the castle gate, opened fire with their arquebuses, but the defenders of the wall replied so hotly that they were forced to retire out of range. The cannon played steadily all day, and by nightfall two breaches had been effected in the wall and the gate had been battered down.

But by this time an ample store of provisions had been collected in the castle and as the Imperialists were seen to form up for the assault the trumpet was sounded, and at the signal the whole of the defenders of the walls left their posts and fell back to the castle, leaving the deserted town at the mercy of the enemy. The Imperialists raised a shout of triumph as they entered the breaches and found them undefended, and when once assured that the town was deserted they broke their ranks and scattered to plunder.

It was now quite dark, and many of them dragging articles of furniture into the streets made great bonfires to light them at their work of plunder. But they had soon reason to repent having done so, for immediately the flames sprang up and lighted the streets, flashes ran round the battlements of the castle, and a heavy fire was opened into the streets, killing many of the soldiers. Seeing the danger of thus exposing the men to the fire from the castle, the Imperialist commander issued orders at once that all fires should be extinguished, that anyone setting fire to a house should be instantly hung, and that no lights were to be lit in the houses whose windows faced the castle.

Foreseeing the possibility of an attack from the castle, the Austrians placed a hundred men at the foot of the road leading up to it, and laid their three cannon loaded to the muzzle to command it.

"Have you not," Malcolm asked the count, "some means of exit from the castle besides the way into the town?"

"Yes," the count said, "there is a footpath down the rock on the other side."

"Then," Malcolm said, "as soon as they are fairly drunk, which will be before midnight, let us fall upon them from the other side. Leave fifty of your oldest men with half a dozen veteran soldiers to defend the gateway against a sudden attack; with the rest we can issue out, and marching round, enter by the gate and breaches, sweeping the streets as we go, and then uniting, burst through any guard they may have placed to prevent a sortie, and so regain the castle."

The count at once assented. In a short time shouts, songs, the sound of rioting and quarrels, arose from the town, showing that revelry was general. At eleven o'clock the men in the castle were mustered, fifty were told off to the defence with five experienced soldiers, an officer of the count being left in command. The rest sallied through a little door at the back of the castle and noiselessly descended the steep path. On arriving at the bottom they were divided into three bodies. Malcolm with his Scots and fifty of the townspeople formed one. Count Mansfeld took the command of another, composed of his own soldiers and fifty more of the townspeople. The third consisted of eighty of the best fighting men of the town under their own leaders. These were to enter by the gate, while the other two parties came in by the breaches. The moment the attack began the defenders of the castle were to open as rapid a fire as they could upon the foot of the road so as to occupy the attention of the enemy's force there, and to lead them to anticipate a sortie.

The breach by which Malcolm was to enter was the farthest from the castle, and his command would, therefore, be the last in arriving at its station. When he reached it he ordered the trumpeters who accompanied him to sound, and at the signal the three columns rushed into the town uttering shouts of "Gustavus! Gustavus!"

The Imperialists in the houses near were slaughtered with scarcely any resistance. They were for the most part intoxicated, and such as retained their senses were paralysed at the sudden attack, and panic stricken at the shouts, which portended the arrival of a relieving force from the army of the King of Sweden. As the bands pressed forward, slaying all whom they came upon, the resistance became stronger; but the three columns were all headed by parties of pikemen who advanced steadily and in good order, bearing down all opposition, and leaving to those behind them the task of slaying all found in the houses.

Lights flashed from the windows and partly lit up the streets, and the Imperialist officers attempted to rally their men; but the Scottish shouts, "A Hepburn! A Hepburn!" and the sight of their green scarves added to the terror of the soldiers, who were convinced that the terrible Green Brigade of the King of Sweden was upon them.

Hundreds were cut down after striking scarce a blow in their defence, numbers fled to the walls and leapt over. The panic communicated itself to the party drawn up to repel a sortie. Hearing the yells, screams, and shouts, accompanied by the musketry approaching from three different quarters of the town, while a steady fire from the castle indicated that the defenders there might, at any moment, sally out upon them, they stood for a time irresolute; but as the heads of the three columns approached they lost heart, quitted their station, and withdrew in a body by a street by which they avoided the approaching columns. On arriving at the spot Malcolm found the guns deserted.

"The town is won now," he said. "I will take my post here with my men in case the Austrians should rally; do you with the rest scatter over the town and complete the work, but bid them keep together in parties of twenty."

The force broke up and scattered through the town in their work of vengeance. House after house was entered and searched, and all who were found there put to the sword; but by this time most of those who were not too drunk to fly had already made for the gates.

In half an hour not an Imperialist was left alive in the town. Then guards were placed at the gate and breaches, and they waited till morning. Not a sign of an Imperialist was to be seen on the plain, and parties sallying out found that they had fled in the utmost disorder. Arms, accoutrements, and portions of plunder lay scattered thickly about, and it was clear that in the belief that the Swedish army was on them, the Imperialists had fled panic stricken, and were now far away. Upwards of two hundred bodies were found in the streets and houses.

A huge grave was dug outside the walls, and here the fallen foes were buried. Only three or four of the defenders of the town were killed and a score or so wounded in the whole affair. Although there was little fear of a return, as the Imperialists would probably continue their headlong flight for a long distance, and would then march with all haste to rejoin their main army with the news that a strong Swedish force was at Mansfeld, the count set the townspeople at once to repair the breaches.

The people were overjoyed with their success, and delighted at having preserved their homes from destruction, for they knew that the Imperialists would, if unsuccessful against the castle, have given the town to the flames before retiring. The women and children flocked down to their homes again, and although much furniture had been destroyed and damage done, this was little heeded when so much was saved.

All vied in the expression of gratitude towards Malcolm and his Scots, but Malcolm modestly disclaimed all merit, saying that he and his men had scarcely struck a blow.

"It is not so much the fighting," the count said, "as the example which you set the townsmen, and the spirit which the presence of you and your men diffused among them. Besides, your counsel and support to me have been invaluable; had it not been for you the place would probably have been carried at the first attack, and if not the townspeople would have surrendered when the enemy's reinforcements arrived; and in that case, with so small a force at my command I could not have hoped to defend the castle successfully. Moreover, the idea of the sortie which has freed us of them and saved the town from destruction was entirely yours. No, my friend, say what you will I feel that I am indebted to you for the safety of my wife and child, and so long as I live I shall be deeply your debtor."

The following day Malcolm with his party marched away. The count had presented him with a suit of magnificent armour, and the countess with a gold chain of great value. Handsome presents were also made to Sergeant Sinclair, who was a cadet of good family, and a purse of gold was given to each of the soldiers, so in high spirits the band marched away over the mountains on their return to the village.



Chapter IX The Battle Of Breitenfeld


Great joy was manifested as Malcolm's band marched into the village and it was found that they had accomplished the mission on which they went, had saved Mansfeld, and utterly defeated the Imperialists, and had returned in undiminished numbers, although two or three had received wounds more or less serious, principally in the first day's fighting. They only remained one night in the village.

On the following morning the baggage was placed in the wagons with a store of fruit and provisions for their march, and after another hearty adieu the detachment set out in high spirits. After marching for two days they learned that the Swedish army had marched to Werben, and that Tilly's army had followed it there.

After the receipt of this news there was no more loitering; the marches were long and severe, and after making a detour to avoid the Imperialists the detachment entered the royal camp without having met with any adventure on the way. His fellow officers flocked round Malcolm to congratulate him on his safe return and on his restored health.

"The change has done wonders for you, Malcolm," Nigel Graheme said. "Why, when you marched out you were a band of tottering scarecrows, and now your detachment looks as healthy and fresh as if they had but yesterday left Scotland; but come in, the bugle has just sounded to supper, and we are only waiting for the colonel to arrive. He is at present in council with the king with Hepburn and some more. Ah! here he comes."

Munro rode up and leapt from his horse, and after heartily greeting Malcolm led the way into the tent where supper was laid out. Malcolm was glad to see by the faces of his comrades that all had shaken off the disease which had played such havoc among them at Old Brandenburg.

"Is there any chance of a general engagement?" he asked Nigel.

"Not at present," Nigel said. "We are expecting the reinforcements up in a few days. As you see we have fortified the camp too strongly for Tilly to venture to attack us here. Only yesterday he drew up his army and offered us battle; but the odds were too great, and the king will not fight till his reinforcements arrive. Some of the hotter spirits were sorry that he would not accept Tilly's invitation, and I own that I rather gnashed my teeth myself; but I knew that the king was right in not risking the whole cause rashly when a few days will put us in a position to meet the Imperialists on something like equal terms. Is there any news, colonel?" he asked, turning to Munro.

"No news of importance," the colonel replied; "but the king is rather puzzled. A prisoner was taken today -- one of Pappenheim's horsemen -- and he declares that a force of horse and foot have been defeated at Mansfeld by a Swedish army with heavy loss. He avers that he was present at the affair, and arrived in camp with the rest of the beaten force only yesterday. We cannot make it out, as we know that there are no Swedish troops anywhere in that direction."

Malcolm burst into a hearty laugh, to the surprise of his fellow officers.

"I can explain the matter, colonel," he said. "It was my detachment that had the honour of representing the Swedish army at Mansfeld."

"What on earth do you mean, Malcolm?" the colonel asked.

"Well, sir, as you know I went with a detachment to the village where I had before been well treated, and had earned the gratitude of the people by teaching them how to destroy a party of marauders. After having been there for a month I was on the point of marching, for the men were all perfectly restored to health; and indeed I know I ought to have returned sooner, seeing that the men were fit for service; but as I thought you were still at Old Brandenburg, and could well dispense with our services, I lingered on to the last. But just as I was about to march the news came that a party of Imperialist horse, three hundred strong, was about to attack Mansfeld, a place of whose existence I had never heard; but hearing that its count was a staunch Protestant, and that the inhabitants intended to make a stout defence, I thought that I could not be doing wrong in the service of the king by marching to aid them, the place being but twenty-four miles away across the hills. We got there in time, and aided the townspeople to repulse the first assault. After two days they brought up a reinforcement of four hundred infantry and some cannon. As the place is a small one, with but about two hundred and fifty fighting men of all ages, we deemed it impossible to defend the town, and while they were breaching the walls fell back to the castle. The Imperialists occupied it at sunset, and at night, leaving a party to hold the castle, we sallied out from the other side, and marching round, entered by the breaches, and, raising the Swedish war cry fell upon the enemy, who were for the most part too drunk to offer any serious resistance. We killed two hundred and fifty of them, and the rest fled in terror, thinking they had the whole Swedish army upon them. The next day I started on my march back here, and though we have not spared speed, it seems that the Imperialists have arrived before us."

A burst of laughter and applause greeted the solution of the mystery.

"You have done well, sir," Munro said cordially, "and have rendered a great service not only in the defeat of the Imperialists, but in its consequences here, for the prisoner said that last night five thousand men were marched away from Tilly's army to observe and make head against this supposed Swedish force advancing from the east. When I have done my meal I will go over to the king with the news, for his majesty is greatly puzzled, especially as the prisoner declared that he himself had seen the Scots of the Green Brigade in the van of the column, and had heard the war cry, 'A Hepburn! A Hepburn!'

"Hepburn himself could make neither head nor tail of it, and was half inclined to believe that this avenging force was led by the ghosts of those who had been slain at New Brandenburg. Whenever we can't account for a thing, we Scots are inclined to believe it's supernatural.

"Now tell me more about the affair, Malcolm. By the way do you know that you are a lieutenant now? Poor Foulis died of the fever a few days after you left us, and as the king had himself ordered that you were to have the next vacancy, I of course appointed you at once. We must drink tonight to your promotion."

Malcolm now related fully the incidents of the siege.

"By my faith, Malcolm Graheme," Munro said when he had finished, "you are as lucky as you are brave. Mansfeld is a powerful nobleman, and has large possessions in various parts of Germany and much influence, and the king will be grateful that you have thus rendered him such effective assistance and so bound him to our cause. I believe he has no children."

"He has a daughter," Malcolm said, "a pretty little maid some fourteen years old."

"In faith, Malcolm, 'tis a pity that you and she are not some four or five years older. What a match it would be for you, the heiress of Mansfeld; she would be a catch indeed! Well, there's time enough yet, my lad, for there is no saying how long this war will last."

There was a general laugh, and the colonel continued:

"Malcolm has the grace to colour, which I am afraid the rest of us have lost long ago. Never mind, Malcolm, there are plenty of Scotch cadets have mended their fortune by means of a rich heiress before now, and I hope there will be many more. I am on the lookout for a wealthy young countess myself, and I don't think there is one here who would not lay aside his armour and sword on such inducement. And now, gentlemen, as we have all finished, I will leave you to your wine while I go across with our young lieutenant to the king. I must tell him tonight, or he will not sleep with wondering over the mystery. We will be back anon and will broach a cask of that famous wine we picked up the other day, in honour of Malcolm Graheme's promotion."

Sir John Hepburn was dining with Gustavus, and the meal was just concluded when Colonel Munro was announced.

"Well, my brave Munro, what is it?" the king said heartily, "and whom have you here? The young officer who escaped from New Brandenburg and Tilly, unless I am mistaken."

"It is, sir, but I have to introduce him in a new character tonight, as the leader of your majesty's army who have defeated the Imperialists at Mansfeld."

"Say you so?" exclaimed the king. "Then, though I understand you not, we shall hear a solution of the mystery which has been puzzling us. Sit down, young sir; fill yourself a flagon of wine, and expound this riddle to us."

Malcolm repeated the narrative as he had told it to his colonel, and the king expressed his warm satisfaction.

"You will make a great leader some day if you do not get killed in one of these adventures, young sir. Bravery seems to be a common gift of the men of your nation; but you seem to unite with it a surprising prudence and sagacity, and, moreover, this march of yours to Mansfeld shows that you do not fear taking responsibility, which is a high and rare quality. You have done good service to the cause, and I thank you, and shall keep my eye upon you in the future."

The next day Malcolm went round the camp, and was surprised at the extensive works which had been erected. Strong ramparts and redoubts had been thrown up round it, faced with stone, and mounted with 150 pieces of cannon. In the centre stood an inner entrenchment with earthworks and a deep fosse. In this stood the tents of the king and those of his principal officers. The Marquis of Hamilton had, Malcolm heard, arrived and gone. He had lost on the march many of the soldiers he had enlisted in England, who had died from eating German bread, which was heavier, darker coloured, and more sour than that of their own country. This, however, did not disagree with the Scotch, who were accustomed to black bread.

"I wonder," Malcolm said to Nigel Graheme, "that when the king has in face of him a force so superior to his own he should have sent away on detached service the four splendid regiments which they say the marquis brought."

"Well, the fact was," Nigel said laughing, "Hamilton was altogether too grand for us here. We all felt small and mean so long as he remained. Gustavus himself, who is as simple in his tastes as any officer in the army, and who keeps up no ostentatious show, was thrown into the shade by his visitor. Why, had he been the Emperor of Germany or the King of France he could not have made a braver show. His table was equipped and furnished with magnificence; his carriages would have created a sensation in Paris; the liveries of his attendants were more splendid than the uniforms of generals; he had forty gentlemen as esquires and pages, and 200 yeomen, splendidly mounted and armed, rode with him as his bodyguard.

"Altogether he was oppressive; but the Hamiltons have ever been fond of show and finery. So Gustavus has sent him and his troops away to guard the passages of the Oder and to cover our retreat should we be forced to fall back."

Tilly, finding that the position of Gustavus was too strong to be forced, retired to Wolmirstadt, whence he summoned the Elector of Saxony to admit his army into his country, and either to disband the Saxon army or to unite it to his own. Hitherto the elector had held aloof from Gustavus, whom he regarded with jealousy and dislike, and had stood by inactive although the slightest movement of his army would have saved Magdeburg. To disband his troops, however, and to hand over his fortresses to Tilly, would be equivalent to giving up his dominions to the enemy; rather than do this he determined to join Gustavus, and having despatched Arnheim to treat with the King of Sweden for alliance, he sent a point blank refusal to Tilly.

The Imperialist general at once marched towards Leipzig, devastating the country as he advanced. Terms were soon arranged between the elector and Gustavus, and on the 3d of September, 1631, the Swedish army crossed the Elbe, and the next day joined the Saxon army at Torgau. By this time Tilly was in front of Leipzig, and immediately on his arrival burned to the ground Halle, a suburb lying beyond the wall, and then summoned the city to surrender.

Alarmed at the sight of the conflagration of Halle, and with the fate of Magdeburg in their minds, the citizens of Leipzig opened their gates at once on promise of fair treatment. The news of this speedy surrender was a heavy blow to the allies, who, however, after a council of war, determined at once to march forward against the city, and to give battle to the Imperialists on the plain around it.

Leipzig stands on a wide plain which is called the plain of Breitenfeld, and the battle which was about to commence there has been called by the Germans the battle of Breitenfeld, to distinguish it from the even greater struggles which have since taken place under the walls of Leipzig.

The baggage had all been left behind, and the Swedish army lay down as they stood. The king occupied his travelling coach, and passed the night chatting with Sir John Hepburn, Marshal Horn, Sir John Banner, Baron Teuffel, who commanded the guards, and other leaders. The lines of red fires which marked Tilly's position on the slope of a gentle eminence to the southwest were plainly to be seen. The day broke dull and misty on the 7th of September, and as the light fog gradually rose the troops formed up for battle. Prayers were said in front of every regiment, and the army then moved forward. Two Scottish brigades had the places of honour in the van, where the regiments of Sir James Ramsay, the Laird of Foulis, and Sir John Hamilton were posted, while Hepburn's Green Brigade formed part of the reserve -- a force composed of the best troops of the army, as on them the fate of the battle frequently depends. The Swedish cavalry were commanded by Field Marshal Horn, General Banner, and Lieutenant General Bauditzen.

The king and Baron Teuffel led the main body of infantry; the King of Saxony commanded the Saxons, who were on the Swedish left. The armies were not very unequal in numbers, the allies numbering 35,000, of whom the Swedes and Scots counted 20,000, the Saxons 15,000. The Imperialists numbered about 40,000. Tilly was fighting unwillingly, for he had wished to await the arrival from Italy of 12,000 veterans under General Altringer, and who were within a few days' march; but he had been induced, against his own better judgment, by the urgency of Pappenheim, Furstenberg, and the younger generals, to quit the unassailable post he had taken up in front of Leipzig, and to move out on to the plain of Breitenfeld to accept the battle which the Swedes offered.

A short distance in his front was the village of Podelwitz. Behind his position were two elevations, on which he placed his guns, forty in number. In rear of these elevations was a very thick wood. The Imperialist right was commanded by Furstenberg, the left by Pappenheim, the centre by Tilly himself. Although he had yielded to his generals so far as to take up a position on the plain, Tilly was resolved, if possible, not to fight until the arrival of the reinforcements; but the rashness of Pappenheim brought on a battle. To approach the Austrian position the Swedes had to cross the little river Loder, and Pappenheim asked permission of Tilly to charge them as they did so. Tilly consented on condition that he only charged with two thousand horse and did not bring on a general engagement. Accordingly, as the Scottish brigade under Sir James Ramsay crossed the Loder, Pappenheim swept down upon them.

The Scots stood firm, and with pike and musket repelled the attack; and after hard fighting Pappenheim was obliged to fall back, setting fire as he retired to the village of Podelwitz. The smoke of the burning village drifted across the plain, and was useful to the Swedes, as under its cover the entire army passed the Loder, and formed up ready for battle facing the Imperialists position, the movement being executed under a heavy fire from the Austrian batteries on the hills.

The Swedish order of battle was different from that of the Imperialists. The latter had their cavalry massed together in one heavy, compact body, while the Swedish regiments of horse were placed alternately with the various regiments or brigades of infantry. The Swedish centre was composed of four brigades of pikemen. Guns were behind the first line, as were the cavalry supporting the pikemen. The regiments of musketeers were placed at intervals among the brigades of pikemen.

Pappenheim on his return to the camp ordered up the whole of his cavalry, and charged down with fury upon the Swedes, while at the same moment Furstenberg dashed with seven regiments of cavalry on the Saxons. Between these and the Swedes there was a slight interval, for Gustavus had doubts of the steadiness of his allies, and was anxious that in case of their defeat his own troops should not be thrown into confusion. The result justified his anticipations.

Attacked with fury on their flank by Furstenberg's horse, while his infantry and artillery poured a direct fire into their front, the Saxons at once gave way. Their elector was the first to set the example of flight, and, turning his horse, galloped without drawing rein to Torgau, and in twenty minutes after the commencement of the fight the whole of the Saxons were in utter rout, hotly pursued by Furstenberg's cavalry.

Tilly now deemed the victory certain, for nearly half of his opponents were disposed of, and he outnumbered the remainder by two to one; but while Furstenberg had gained so complete a victory over the Saxons, Pappenheim, who had charged the Swedish centre, had met with a very different reception.

In vain he tried to break through the Swedish spears. The wind was blowing full in the faces of the pikemen, and the clouds of smoke and dust which rolled down upon them rendered it impossible for them to see the heavy columns of horse until they fell upon them like an avalanche, yet with perfect steadiness they withstood the attacks.

Seven times Pappenheim renewed his charge; seven times he fell back broken and disordered.

As he drew off for the last time Gustavus, seeing the rout of the Saxons, and knowing that he would have the whole of Tilly's force upon him in a few minutes, determined to rid himself altogether of Pappenheim, and launched the whole of his cavalry upon the retreating squadrons with overwhelming effect. Thus at the end of half an hour's fighting Tilly had disposed of the Saxons, and Gustavus had driven Pappenheim's horse from the field.

Three of the Scottish regiments were sent from the centre to strengthen Horn on the left flank, which was now exposed by the flight of the Saxons. Scarcely had the Scottish musketeers taken their position when Furstenberg's horse returned triumphant from their pursuit of the Saxons, and at once fell upon Horn's pikemen. These, however, stood as firmly as their comrades in the centre had done; and the Scottish musketeers, six deep, the three front ranks kneeling, the three in rear standing, poured such heavy volleys into the horsemen that these fell back in disorder; the more confused perhaps, since volley firing was at that time peculiar to the Swedish army, and the crashes of musketry were new to the Imperialists.

As the cavalry fell back in disorder, Gustavus led his horse, who had just returned from the pursuit of Pappenheim, against them. The shock was irresistible, and Furstenberg's horse were driven headlong from the field. But the Imperialist infantry, led by Tilly himself, were now close at hand, and the roar of musketry along the whole line was tremendous, while the artillery on both sides played unceasingly.

Just as the battle was at the hottest the Swedish reserve came up to the assistance of the first line, and Sir John Hepburn led the Green Brigade through the intervals of the Swedish regiments into action. Lord Reay's regiment was in front, and Munro, leading it on, advanced against the solid Imperialist columns, pouring heavy volleys into them. When close at hand the pikemen passed through the intervals of the musketeers and charged furiously with levelled pikes, the musketeers following them with clubbed weapons.

The gaps formed by the losses of the regiment at New Brandenburg and the other engagements had been filled up, and two thousand strong they fell upon the Imperialists. For a few minutes there was a tremendous hand-to-hand conflict, but the valour and strength of the Scotch prevailed, and the regiment was the first to burst its way through the ranks of the Imperialists, and then pressed on to attack the trenches behind, held by the Walloon infantry. While the battle was raging in the plain the Swedish cavalry, after driving away Furstenberg's horse, swept round and charged the eminence in the rear of the Imperialists, cutting down the artillerymen and capturing the cannon there.

These were at once turned upon the masses of Imperialist infantry, who thus, taken between two fires -- pressed hotly by the pikemen in front, mown down by the cannon in their rear -- lost heart and fled precipitately, four regiments alone, the veterans of Furstenberg's infantry, holding together and cutting their way through to the woods in the rear of their position.

The slaughter would have been even greater than it was, had not the cloud of dust and smoke been so thick that the Swedes were unable to see ten yards in front of them. The pursuit was taken up by their cavalry, who pressed the flying Imperialists until nightfall. So complete was the defeat that Tilly, who was badly wounded, could only muster 600 men to accompany him in his retreat, and Pappenheim could get together but 1400 of his horsemen. Seven thousand of the Imperialists were killed, 5000 were wounded or taken prisoners. The Swedes lost but 700 men, the Saxons about 2000.

The Swedes that night occupied the Imperial tents, making great bonfires of the broken wagons, pikes, and stockades. A hundred standards were taken. Tilly had fought throughout the battle with desperate valour. He was ever in the van of his infantry, and three times was wounded by bullets and once taken prisoner, and only rescued after a desperate conflict.

At the conclusion of the day Cronenberg with 600 Walloon cavalry threw themselves around him and bore him from the field. The fierce old soldier is said to have burst into a passion of tears on beholding the slaughter and defeat of his infantry. Hitherto he had been invincible, this being the first defeat he had suffered in the course of his long military career. Great stores of provision and wine had been captured, and the night was spent in feasting in the Swedish camp.

The next morning the Elector of Saxony rode on to the field to congratulate Gustavus on his victory. The latter was politic enough to receive him with great courtesy and to thank him for the services the Saxons had rendered. He intrusted to the elector the task of recapturing Leipzig, while he marched against Merseburg, which he captured with its garrison of five hundred men.

After two or three assaults had been made on Leipzig the garrison capitulated to the Saxons, and on the 11th of September the army was drawn up and reviewed by Gustavus. When the king arrived opposite the Green Brigade he dismounted and made the soldiers an address, thanking them for their great share in winning the battle of Leipzig.

Many of the Scottish officers were promoted, Munro being made a full colonel, and many others advanced a step in rank. The Scottish brigade responded to the address of the gallant king with hearty cheers. Gustavus was indeed beloved as well as admired by his soldiers. Fearless himself of danger, he ever recognized bravery in others, and was ready to take his full share of every hardship as well as every peril.

He had ever a word of commendation and encouragement for his troops, and was regarded by them as a comrade as well as a leader. In person he was tall and rather stout, his face was handsome, his complexion fair, his forehead lofty, his hair auburn, his eyes large and penetrating, his cheeks ruddy and healthy. He had an air of majesty which enabled him to address his soldiers in terms of cheerful familiarity without in the slightest degree diminishing their respect and reverence for him as their monarch.



Chapter X The Passage Of The Rhine


"I suppose," Nigel Graheme said, as the officers of the regiment assembled in one of the Imperialist tents on the night after the battle of Leipzig, "we shall at once press forward to Vienna;" and such was the general opinion throughout the Swedish army; but such was not the intention of Gustavus. Undoubtedly the temptation to press forward and dictate peace in Vienna was strong, but the difficulties and disadvantages of such a step were many. He had but 20,000 men, for the Saxons could not be reckoned upon; and indeed it was probable that their elector, whose jealousy and dislike of Gustavus would undoubtedly be heightened by the events of the battle of Breitenfeld, would prove himself to be a more than a doubtful ally were the Swedish army to remove to a distance.

Tilly would soon rally his fugitives, and, reinforced by the numerous Imperialist garrisons from the towns, would be able to overrun North Germany in his absence, and to force the Saxons to join him even if the elector were unwilling to do so. Thus the little Swedish force would be isolated in the heart of Germany; and should Ferdinand abandon Vienna at his approach and altogether refuse to treat with him -- which his obstinacy upon a former occasion when in the very hands of his enemy rendered probable -- the Swedes would find themselves in a desperate position, isolated and alone in the midst of enemies.

There was another consideration. An Imperialist diet was at that moment sitting at Frankfort, and Ferdinand was using all his influence to compel the various princes and representatives of the free cities to submit to him. It was of the utmost importance that Gustavus should strengthen his friends and overawe the waverers by the approach of his army. Hitherto Franconia and the Rhine provinces had been entirely in the hands of the Imperialists, and it was needful that a counterbalancing influence should be exerted. These considerations induced Gustavus to abandon the tempting idea of a march upon Vienna. The Elector of Saxony was charged with carrying the war into Silesia and Bohemia, the Electors of Hesse and Hesse-Cassel were to maintain Lower Saxony and Westphalia, and the Swedish army turned its face towards the Rhine.

On the 20th of September it arrived before Erfurt, an important fortified town on the Gera, which surrendered at discretion. Gustavus granted the inhabitants, who were for the most part Catholics, the free exercise of their religion, and nominated the Duke of Saxe-Weimar to be governor of the district and of the province of Thuringen, and the Count of Lowenstein to be commander of the garrison, which consisted of Colonel Foulis's Scottish regiment, 1500 strong.

Travelling by different routes in two columns the army marched to Wurtzburg, the capital of Franconia, a rich and populous city, the Imperialist garrison having withdrawn to the strong castle of Marienburg, on a lofty eminence overlooking the town, and only separated from it by the river Maine. The cathedral at Wurtzburg is dedicated to a Scottish saint, St. Kilian, a bishop who with two priests came from Scotland in the year 688 to convert the heathen of Franconia. They baptized many at Wurtzburg, among them Gospert, the duke of that country. This leader was married to Geilana, the widow of his brother; and Kilian urging upon him that such a marriage was contrary to the laws of the Christian church, the duke promised to separate from her. Geilana had not, like her lord, accepted Christianity, and, furious at this interference of Kilian, she seized the opportunity when the latter had gone with his followers on an expedition against the pagan Saxons to have Kilian and his two companions murdered.

The cathedral was naturally an object of interest to the Scotch soldiers in the time of Gustavus, and there was an animated argument in the quarters of the officers of Munro's regiment on the night of their arrival as to whether St. Kilian had done well or otherwise in insisting upon his new convert repudiating his wife. The general opinion, however, was against the saint, the colonel summing up the question.

"In my opinion," he said, "Kilian was a fool. Here was no less a matter at stake than the conversion of a whole nation, or at least of a great tribe of heathens, and Kilian imperilled it all on a question of minor importance; for in the first place, the Church of Rome has always held that the pope could grant permission for marriage within interdicted degrees; in the second place, the marriage had taken place before the conversion of the duke to Christianity, and they were therefore innocently and without thought of harm bona fide man and wife. Lastly, the Church of Rome is opposed to divorce; and Kilian might in any case have put up with this small sin, if sin it were, for the sake of saving the souls of thousands of pagans. My opinion is that St. Kilian richly deserved the fate which befell him. And now to a subject much more interesting to us -- viz, the capture of Marienburg.

"I tell you, my friends, it is going to be a warm business; the castle is considered impregnable, and is strong by nature as well as art, and Captain Keller is said to be a stout and brave soldier. He has 1000 men in the garrison, and all the monks who were in the town have gone up and turned soldiers. But if the task is a hard one the reward will be rich; for as the Imperialists believe the place cannot be taken, the treasures of all the country round are stored up there. And I can tell you more, in the cellars are sixty gigantic tuns of stone, the smallest of which holds twenty-five wagon loads of wine, and they say some of it is a hundred years old. With glory and treasure and good wine to be won we will outdo ourselves tomorrow; and you may be sure that the brunt of the affair will fall upon the Scots."

"Well, there is one satisfaction," said Nigel Graheme -- who after Leipzig had been promoted to the rank of major -- "if we get the lion's share of the fighting, we shall have the lion's share of the plunder and wine."

"For shame, Graheme! You say nothing of the glory."

"Ah! well," Graheme laughed, "we have already had so large share of that, that I for one could do without winning any more just at present. It's a dear commodity to purchase, and neither fills our belly nor our pockets."

"For shame, Graheme! for shame!" Munro said laughing. "It is a scandal that such sentiments should be whispered in the Scottish brigade; and now to bed, gentlemen, for we shall have, methinks, a busy day tomorrow."

Sir James Ramsay was appointed to command the assault. The river Maine had to be crossed, and he sent off Lieutenant Robert Ramsay of his own regiment to obtain boats from the peasantry. The disguise in which he went was seen through, and he was taken prisoner and carried to the castle. A few boats were, however, obtained by the Swedes.

The river is here 300 yards wide, and the central arch of the bridge had been blown up by the Imperialists, a single plank remaining across the chasm over the river 48 feet below. The bridge was swept by the heaviest cannon in the fortress, and a passage appeared well nigh hopeless. On the afternoon of the 5th of October the party prepared to pass, some in boats, others by the bridge. A tremendous fire was opened by the Imperialists from cannon and musketry, sweeping the bridge with a storm of missiles and lashing the river to foam around the boats. The soldiers in these returned the fire with their muskets, and the smoke served as a cover to conceal them from the enemy.

In the meantime Major Bothwell of Ramsay's regiment led a company across the bridge. These, in spite of the fire, crossed the plank over the broken arch and reached the head of the bridge, from whence they kept up so heavy a fire upon the gunners and musketeers in the lower works by the river that they forced them to quit their posts, and so enabled Sir James Ramsay and Sir John Hamilton to effect a landing.

Major Bothwell, his brother, and the greater part of his followers were, however, slain by the Imperialists' fire from above. The commandant of the castle now sallied out and endeavoured to recapture the works by the water, but the Scotch repelled the attack and drove the enemy up the hill to the castle again. The Scottish troops having thus effected a lodgment across the river, and being protected by the rocks from the enemy's fire, lay down for the night in the position they had won.

Gustavus during the night caused planks to be thrown across the broken bridge and prepared to assault at daybreak. Just as morning was breaking, a Swedish officer with seven men climbed up the hill to reconnoitre the castle, and found to his surprise that the drawbridge was down, but a guard of 200 men were stationed at the gate. He was at once challenged, and, shouting "Sweden!" sprang with his men on to the end of the drawbridge. The Imperialists tried in vain to raise it; before they could succeed some companions of the Swedes ran up, and, driving in the guard, took possession of the outer court.

Almost at the same moment Ramsay's and Hamilton's regiments commenced their assault on a strong outwork of the castle, which, after two hours' desperate fighting, they succeeded in gaining. They then turned its guns upon the gate of the keep, which they battered down, and were about to charge in when they received orders from the king to halt and retire, while the Swedish regiment of Axel-Lilly and the Blue Brigade advanced to the storm.

The Scottish regiments retired in the deepest discontent, deeming themselves affronted by others being ordered to the post of honour after they had by their bravery cleared the way. The Swedish troops forced their way in after hard fighting; and the Castle of Marienburg, so long deemed impregnable, was captured after a few hours' fighting. The quantity of treasure found in it was enormous, and there were sufficient provisions to have lasted its garrison for twenty years.

Immediately the place was taken, Colonel Sir John Hamilton advanced to Gustavus and resigned his commission on the spot; nor did the assurances of the king that he intended no insult to the Scotch soldiers mollify his wrath, and quitting the Swedish service he returned at once to Scotland. Munro's regiment had taken no part in the storming of Marienburg, but was formed up on the north side of the river in readiness to advance should the first attack be repelled, and many were wounded by the shot of the enemy while thus inactive.

Malcolm while binding up the arm of his sergeant who stood next to him felt a sharp pain shoot through his leg, and at once fell to the ground. He was lifted up and carried to the rear, where his wound was examined by the doctor to the regiment.

"Your luck has not deserted you," he said after probing the wound. "The bullet has missed the bone by half an inch, and a short rest will soon put you right again."

Fortunately for a short time the army remained around Wurtzburg. Columns scoured the surrounding country, capturing the various towns and fortresses held by the Imperialists, and collecting large quantities of provisions and stores. Tilly's army lay within a few days' march; but although superior in numbers to that of Gustavus, Tilly had received strict orders not to risk a general engagement as his army was now almost the only one that remained to the Imperialists, and should it suffer another defeat the country would lie at the mercy of the Swedes.

One evening when Malcolm had so far recovered as to be able to walk for a short distance, he was at supper with Colonel Munro and some other officers, when the door opened and Gustavus himself entered. All leapt to their feet.

"Munro," he said, "get the musketeers of your brigade under arms with all haste, form them up in the square before the town hall, and desire Sir John Hepburn to meet me there."


The drum was at once beaten, and the troops came pouring from their lodgings, and in three or four minutes the musketeers, 800 strong, were formed up with Hepburn and Munro at their head. Malcolm had prepared to take his arms on the summons, but Munro said at once:

"No, Malcolm, so sudden a summons augurs desperate duty, maybe a long night march; you would break down before you got half a mile; besides, as only the musketeers have to go, half the officers must remain here."

Without a word the king placed himself at the head of the men, and through the dark and stormy night the troops started on their unknown mission. Hepburn and Munro were, like their men, on foot, for they had not had time to have their horses saddled.

After marching two hours along the right bank of the Maine the tramp of horses was heard behind them, and they were reinforced by eighty troopers whom Gustavus before starting had ordered to mount and follow. Hitherto the king had remained lost in abstraction, but he now roused himself.

"I have just received the most serious news, Hepburn. Tilly has been reinforced by 17,000 men under the Duke of Lorraine, and is marching with all speed against me. Were my whole army collected here he would outnumber us by two to one, but many columns are away, and the position is well nigh desperate.

"I have resolved to hold Ochsenfurt. The place is not strong, but it lies in a sharp bend of the river and may be defended for a time. If any can do so it is surely you and your Scots. Tilly is already close to the town; indeed the man who brought me the news said that when he left it his advanced pickets were just entering, hence the need for this haste.

"You must hold it to the last, Hepburn, and then, if you can, fall back to Wurtzburg; even a day's delay will enable me to call in some of the detachments and to prepare to receive Tilly."

Without halting, the little column marched sixteen miles, and then, crossing the bridge over the Maine, entered Ochsenfurt.

It was occupied by a party of fifty Imperialist arquebusiers, but these were driven headlong from it. The night was extremely dark, all were ignorant of the locality, and the troops were formed up in the marketplace to await either morning or the attack of Tilly. Fifty troopers were sent half a mile in advance to give warning of the approach of the enemy. They had scarcely taken their place when they were attacked by the Imperialists, who had been roused by the firing in the town. The incessant flash of fire and the heavy rattle of musketry told Gustavus that they were in force, and a lieutenant of Lumsden's regiment with fifty musketeers was sent off to reinforce the cavalry. The Imperialists were, however, too strong to be checked, and horse and foot were being driven in when Colonel Munro sallied out with a hundred of his own regiment, and the Imperialists after a brisk skirmish, not knowing what force they had to deal with, fell back.

As soon as day broke the king and Hepburn made a tour of the walls, which were found to be in a very bad condition and ill calculated to resist an assault. The Imperialists were not to be seen, and the king, fearing they might have marched by some other route against Wurtzburg, determined to return at once, telling Hepburn to mine the bridge, and to blow it up if forced to abandon the town.

Hepburn at once set to work to strengthen the position, to demolish all the houses and walls outside the defences, cut down and destroy all trees and hedges which might shelter an enemy, and to strengthen the walls with banks of earth and platforms of wood. For three days the troops laboured incessantly; on the third night the enemy were heard approaching. The advanced troopers and a half company of infantry were driven in, contesting every foot of the way. When they reached the walls heavy volleys were poured in by the musketeers who lined them upon the approaching enemy, and Tilly, supposing that Gustavus must have moved forward a considerable portion of his army, called off his troops and marched away to Nuremberg. Two days later Hepburn was ordered to return with his force to Wurtzburg.

The king now broke up his camp near Wurtzburg, and leaving a garrison in the castle of Marienburg and appointing Marshal Horn to hold Franconia with 8000 men, he marched against Frankfort-on-the-Maine, his troops capturing all the towns and castles on the way, levying contributions, and collecting great booty. Frankfort opened its gates without resistance, and for a short time the army had rest in pleasant quarters.

The regiments were reorganized, in some cases two of those which had suffered most being joined into one. Gustavus had lately been strengthened by two more Scottish regiments under Sir Frederick Hamilton and Alexander Master of Forbes, and an English regiment under Captain Austin. He had now thirteen regiments of Scottish infantry, and the other corps of the army were almost entirely officered by Scotchmen. He had five regiments of English and Irish, and had thus eighteen regiments of British infantry.

At Frankfort he was joined by the Marquis of Hamilton, who had done splendid service with the troops under his command. He had driven the Imperialists out of Silesia, and marching south, struck such fear into them that Tilly was obliged to weaken his army to send reinforcements to that quarter. By the order of Gustavus he left Silesia and marched to Magdeburg. He had now but 3500 men with him, 2700 having died from pestilence, famine, and disease. He assisted General Banner in blockading the Imperialist garrison of Magdeburg, and his losses by fever and pestilence thinned his troops down to two small regiments; these were incorporated with the force of the Duke of Saxe-Weimar, and the Marquis of Hamilton joined the staff of Gustavus as a simple volunteer.

The king now determined to conquer the Palatinate, which was held by a Spanish army. He drove them before him until he reached the Rhine, where they endeavoured to defend the passage by burning every vessel and boat they could find, and for a time the advance of the Swedes was checked. It was now the end of November, the snow lay thick over the whole country, and the troops, without tents or covering, were bivouacked along the side of the river, two miles below Oppenheim. The opposite bank was covered with bushes to the water's edge, and on an eminence a short distance back could be seen the tents of the Spaniards.

"If it were summer we might swim across," Nigel Graheme said to Malcolm; "the river is broad, but a good swimmer could cross it easily enough."

"Yes," Malcolm agreed, "there would be no difficulty in swimming if unencumbered with arms and armour, but there would be no advantage in getting across without these; if we could but get hold of a boat or two, we would soon wake yonder Spaniards up."

The next morning Malcolm wandered along the bank closely examining the bushes as he went, to see if any boats might be concealed among them, for the fishermen and boatmen would naturally try to save their craft when they heard that the Imperialists were destroying them. He walked three miles up the river without success. As he returned he kept his eyes fixed on the bushes on the opposite bank. When within half a mile of the camp he suddenly stopped, for his eye caught something dark among them. He went to the water's edge and stooped, the better to see under the bushes, and saw what he doubted not to be the stern of a boat hauled up and sheltered beneath them. He leapt to his feet with a joyful exclamation. Here was the means of crossing the river; but the boat had to be brought over. Once afloat this would be easy enough, but he was sure that his own strength would be insufficient to launch her, and that he should need the aid of at least one man. On returning to camp he called aside the sergeant of his company, James Grant, who was from his own estate in Nithsdale, and whom he knew to be a good swimmer.


"Sergeant," he said, "I want you to join me in an enterprise tonight. I have found a boat hauled up under the bushes on the opposite shore, and we must bring her across. I cannot make out her size; but from the look of her stern I should say she was a large boat. You had better therefore borrow from the artillerymen one of their wooden levers, and get a stout pole two or three inches across, and cut half a dozen two foot lengths from it to put under her as rollers. Get also a plank of four inches wide from one of the deserted houses in the village behind us, and cut out two paddles; we may find oars on board, but it is as well to be prepared in case the owner should have removed them."

"Shall I take my weapons, sir?"

"We can take our dirks in our belts, sergeant, and lash our swords to the wooden lever, but I do not think we shall have any fighting. The night will be dark, and the Spaniards, believing that we have no boats, will not keep a very strict watch. The worst part of the business is the swim across the river, the water will be bitterly cold; but as you and I have often swum Scotch burns when they were swollen by the melting snow I think that we may well manage to get across this sluggish stream."

"At what time will we be starting, sir?"

"Be here at the edge of the river at six o'clock, sergeant. I can get away at that time without exciting comment, and we will say nothing about it unless we succeed."

Thinking it over, however, it occurred to Malcolm that by this means a day would be lost -- and he knew how anxious the king was to press forward. He therefore abandoned his idea of keeping his discovery secret, and going to his colonel reported that he had found a boat, and could bring it across from the other side by seven o'clock.

The news was so important that Munro at once went to the king. Gustavus ordered three hundred Swedes and a hundred Scots of each of the regiments of Ramsay, Munro, and the Laird of Wormiston, the whole under the command of Count Brahe, to form up after dark on the river bank and prepare to cross, and he himself came down to superintend the passage. By six it was perfectly dark. During the day Malcolm had placed two stones on the edge of the water, one exactly opposite the boat, the other twenty feet behind it in an exact line. When Gustavus arrived at the spot where the troops were drawn up, Malcolm was taken up to him by his colonel.

"Well, my brave young Graheme," the king said, "so you are going to do us another service; but how will you find the boat in this darkness? Even were there no stream you would find it very difficult to strike the exact spot on a dark night like this."

"I have provided against that, sir, by placing two marks on the bank. When we start lanterns will be placed on these. We shall cross higher up so as to strike the bank a little above where I believe the boat to be, then we shall float along under the bushes until the lanterns are in a line one with another, and we shall know then that we are exactly opposite the boat."

"Well thought of!" the king exclaimed. "Munro, this lieutenant of yours is a treasure. And now God speed you, my friend, in your cold swim across the stream!"

Malcolm and the sergeant now walked half a mile up the river, a distance which, judging from the strength of the current and the speed at which they could swim, would, they thought, take them to the opposite bank at about the point where the boat was lying. Shaking hands with Colonel Munro, who had accompanied them, Malcolm entered the icy cold water without delay. Knowing that it was possible that their strength might give out before they reached the opposite side, Malcolm had had two pairs of small casks lashed two feet apart. These they fastened securely, so that as they began to swim the casks floated a short distance behind each shoulder, giving them perfect support. The lever and paddles were towed behind them. The lights in the two camps afforded them a means of directing their way. The water was intensely cold, and before they were halfway across Malcolm congratulated himself upon having thought of the casks. Had it not been for them he would have begun to doubt his ability to reach the further shore, for although he would have thought nothing of the swim at other times his limbs were fast becoming numbed with the extreme cold. The sergeant kept close to him, and a word or two was occasionally exchanged.

"I think it is colder than our mountain streams, Grant?"

"It's no colder, your honour, but the water is smooth and still, and we do not have to wrestle with it as with a brook in spate. It's the stillness which makes it feel so cold. The harder we swim the less we will feel it."

It was with a deep feeling of relief that Malcolm saw something loom just in front of him from the darkness, and knew that he was close to the land. A few more strokes and he touched the bushes. Looking back he saw that the two lights were nearly in a line. Stopping swimming he let the stream drift him down. Two or three minutes more and one of the tiny lights seemed exactly above the other.

"This is the spot, Grant," he said in a low voice; "land here as quietly as you can."



Chapter XI The Capture Of Oppenheim


The two swimmers dragged themselves on shore, but for a minute or two could scarce stand, so numbed were their limbs by the cold. Malcolm took from his belt a flask of brandy, took a long draught, and handed it to his companion, who followed his example.

The spirit sent a glow of warmth through their veins, and they began to search among the bushes for the boat, one proceeding each way along the bank. They had not removed their leathern doublets before entering the water, as these, buoyed up as they were, would not affect their swimming, and would be a necessary protection when they landed not only against the cold of the night air but against the bushes.

Malcolm's beacon proved an accurate guide, for he had not proceeded twenty yards before he came against a solid object which he at once felt to be the boat. A low whistle called the sergeant to his side, bringing with him the rollers and paddles from the spot where they had landed. They soon felt that the boat was a large one, and that their strength would have been wholly insufficient to get her into the water without the aid of the lever and rollers. Taking the former they placed its end under the stern post, and placing a roller under its heel to serve as a pivot they threw their weight on the other end of the lever and at once raised the boat some inches in the air.

Grant held the lever down and Malcolm slid a roller as far up under the keel as it would go; the lever was then shifted and the boat again raised, and the process was continued until her weight rested upon three rollers. She was now ready to be launched, and as the bank was steep they had no doubt of their ability to run her down. An examination had already shown that their paddles would be needless, as the oars were inside her. They took their places one on each side of the bow, and applying their strength the boat glided rapidly down.

"Gently, Grant," Malcolm said, "don't let her go in with a splash. There may be some sentries within hearing."

They continued their work cautiously, and the boat noiselessly entered the water. Getting out the oars they gave her a push, and she was soon floating down the stream. The rowlocks were in their places, and rowing with extreme care so as to avoid making the slightest sound they made their way across the river. They were below the camp when they landed, but there were many men on the lookout, for the news of the attempt had spread rapidly.

Leaping ashore amidst a low cheer from a group of soldiers, Malcolm directed them to tow the boat up at once to the place where the troops were formed ready for crossing, while he and the sergeant, who were both chilled to the bone, for their clothes had frozen stiff upon them, hurried to the spot where the regiment was bivouacked. Here by the side of a blazing fire they stripped, and were rubbed with cloths by their comrades till a glow of warmth again began to be felt, the external heat and friction being aided by the administration of two steaming flagons of spiced wine. Dry clothes were taken from their knapsacks and warmed before the fire, and when these were put on they again felt warm and comfortable.

Hurrying off now to the spot where the troops were drawn up, they found that the boat had already made two passages. She rowed four oars, and would, laden down to the water's edge, carry twenty-five men. The oars had been muffled with cloths so as to make no sound in the rowlocks. A party of Munro's Scots had first crossed, then a party of Swedes. Malcolm and the sergeant joined their company unnoticed in the darkness. Each detachment sent over a boat load in turns, and when six loads had crossed it was again the turn of the men of Munro's regiment, and Malcolm entered the boat with the men. The lights still burned as a signal, enabling the boat to land each party almost at the same spot. Malcolm wondered what was going on. A perfect stillness reigned on the other side, and it was certain that the alarm had not yet been given.

On ascending the bank he saw in front of him some dark figures actively engaged, and heard dull sounds. On reaching the spot he found the parties who had preceded him hard at work with shovels throwing up an intrenchment. In the darkness he had not perceived that each of the soldiers carried a spade in addition to his arms. The soil was deep and soft, and the operations were carried on with scarce a sound. As each party landed they fell to work under the direction of their officers. All night the labour continued, and when the dull light of the winter morning began to dispel the darkness a solid rampart of earth breast high rose in a semicircle, with its two extremities resting on the riverbank.

The last boat load had but just arrived across, and the 600 men were now gathered in the work, which was about 150 feet across, the base formed by the river. The earth forming the ramparts had been taken from the outside, and a ditch 3 feet deep and 6 feet wide had been thus formed.

The men, who, in spite of the cold were hot and perspiring from their night's work, now entered the intrenched space, and sat down to take a meal, each man having brought two days' rations in his havresack. It grew rapidly lighter, and suddenly the sound of a trumpet, followed by the rapid beating of drums, showed that the Spaniards had, from their camp on the eminence half a mile away, discovered the work which had sprung up during the night as if by magic on their side of the river.

In a few minutes a great body of cavalry was seen issuing from the Spanish camp, and fourteen squadrons of cuirassiers trotted down towards the intrenchments. Soon the word was given to charge, and, like a torrent, the mass of cavalry swept down upon it.

Two-thirds of those who had crossed were musketeers, the remainder pikemen. The latter formed the front line behind the rampart, their spears forming a close hedge around it, while the musketeers prepared to fire between them. By the order of Count Brahe not a trigger was pulled until the cavalry were within fifty yards, then a flash of flame swept round the rampart, and horses and men in the front line of the cavalry tumbled to the ground. But half the musketeers had fired, and a few seconds later another volley was poured into the horsemen. The latter, however, although many had fallen, did not check their speed, but rode up close to the rampart, and flung themselves upon the hedge of spears.

Nothing could exceed the gallantry with which the Spaniards fought. Some dismounted, and, leaping into the ditch, tried to climb the rampart; others leapt the horses into it, and standing up in their saddles, cut at the spearmen with their swords, and fired their pistols among them. Many, again, tried to leap their horses over ditch and rampart, but the pikemen stood firm, while at short intervals withering volleys tore into the struggling mass.

For half an hour the desperate fight continued, and then, finding that the position could not be carried by horsemen, the Spanish commander drew off his men, leaving no less than 600 lying dead around the rampart of earth. There were no Spanish infantry within some miles of the spot, and the cavalry rode away, some to Maintz, but the greater part to Oppenheim, where there was a strong garrison of 1000 men.

A careful search among the bushes brought three more boats to light, and a force was soon taken across the river sufficient to maintain itself against any attack. Gustavus himself was in one of the first boats that crossed.

"Well done, my brave hearts!" he said as he landed, just as the Spanish horsemen had ridden away. "You have fought stoutly and well, and our way is now open to us. Where are Lieutenant Graheme and the sergeant who swam across with him?"

Malcolm and his companion soon presented themselves.

"I sent for you to your camp," the king said, "but found that you but waited to change your clothes, and had then joined the force crossing. You had no orders to do so."

"We had no orders not to do so, sire, but having begun the affair it was only natural that we should see the end of it."

"You had done your share and more," the king said, "and I thank you both heartily for it, and promote you, Graheme, at once to the rank of captain, and will request Colonel Munro to give you the first company which may fall vacant in his regiment. If a vacancy should not occur shortly I will place you in another regiment until one may happen in your own corps. To you, sergeant, I give a commission as officer. You will take that rank at once, and will be a supernumerary in your regiment till a vacancy occurs. Such promotion has been well and worthily won by you both."

Without delay an advance was ordered against Oppenheim. It lay on the Imperialist side of the Rhine. Behind the town stood a strong and well fortified castle upon a lofty eminence. Its guns swept not only the country around it, but the ground upon the opposite side of the river. There, facing it, stood a strong fort surrounded by double ditches, which were deep and broad and full of water. They were crossed only by a drawbridge on the side facing the river, and the garrison could therefore obtain by boats supplies or reinforcements as needed from the town.

The Green and Blue Brigades at once commenced opening trenches against this fort, and would have assaulted the place without delay had not a number of boats been brought over by a Protestant well wisher of the Swedes from the other side of the river. The assault was therefore delayed in order that the attack might be delivered simultaneously against the positions on both sides of the river. The brigade of guards and the White Brigade crossed in the boats at Gernsheim, five miles from the town, and marched against it during the night.

The Spaniards from their lofty position in the castle of Oppenheim saw the campfires of the Scots around their fort on the other side of the river, and opened a heavy cannonade upon them. The fire was destructive, and many of the Scots were killed, Hepburn and Munro having a narrow escape, a cannonball passing just over their heads as they were sitting together by a fire.

The defenders of the fort determined to take advantage of the fire poured upon their assailants, and two hundred musketeers made a gallant sortie upon them; but Hepburn led on his pikemen who were nearest at hand, and, without firing a shot, drove them back again into the fort. At daybreak the roar of cannon on the opposite side of the river commenced, and showed that the king with the divisions which had crossed had arrived at their posts. The governor of the fort, seeing that if, as was certain, the lower town were captured by the Swedes, he should be cut off from all communication with the castle and completely isolated, surrendered to Sir John Hepburn.

The town had, indeed, at once opened its gates, and two hundred men of Sir James Ramsay's regiment were placed there. Hepburn prepared to cross the river with the Blue and Green Brigades to aid the king in reducing the castle -- a place of vast size and strength -- whose garrison composed of Spaniards and Italians were replying to the fire of Gustavus. A boat was lying at the gate of the fort.

"Captain Graheme," Hepburn said to Malcolm, "take with you two lieutenants and twenty men in the boat and cross the river; then send word by an officer to the king that the fort here has surrendered, and that I am about to cross, and let the men bring over that flotilla of boats which is lying under the town wall."

Malcolm crossed at once. After despatching the message to the king and sending the officer back with the boats he had for the moment nothing to do, and made his way into the town to inquire from the officers of Ramsay's detachment how things were going. He found the men drawn up.

"Ah! Malcolm Graheme," the major in command said, "you have arrived in the very nick of time to take part in a gallant enterprise."

"I am ready," Malcolm said; "what is to be done?"

"We are going to take the castle, that is all," the major said.

"You are joking," Malcolm laughed, looking at the great castle and the little band of two hundred men.

"That am I not," the major answered; "my men have just discovered a private passage from the governor's quarters here up to the very gate of the outer wall. As you see we have collected some ladders, and as we shall take them by surprise, while they are occupied with the king, we shall give a good account of them."

"I will go with you right willingly," Malcolm said; but he could not but feel that the enterprise was a desperate one, and wished that the major had waited until a few hundred more men had crossed. Placing himself behind the Scottish officer, he advanced up the passage which had been discovered. Ascending flight after flight of stone stairs, the column issued from the passage at the very foot of the outer wall before the garrison stationed there were aware of their approach. The ladders were just placed when the Italians caught sight of them and rushed to the defence, but it was too late. The Scotch swarmed up and gained a footing on the wall.

Driving the enemy before them they cleared the outer works, and pressed so hotly upon the retiring Imperialists that they entered with them into the inner works of the castle, crossing the drawbridge over the moat which separated it from its outer works before the garrison had time to raise it.

Now in the very heart of the castle a terrible encounter took place. The garrison, twelve hundred strong, ran down from their places on the wall, and seeing how small was the force that had entered fell upon them with fury. It was a hand to hand fight. Loud rose the war cries of the Italian and Spanish soldiers, and the answering cheers of the Scots mingled with the clash of sword on steel armour and the cries of the wounded, while without the walls the cannon of Gustavus thundered incessantly.

Not since the dreadful struggle in the streets of New Brandenburg had Malcolm been engaged in so desperate a strife. All order and regularity was lost, and man to man they fought with pike, sword, and clubbed musket. There was no giving of orders, for no word could be heard in such a din, and the officers with their swords and half pikes fought desperately in the melee with the rest.

Gradually, however, the strength and endurance of Ramsay's veterans prevailed over numbers. Most of the officers of the Imperialists had been slain, as well as their bravest men, and the rest began to draw off and to scatter through the castle, some to look for hiding places, many to jump over the walls rather than fall into the hands of the terrible Scots.

The astonishment of Gustavus and of Hepburn, who was now marching with his men towards the castle, at hearing the rattle of musketry and the din of battle within the very heart of the fortress was great indeed, and this was heightened when, a few minutes later, the soldiers were seen leaping desperately from the walls, and a great shout arose from the troops as the Imperial banner was seen to descend from its flagstaff on the keep. Gustavus with his staff rode at once to the gate, which was opened for him; and on entering he found Ramsay's little force drawn up to salute him as he entered. It was reduced nearly half in strength, and not a man but was bleeding from several wounds, while cleft helms and dinted armour showed how severe had been the fray.

"My brave Scots," he exclaimed, "why were you too quick for me?"

The courtyard of the castle was piled with slain, who were also scattered in every room throughout it, five hundred having been slain there before the rest threw down their arms and were given quarter. This exploit was one of the most valiant which was performed during the course of the whole war. Four colours were taken, one of which was that of the Spanish regiment, this being the first of that nationality which had ever been captured by Gustavus.

After going over the castle, whose capture would have tasked his resources and the valour of his troops to the utmost had he been compelled to attack it in the usual way, Gustavus sent for the officers of Ramsay's companies and thanked them individually for their capture.

"What! you here, Malcolm Graheme!" Gustavus said as he came in at the rear of Ramsay's officers. "Why, what had you to do with this business?"

"I was only a volunteer, sire," Malcolm said. "I crossed with the parties who fetched the boats; but as my instructions ended there I had nought to do, and finding that Ramsay's men were about to march up to the attack of the castle, I thought it best to join them, being somewhat afraid to stop in the town alone."

"And he did valiant service, sire," the major said. "I marked him in the thick of the fight, and saw more than one Imperialist go down before his sword."

"You know the story of the pitcher and the well, Captain Graheme," the king said, smiling. "Some day you will go once too often, and I shall have to mourn the loss of one of the bravest young officers in my army."

There was no rest for the soldiers of Gustavus, and no sooner had Oppenheim fallen than the army marched against Maintz. This was defended by two thousand Spanish troops under Don Philip de Sylvia, and was a place of immense strength. It was at once invested, and trenches commenced on all sides, the Green Brigade as usual having the post of danger and honour facing the citadel. The investment began in the evening, but so vigorously did the Scotch work all night in spite of the heavy musketry and artillery fire with which the garrison swept the ground that by morning the first parallel was completed, and the soldiers were under shelter behind a thick bank of earth.

All day the Imperialists kept up their fire, the Scots gradually pushing forward their trenches. In the evening Colonel Axel Lily, one of the bravest of the Swedish officers, came into the trenches to pay a visit to Hepburn. He found him just sitting down to dinner with Munro by the side of a fire in the trench. They invited him to join them, and the party were chatting gaily when a heavy cannonball crashed through the earthen rampart behind them, and, passing between Hepburn and Munro, carried off the leg of the Swedish officer.

Upon the following day the governor, seeing that the Swedes had erected several strong batteries, and that the Green Brigade, whose name was a terror to the Imperialists, was preparing to storm, capitulated, and his soldiers were allowed to march out with all their baggage, flying colours, and two pieces of cannon. Eighty pieces of cannon fell into the hands of the Swedes. The citizens paid 220,000 dollars as the ransom of their city from pillage, and the Jews 180,000 for the protection of their quarters and of their gorgeous synagogue, whose wealth and magnificence were celebrated; and on the 14th of December, 1631, on which day Gustavus completed his thirty-seventh year, he entered the city as conqueror.

Here he kept Christmas with great festivity, and his court was attended by princes and nobles from all parts of Germany. Among them were six of the chief princes of the empire and twelve ambassadors from foreign powers. Among the nobles was the Count of Mansfeld, who brought with him his wife and daughter. Three days before Christmas Hepburn's brigade had been moved in from their bivouac in the snow covered trenches, and assigned quarters in the town, and the count, who arrived on the following day, at once repaired to the mansion inhabited by the colonel and officers of Munro's regiment, and inquired for Malcolm Graheme.

"You will find Captain Graheme within," the Scottish soldier on sentry said.

"It is not Captain Graheme I wish to see," the count said, "but Malcolm Graheme, a very young officer."

"I reckon that it is the captain," the soldier said; "he is but a boy; but in all the regiment there is not a braver soldier; not even the colonel himself. Donald," he said, turning to a comrade, "tell Captain Graheme that he is wanted here."

In a short time Malcolm appeared at the door.

"Ah! it is you, my young friend!" the count exclaimed; "and you have won the rank of captain already by your brave deeds! Right glad am I to see you again. I have come with my wife, to attend the court of this noble king of yours. Can you come with me at once? The countess is longing to see you, and will be delighted to hear that you have passed unscathed through all the terrible contests in which you have been engaged. My daughter is here too; she is never tired of talking about her young Scottish soldier; but now that you are a captain she will have to be grave and respectful."

Malcolm at once accompanied the count to his house, and was most kindly received by the countess.

"It is difficult to believe," she said, "that 'tis but four months since we met, so many have been the events which have been crowded into that time. Scarce a day has passed but we have received news of some success gained, of some town or castle captured, and your Green Brigade has always been in the van. We have been constantly in fear for you, and after that terrible battle before Leipzig Thekla scarcely slept a wink until we obtained a copy of the Gazette with the names of the officers killed."

"You are kind indeed to bear me so in remembrance," Malcolm said, "and I am indeed grateful for it. I have often wondered whether any fresh danger threatened you; but I hoped that the advance of the Marquis of Hamilton's force would have given the Imperialists too much to do for them to disturb you."

"Yes, we have had no more trouble," the countess replied. "The villages which the Imperialists destroyed are rising again; and as after the flight of the enemy the cattle and booty they had captured were all left behind, the people are recovering from their visit. What terrible havoc has the war caused! Our way here led through ruined towns and villages, the country is infested by marauders, and all law and order is at an end save where there are strong bodies of troops. We rode with an escort of twenty men; but even then we did not feel very safe until we were fairly through Franconia. And so you have passed unwounded through the strife?"

"Yes, countess," Malcolm replied. "I had indeed a ball through my leg at Wurtzburg; but as it missed the bone, a trifle like that is scarcely worth counting. I have been most fortunate indeed."

"He is a captain now," the count said, "and to obtain such promotion he must have greatly distinguished himself. I do not suppose that he will himself tell us his exploits; but I shall soon learn all about them from others. I am to meet his colonel this evening at a dinner at the palace, and shall be able to give you the whole history tomorrow."

"But I want the history now," Thekla said. "It is much nicer to hear a thing straight from some one who has done it, than from any one else."

"There is no story to tell," Malcolm said. "I had been promised my lieutenancy at the first vacancy before I was at Mansfeld, and on my return found that the vacancy had already occurred, and I was appointed. I got my company the other day for a very simple matter, namely, for swimming across the Rhine with a barrel fixed on each side of me to prevent my sinking. Nothing very heroic about that, you see, young lady."

"For swimming across the Rhine!" the count said. "Then you must have been the Scottish officer who with a sergeant swam and fetched the boat across which enabled the Swedes to pass a body of troops over, and so open the way into the Palatinate. I heard it spoken of as a most gallant action."

"I can assure you," Malcolm said earnestly, "that there was no gallantry about it. It was exceedingly cold, I grant, but that was all."

"Then why should the king have made you a captain for it? You can't get over that."

"That was a reward for my luck," Malcolm laughed. "'Tis better to be lucky than to be rich, it is said, and I had the good luck to discover a boat concealed among the bushes just at the time when a boat was worth its weight in gold."

For an hour Malcolm sat chatting, and then took his leave, as he was going on duty, promising to return the next day, and to spend as much of his time as possible with them while they remained in the city.



Chapter XII The Passage Of The Lech


For the next two months the Green Brigade remained quietly at Maintz, a welcome rest after their arduous labours. The town was very gay, and every house was occupied either by troops or by the nobles and visitors from all parts of Northern Europe. Banquets and balls were of nightly occurrence; and a stranger who arrived in the gay city would not have dreamt that a terrible campaign had just been concluded, and that another to the full as arduous was about to commence.

During this interval of rest the damages which the campaign had effected in the armour and accoutrements of men and officers were repaired, the deep dents effected by sword, pike, and bullet were hammered out, the rust removed, and the stains of blood and bivouac obliterated; fresh doublets and jerkins were served out from the ample stores captured from the enemy, and the army looked as gay and brilliant as when it first landed in North Germany.

Malcolm spent much of his spare time with the Count and Countess of Mansfeld, who, irrespective of their gratitude for the assistance he had rendered them in time of need, had taken a strong liking to the young Scotchman.

"You are becoming quite a court gallant, Graheme," one of his comrades said at a court ball where Malcolm had been enjoying himself greatly, having, thanks to the Countess of Mansfeld, no lack of partners, while many of the officers were forced to look on without taking part in the dancing, the number of ladies being altogether insufficient to furnish partners to the throng of officers, Swedish, German, and Scottish. Beyond the scarf and feathers which showed the brigade to which officers belonged, there was, even when in arms, but slight attempt at uniformity in their attire, still less so when off duty. The scene at these balls was therefore gay in the extreme, the gallants being all attired in silk, satin, or velvet of brilliant colours slashed with white or some contrasting hue. The tailors at Maintz had had a busy time of it, for in so rapid a campaign much baggage had been necessarily lost, and many of the officers required an entirely new outfit before they could take part in the court festivities.

There was, however, no lack of money, for the booty and treasure captured had been immense, and each officer having received a fixed share, they were well able to renew their wardrobes. Some fresh reinforcements arrived during their stay here, and the vacancies which battle and disease had made in the ranks were filled up.

But although the Green Brigade did not march from Maintz till the 5th of March, 1632, the whole army did not enjoy so long a rest. In February Gustavus despatched three hundred of Ramsay's regiment under Lieutenant Colonel George Douglas against the town of Creutzenach, together with a small party of English volunteers under Lord Craven. Forty-seven of the men were killed while opening the trenches, but the next day they stormed one of the gates and drove the garrison, which was composed of six hundred Walloons and Burgundians, out of the town into the castle of Kausemberg, which commanded it. Its position was extremely strong, its walls and bastions rising one behind another, and their aspect was so formidable that they were popularly known as the "Devil's Works." From these the garrison opened a very heavy fire into the town, killing many of the Scots. Douglas, however, gave them but short respite, for gathering his men he attacked the castle and carried bastion after bastion by storm until the whole were taken.

About the same time the important town of Ulm on the Danube opened its gates to the Swedes, and Sir Patrick Ruthven was appointed commandant with 1200 Swedes as garrison, Colonel Munro with two companies of musketeers marched to Coblentz and aided Otto Louis the Rhinegrave, who with a brigade of twenty troops of horse was expecting to be attacked by 10,000 Spaniards and Walloons from Spires. Four regiments of Spanish horse attacked the Rhinegrave's quarters, but were charged so furiously by four troops of Swedish dragoons under Captain Hume that 300 of them were killed and the Elector of Nassau taken prisoner; after this the Spaniards retired beyond the Moselle.

In other parts of Germany the generals of Gustavus were equally successful. General Horn defeated the Imperialists at Heidelberg and Heilbronn. General Lowenhausen scoured all the shores of the Baltic, and compelled Colonel Graham, a Scotch soldier in the Imperial service, to surrender the Hanse town of Wismar. Graham marched out with his garrison, 3000 strong, with the honours of war en route for Silesia, but having, contrary to terms, spiked the cannon, plundered the shipping, and slain a Swedish lieutenant, Lowenhausen pursued him, and in the battle which ensued 500 of Graham's men were slain and the colonel himself with 2000 taken prisoner.

General Ottentodt was moving up the Elbe carrying all before him with a force of 14,000 men, among whom were five battalions of Scots and one of English. This force cleared the whole duchy of Mecklenburg, capturing all the towns and fortresses in rapid succession. Sir Patrick Ruthven advanced along the shores of Lake Constance, driving the Imperialists before him into the Tyrol. Magdeburg was captured by General Banner, the Landgrave of Hesse-Cassel reduced all Fulda-Paderborn and the adjacent districts, the Elector of Saxony overran Bohemia, and Sir Alexander Leslie threatened the Imperialists in Lower Saxony.

Thus the campaign of 1632 opened under the most favourable auspices. The Green Brigade marched on the 5th of March to Aschaffenburg, a distance of more than thirty miles, a fact which speaks volumes for the physique and endurance of the troops, for this would in the present day be considered an extremely long march for troops, and the weight of the helmet and armour, musket and accoutrements, of the troops of those days was fully double that now carried by European soldiers. Here they were reviewed by the king.

By the 10th the whole army, 23,000 strong, were collected at Weinsheim and advanced towards Bavaria, driving before them the Imperialists under the Count de Bucquio. The Chancellor Oxenstiern had been left by the king with a strong force to guard his conquests on the Rhine.

No sooner had the king marched than the Spaniards again crossed the Moselle. The chancellor and the Duke of Weimar advanced against them. The Dutch troops, who formed the first line of the chancellor's army, were unable to stand the charge of the Spanish and fled in utter confusion; but the Scottish regiment of Sir Roderick Leslie, who had succeeded Sir John Hamilton on his resignation, and the battalion of Sir John Ruthven, charged the Spaniards with levelled pikes so furiously that these in turn were broken and driven off the field.

On the 26th of March Gustavus arrived before the important town and fortress of Donauworth, being joined on the same day by the Laird of Foulis with his two regiments of horse and foot. Donauworth is the key to Swabia; it stands on the Danube, and was a strongly fortified place, its defences being further covered by fortifications upon a lofty eminence close by, named the Schellemberg. It was held by the Duke of Saxe-Lauenburg with two thousand five hundred men. The country round Donauworth is fertile and hilly, and Gustavus at once seized a height which commanded the place. The Bavarians were at work upon entrenchments here as the Swedes advanced, but were forced to fall back into the town. From the foot of the hill a suburb extended to the gates of the city. This was at once occupied by five hundred musketeers, who took up their post in the houses along the main road in readiness to repel a sortie should the garrison attempt one; while the force on the hillside worked all night, and by daybreak on the 27th had completed and armed a twenty gun battery.

In this was placed a strong body of infantry under Captain Semple, a Scotchman. As this battery commanded the walls of the town, and flanked the bridge across the Danube, the position of the defenders was now seriously menaced, but the Duke of Saxe-Lauenburg refused the demand of Gustavus to surrender. The battery now opened fire, first demolishing a large stone building by the river occupied by a force of Imperialists, and then directing its fire upon the city gates.

The cannonade continued after nightfall, but in the darkness a body of Imperialist horsemen under Colonel Cronenberg dashed out at full speed through the gate, cut a passage through the musketeers in the suburb, galloped up the hill, and fell upon the infantry and artillery in the battery. So furious was their charge that the greater part of the defenders of the battery were cut down. The guns were spiked, and the cavalry, having accomplished their purpose, charged down the hill, cut their way through the suburb, and regained the town.

This gallant exploit deranged the plans of the Swedes. Gustavus reconnoitred the town accompanied by Sir John Hepburn, and by the advice of that officer decided upon a fresh plan of operations. Hepburn pointed out to him that by taking possession of the angle formed by the confluence of the Wermitz and Danube to the west of the town the bridge crossing from Donauworth into Bavaria would be completely commanded, and the garrison would be cut off from all hope of escape and of receiving relief from Bavaria.

The plan being approved, Hepburn drew off his brigade with its artillery, and marching five miles up the Danube crossed the river at the bridge of Hassfurt, and descended the opposite bank until he faced Donauworth. He reached his position at midnight, and placed his cannon so as to command the whole length of the bridge, and then posted his musketeers in the gardens and houses of a suburb on the river, so that their crossfire also swept it.

The pikemen were drawn up close to the artillery at the head of the bridge. Quietly as these movements were performed the garrison took the alarm, and towards morning the duke, finding his retreat intercepted, sallied out at the head of eight hundred musketeers to cut his way through; but as the column advanced upon the bridge the Green Brigade opened fire, the leaden hail of their musketeers smote the column on both sides, while the cannon ploughed lanes through it from end to end. So great was the destruction that the Bavarians retreated in confusion back into the town again, leaving the bridge strewn with their dead.

Alone the gallant Duke of Saxe-Lauenburg charged through the hail of fire across the bridge, fell upon the pikemen sword in hand, and cutting his way through them rode away, leaving his garrison to their fate. The roar of artillery informed Gustavus what was going on, and he immediately opened fire against the other side of the town and led his men to the assault of the gate.

The instant the Scotch had recovered from their surprise at the desperate feat performed by the duke, Hepburn, calling them together, placed himself at their head and led them across the bridge. The panic stricken fugitives had omitted to close the gate, and the Scotch at once entered the town. Here the garrison resisted desperately; their pikemen barred the streets, and from every window and roof their musketeers poured their fire upon the advancing column.

The day was breaking now, and the roar of battle in the city mingled with that at the gates, where the Swedes were in vain striving to effect an entrance. Gradually the Scotch won their way forward; 500 of the Bavarians were killed, in addition to 400 who had fallen on the bridge. The rest now attempted to fly. Great numbers were drowned in the Danube, and the remainder were taken prisoners. The streets were encumbered by the heavily laden baggage wagons, and a vast amount of booty fell into the hands of the Scotch, who thus became masters of the town before Gustavus and his Swedes had succeeded in carrying the gate.

The king now entered the town, and as soon as order was restored Hepburn's brigade recrossed the Danube and threw up a strong work on the other side of the bridge; for Tilly was on the Lech, but seven miles distant, and might at any moment return. He had just struck a severe blow at Marshal Horn, who had recently taken Bamberg. His force, 9000 strong, had been scattered to put down a rising of the country people, when Tilly with 16,000 fell upon them.

A column under Bauditzen was attacked and defeated, and Tilly's horsemen pursued them hotly to the bridge leading to the town. Marshal Horn threw a barricade across this and defended it until nightfall. Tilly had then fallen back before the advance of Gustavus to a very strong position on the Lech. This was an extremely rapid river, difficult to cross and easily defensible. Tilly had broken down the bridges, and was prepared to dispute till the last the further advance of the Swedes. He placed his army between Rain, where the Lech falls into the Danube, and Augsburg, a distance of sixteen miles -- all the assailable points being strongly occupied, with small bodies of cavalry in the intervals to give warning of the approach of the enemy. He had been joined by Maximilian of Bavaria, and his force amounted to 40,000 men.

Gustavus gave his army four days' rest at Donauworth, and then advanced with 32,000 men against the Lech. His dragoons, who had been pushed forward, had found the bridges destroyed. He first attempted to repair that at Rain, but the fire of the artillery and musketry was so heavy that he was forced to abandon the idea. He then made a careful reconnaissance of the river, whose course was winding and erratic.

Finding that at every point at which a crossing could be easily effected Tilly's batteries and troops commanded the position, he determined to make his attack at a point where the river made a sharp bend in the form of a semicircle, of which he occupied the outer edge. He encamped the bulk of his army at the village of Nordheim, a short distance in the rear, and erected three powerful batteries mounting seventy-two guns. One of these faced the centre of the loop, the others were placed opposite the sides.

The ground on the Swedish bank of the river was higher than that facing it; and when the Swedish batteries opened they so completely swept the ground inclosed by the curve of the river that the Imperialists could not advance across it, and were compelled to remain behind a rivulet called the Ach, a short distance in the rear of the Lech. They brought up their artillery, however, and replied to the cannonade of the Swedes.

For four days the artillery duel continued, and while it was going on a considerable number of troops were at work in the village of Oberndorf, which lay in a declivity near the river, hidden from the sight of the Imperialists, constructing a bridge. For that purpose a number of strong wooden trestles of various heights and with feet of unequal length for standing in the bed of the river were prepared, together with a quantity of piles to be driven in among and beside them to enable them to resist the force of the current.

On the night of the fourth day the king caused a number of fires to be lighted near the river, fed with green wood and damp straw. A favourable wind blew the smoke towards the enemy, and thus concealed the ground from them. At daybreak on the 5th of April, a thousand picked men crossed the river in two boats, and having reached the other side at once proceeded to throw up intrenchments to cover the head of the bridge, while at the same time the workmen began to place the trestles in position.

As soon as day broke Tilly became aware of what was being done, and two batteries opened fire upon the work at the head of the bridge and against the bridge itself; but the low and swampy nature of the ground on the Imperialist side of the river prevented his placing the batteries in a position from which they could command the works, and their fire proved ineffective in preventing the construction of the bridge. Seeing this, Tilly at once commenced preparations for arresting the further advance of the Swedes.

To reach his position they would be obliged to cross the swampy ground exposed to the fire of his troops, and to render their progress still more difficult he proceeded to cut down large trees, lopping and sharpening their branches to form a chevaux-de-frise before his troops. All the morning a heavy cannonade was kept up on both sides, but by noon the bridge was completed and the advance guard of the Swedes, led by Colonels Wrandel and Gassion, advanced across it. As the other brigades were following, Tilly directed General Altringer to lead his cavalry against them.

Altringer led his troops round the end of the marsh and charged with great bravery down upon the Swedes. These, however, had time to form up, and a tremendous fire of musketry was poured into the Imperialist horse, while the round shot from the three Swedish batteries ploughed their ranks in front and on both flanks. Under such circumstances, although fighting with reckless bravery, the Imperialist cavalry were repulsed. Altringer, however, rallied them and led them back again to the charge, but a cannonball grazed his temple and he was carried senseless from the field. His men, shaken by the tremendous fire and deprived of their leader, fell back in confusion.

Tilly at once placed himself at the head of a chosen body of troops and advanced to the attack, fighting with the ardour and bravery which always distinguished him. He was short in stature and remarkable for his ugliness as well as his bravery. Lean and spare in figure, he had hollow cheeks, a long nose, a broad wrinkled forehead, heavy moustaches, and a sharp pointed chin. He had from his boyhood been fighting against the Protestants. He had learned the art of war under the cruel and pitiless Spanish general Alva in the Netherlands, of which country he was a native, and had afterwards fought against them in Bavaria, in Bohemia, and the Palatinate, and had served in Hungary against the Turks.

Until he met Gustavus at Breitenfeld he had never known a reverse. A bigoted Catholic, he had never hesitated at any act of cruelty which might benefit the cause for which he fought, or strike terror into the Protestants; and the singularity of his costume and the ugliness of his appearance heightened the terror which his deeds inspired among them. When not in armour his costume was modelled upon that of the Duke of Alva, consisting of a slashed doublet of green silk, with an enormously wide-brimmed and high conical hat adorned with a large red ostrich feather. In his girdle he carried a long dagger and a Toledo sword of immense length. His personal bravery was famous, and never did he fight more gallantly than when he led his veterans to the attack of the Swedes.

For twenty minutes a furious hand to hand conflict raged, and the result was still uncertain when a shot from a falconet struck Tilly on the knee and shattered the bone, and the old general fell insensible to the ground. He was carried off the field, and his troops, now without a leader, gave way, the movement being hastened by two bodies of Swedish horse, who, eager for action, swam their horses across the river and threatened to cut off the retreat. By this time evening was at hand. The Swedes had secured the passage of the river, but the Imperialist army still held its intrenched position in the wood behind the Lech. Gustavus brought the rest of his army across and halted for the night.

The Imperialist position was tremendously strong, being unassailable on the right and covered in the front by the marshy ground. It could still have been defended with every prospect of success by a determined general, but the two best Imperialist commanders were hors de combat, and Maximilian of Bavaria, the nominal generalissimo, had no military experience. The army, too, was disheartened by the first success of the Swedes and by the loss of the general whom they regarded as well nigh invincible.

Tilly had now recovered his senses, but was suffering intense agony from his wound, and on being consulted by Maximilian he advised him to fall back, as the destruction of his army would leave the whole country open to the Swedes.

The Imperialists accordingly evacuated their position and fell back in good order during the night on Neuberg, and then to Ingolstadt. Rain and Neuberg were occupied the next day by the Swedes. Gustavus despatched Marshal Horn to follow the retreating enemy to Ingolstadt, and he himself with the rest of his army marched up the Lech to Augsburg, which was held by Colonel Breda with four thousand five hundred men.

The Imperialists had broken down the bridge, but Gustavus immediately built two others, one above and the other below the city, and summoned it to surrender. Breda, hearing that Tilly was dying, Altringer severely wounded, and that no help was to be expected from Maximilian, considered it hopeless to resist, and surrendered the town, which Gustavus, attended by the titular King of Bohemia and many other princes, entered in triumph on the following day, April 14th. The capture of Augsburg was hailed with peculiar satisfaction, as the city was regarded as the birthplace of the Reformation in Germany. Leaving a garrison there the king retraced his steps along the Lech to Neuberg, and marched thence to join Marshal Horn in front of Ingolstadt.

This town was one of the strongest places in Germany and had never been captured. It was now held by a formidable garrison, and the Imperialist army covered it on the north. Tilly had implored Maximilian to defend it and Ratisbon at all hazards, as their possession was a bar to the further advance of Gustavus.

The king arrived before it on the 19th, and on the following day advanced to reconnoitre it closely. The gunners of the town, seeing a number of officers approaching, fired, and with so good an aim that a cannonball carried off the hindquarters of the horse the king was riding. A cry of alarm and consternation burst from the officers, but their delight was great when the king rose to his feet, covered with dust and blood indeed, but otherwise unhurt.

On the following day a cannonball carried off the head of the Margrave of Baden-Durlach, and on the same day Tilly expired. With his last breath he urged Maximilian never to break his alliance with the emperor, and to appoint Colonel Cratz, an officer of great courage and ability, to the command of his army.

Gustavus remained eight days before Ingolstadt, and then, finding that the reduction of the place could not be effected without the loss of much valuable time, he raised the siege. On his march he took possession of Landshut and forced it to pay a ransom of 100,000 thalers and to receive a garrison, and then continued his way to Munich.

The Bavarian capital surrendered without a blow on the 17th of May. Gustavus made a triumphal entry into the town, where he obtained possession of a vast quantity of treasure and stores. Here he remained some little time reducing the country round and capturing many cities and fortresses. The Green Brigade had suffered severely at Ingolstadt. On the evening of the 19th of April the king, expecting a sally, had ordered Hepburn to post the brigade on some high ground near the gate and the soldiers remained under arms the whole night.

The glow of their matches enabled the enemy to fire with precision, and a heavy cannonade was poured upon them throughout the whole night. Three hundred men were killed as they stood, Munro losing twelve men by one shot; but the brigade stood their ground unflinchingly, and remained until morning in steady line in readiness to repel any sortie of the enemy.

The army suffered greatly on the march from the Lech to Ingolstadt, and thence to Munich, from the attacks of the country people, who were excited against them by the priests. Every straggler who fell into their hands was murdered with horrible cruelty, the hands and feet being cut off, and other savage mutilations being performed upon them, in revenge for which the Swedes and Scots shot all the Bavarians who fell into their hands, and burned two hundred towns and villages.



Chapter XIII Captured By The Peasants


Malcolm Graheme was not present at the siege of Ingolstadt. The orders after crossing the Lech had been very strict against straggling, so soon as the disposition of the country people was seen; but it is not easy to keep a large column of troops in a solid body. The regiments in the march indeed, under the eye of the officers, can be kept in column, but a considerable number of troops are scattered along the great convoy of wagons containing the tents, stores, and ammunition of the army, and which often extends some miles in length. Even if the desire for plunder does not draw men away, many are forced to fall behind either from sickness, sore feet, or other causes.

The number of these was comparatively small in the army of Gustavus, for discipline was strict and the spirit of the troops good. As soon, however, as it was found that every straggler who fell into the hands of the peasantry was murdered under circumstances of horrible atrocity it became very difficult for the officers to keep the men together, so intense was their fury and desire for vengeance against the savage peasantry, and on every possible occasion when a village was seen near the line of march men would slip away and slay, plunder, and burn.

Gustavus endeavoured to repress these proceedings. He shared the indignation of his troops at the barbarous conduct of the peasantry, but throughout the war he always tried to carry on hostilities so as to inflict as little loss and suffering as possible upon noncombatants. This state of warfare too between his troops and the country people added to his difficulties, for the peasantry drove off their cattle and burned their stacks, and rendered it necessary for provisions and forage to be carried with the army. Parties were therefore sent out on the flanks of the column for the double purpose of preventing soldiers stealing off to plunder and burn, and of picking up stragglers and saving them from the fury of the peasants.

A strong rear guard followed a short distance behind the army. It was accompanied by some empty wagons, in which those who fell out and were unable to keep up with the march were placed. Two days after the advance from the Lech, Malcolm was in charge of a small party on the right flank of the column. There was no fear of an attack from the enemy, for the Swedish horsemen were out scouring the country, and the Imperialists were known to have fallen back to Ingolstadt. The villages were found deserted by the male inhabitants, the younger women too had all left, but a few old crones generally remained in charge. These scowled at the invaders, and crossing themselves muttered curses beneath their breath upon those whom their priests had taught them to regard as devils. There was nothing to tempt the cupidity of the soldiers in these villages. Malcolm's duty was confined to a casual inspection, to see that no stragglers had entered for the purpose of procuring wine.

The day's march was nearly over when he saw some flames rise from a village a short distance away. Hurrying forward with his men he found a party of ten of the Swedish soldiers who had stolen away from the baggage guard engaged in plundering. Two peasants lay dead in the street, and a house was in flames.

Malcolm at once ordered his detachment, who were twenty strong, to arrest the Swedes and to march them back to the columns. While they were doing this he went from house to house to see that none of the party were lurking there. At the door of the last house of the village three women were standing.

"Are any of the soldiers here?" he asked.

The women gave him an unintelligible answer in the country patois, and passing between them he entered the cottage. On the table stood a large jug of water, and lifting it he took a long draught. There was a sudden crash, and he fell heavily, struck down from behind with a heavy mallet by one of the women. He was stunned by the blow, and when he recovered his senses he found that he was bound hand and foot, a cloth had been stuffed tightly into his mouth, and he was covered thickly with a heap of straw and rubbish. He struggled desperately to free himself, but so tightly were the cords bound that they did not give in the slightest.

A cold perspiration broke out on his forehead as he reflected that he was helpless in the power of these savage peasants, and that he should probably be put to death by torture. Presently he could hear the shouts of his men, who, on finding that he did not return, had scattered through the village in search of him. He heard the voice of his sergeant.

"These old hags say they saw an officer walk across to the left. The captain may have meant us to march the prisoners at once to the column, and be waiting just outside the village for us, but it is not likely. At any rate, lads, we will search every house from top to bottom before we leave. So set to work at once; search every room, cupboard, and shed. There may be foul play; though we see no men about, some may be in hiding."

Malcolm heard the sound of footsteps, and the crashing of planks as the men searched the cottages, wrenched off the doors of cupboards, and ransacked the whole place. Gradually the sound ceased, and everything became quiet. Presently he heard the sound of drums, and knew that the regiment which formed the rear guard was passing.

It was bitterness indeed to know that his friends were within sound of a call for aid, and that he was bound and helpless. The halting place for the night was, he knew, but a mile or two in advance, and his only hope was that some band of plunderers might in the night visit the village; but even then his chances of being discovered were small indeed, for even should they sack and burn it he would pass unnoticed lying hidden in the straw yard. His captors were no doubt aware of the possibility of such a visit, for it was not until broad daylight, when the army would again be on its forward march, that they uncovered him.

Brave as Malcolm was he could scarce repress a shudder as he looked at the band of women who surrounded him. All were past middle age, some were old and toothless, but all were animated by a spirit of ferocious triumph. Raising him into a sitting position, they clustered round him, some shook their skinny hands in his face, others heaped curses upon him, some of the most furious assailed him with heavy sticks, and had he not still been clothed in his armour, would then and there have killed him.

This, however, was not their intention, for they intended to put him to death by slow torture. He was lifted and carried into the cottage. There the lacings of his armour were cut, the cords loosened one by one, sufficient to enable them to remove the various pieces of which it was composed, then he was left to himself, as the hags intended to postpone the final tragedy until the men returned from the hills.

This might be some hours yet, as the Swedish cavalry would still be scouring the country, and other bodies of troops might be marching up. From the conversation of the women, which he understood but imperfectly, Malcolm gathered that they thought the men would return that night. Some of the women were in favour of executing the vengeance themselves, but the majority were of opinion that the men should have their share of the pleasure.

All sorts of fiendish propositions were made as to the manner in which his execution should be carried out, but even the mildest caused Malcolm to shudder in anticipation. His arms were bound tightly to his side at the elbows, and the wrists were fastened in front of him, his legs were tied at the knees and ankles. Sometimes he was left alone as the women went about their various avocations in the village, but he was so securely bound that to him as to them his escape appeared altogether impossible. The day passed heavily and slowly. The cloth had been removed from his mouth, but he was parched with thirst, while the tightly bound cords cut deeply into his flesh.

He had once asked for water, but his request had been answered with such jeers and mockery that he resolved to suffer silently until the last. At length the darkness of the winter evening began to fall when a thought suddenly struck him. On the hearth a fire was burning; he waited until the women had again left the hut. He could hear their voices without as they talked with those in the next cottage. They might at any moment return, and it was improbable that they would again go out, for the cold was bitter, and they would most likely wait indoors for the return of the men.

This then was his last opportunity. He rolled himself to the fire, and with his teeth seized the end of one of the burning sticks. He raised himself into a sitting position, and with the greatest difficulty laid the burning end of the stick across the cords which bound his wrists. It seemed to him that they would never catch fire. The flesh scorched and frizzled, and the smoke rose up with that of the burning rope. The agony was intense, but it was for life, and Malcolm unflinchingly held the burning brand in its place until the cords flew asunder and his hands were free. Although almost mad with the pain, Malcolm set to work instantly to undo the other ropes. As soon as one of his arms was free he seized a hatchet, which lay near him, and rapidly cut the rest. He was not a moment too soon, for as he cut the last knot he heard the sound of steps, and two women appeared at the door.

On seeing their prisoner standing erect with an axe in his hand they turned and fled shrieking loudly. It was well for Malcolm that they did so, for so stiff and numbed were his limbs that he could scarcely hold the axe, and the slightest push would have thrown him to the ground.

Some minutes passed before, by stamping his feet and rubbing his legs he restored circulation sufficiently to totter across the room. Then he seized a brand and thrust it into the thatch of the house, having first put on his helmet and placed his sword and pistols in his belt. His hands were too crippled and powerless to enable him to fasten on the rest of his armour. He knew that he had no time to lose. Fortunately the women would not know how weak and helpless he was, for had they returned in a body they could easily have overpowered him; but at any moment the men might arrive, and if he was found there by them his fate was sealed.

Accordingly as soon as he had fired the hut he made his way from the village as quickly as he could crawl along. He saw behind him the flames rising higher and higher. The wind was blowing keenly, and the fire spread rapidly from house to house, and by the time he reached the road along which the army had travelled the whole village was in flames. He felt that he could not travel far, for the intense sufferings which he had endured for twenty-four hours without food or water had exhausted his strength.

His limbs were swollen and bruised from the tightness of the cords, the agony of his burned wrists was terrible, and after proceeding slowly for about a mile he drew off from the broad trampled track which the army had made in passing, and dragging himself to a clump of trees a short distance from the road, made his way through some thick undergrowth and flung himself down. The night was intensely cold, but this was a relief to him rather than otherwise, for it alleviated the burning pain of his limbs while he kept handfuls of snow applied to his wrists.

Two hours after he had taken refuge he heard a number of men come along the road at a run. Looking through the bushes he could see by their figures against the snow that they were peasants, and had no doubt that they were the men of the village who had returned and at once started in pursuit of him.

An hour later, feeling somewhat relieved, he left his hiding place and moved a mile away from the road, as he feared that the peasants, failing to overtake him, might, as they returned, search every possible hiding place near it. He had no fear of the track being noticed, for the surface of the snow was everywhere marked by parties going and returning to the main body. He kept on until he saw a small shed. The door was unfastened; opening it he found that the place was empty, though there were signs that it was usually used as a shelter for cattle.

A rough ladder led to a loft. This was nearly full of hay. Malcolm threw himself down on this, and covering himself up thickly, felt the blood again begin to circulate in his limbs. It brought, however, such a renewal of his pain, that it was not until morning that fatigue overpowered his sufferings and he fell asleep.

It was late in the afternoon when he woke at the sound of shouts and holloaing. Springing to his feet he looked out between the cracks in the boards and saw a party of forty or fifty peasants passing close by the shed. They were armed with hatchets, scythes, and pikes. On the heads of four of the pikes were stuck gory heads, and in the centre of the party were three prisoners, two Swedes and a Scot. These were covered with blood, and were scarcely able to walk, but were being urged forward with blows and pike thrusts amid the brutal laughter of their captors.

Malcolm retired to his bed full of rage and sorrow. It would have been madness to have followed his first impulse to sally out sword in hand and fall upon the ruffians, as such a step would only have ensured his own death without assisting the captives.

"Hitherto," he said to himself, "I have ever restrained my men, and have endeavoured to protect the peasants from violence; henceforward, so long as we remain in Bavaria, no word of mine shall be uttered to save one of these murderous peasants. However, I am not with my company yet. The army is two marches ahead, and must by this time be in front of Ingolstadt. I have been two days without food, and see but little chance of getting any until I rejoin them, and the whole country between us is swarming with an infuriated peasantry. The prospect is certainly not a bright one. I would give a year's pay to hear the sound of a Swedish trumpet."

When darkness had fairly set in Malcolm started on his way again. Although his limbs still smarted from the weals and sores left by the cords they had now recovered their lissomeness; but he was weak from want of food, and no longer walked with the free elastic stride which distinguished the Scottish infantry. His wrists gave him great pain, being both terribly burned, and every movement of the hand sent a thrill of agony up the arm. He persisted, however, in frequently opening and clenching his hands, regardless of the pain, for he feared that did he not do so they would stiffen and he would be unable to grasp a sword. Fortunately the wounds were principally on the upper side of the thumbs, where the flesh was burned away to the bone, but the sinews and muscles of the wrists had to a great extent escaped.

He had not journeyed very far when he saw a light ahead and presently perceived the houses of a village. A fire was lit in the centre, and a number of figures were gathered round it.

"Something is going on," Malcolm said to himself; "as likely as not they have got some unfortunate prisoner. Whatever it be, I will steal in and try to get some food. I cannot go much further without it; and as their attention is occupied, I may find a cottage empty."

Making his way round to the back of the houses, he approached one of the cottages in the rear. He lifted the latch of the door and opened it a little. All was still. With his drawn sword he entered. The room was empty; a fire burned on the hearth, and on the table were some loaves which had evidently been just baked. Malcolm fell upon one of them and speedily devoured it, and, taking a long draught of rough country wine from a skin hanging against the wall, he felt another man.

He broke another loaf in two and thrust the pieces into his doublet, and then sallied out from the cottage again. Still keeping behind the houses he made his way until he got within view of the fire. Here he saw a sight which thrilled him with horror. Some eight or ten peasants and forty or fifty women were yelling and shouting. Fastened against a post in front of the fire were the remains of a prisoner. He had been stripped, his ears, nose, hands, and feet cut off, and he was slowly bleeding to death.

Four other men, bound hand and foot, lay close to the fire. By its flames Malcolm saw the green scarves that told they were Scotchmen of his own brigade, and he determined at once to rescue them or die in the attempt. He crept forward until he reached the edge of the road; then he raised a pistol and with a steady aim fired at one of the natives, who fell dead across the fire.

Another shot laid another beside him before the peasants recovered from their first surprise. Then with a loud shout in German, "Kill -- kill! and spare none!" Malcolm dashed forward. The peasants, believing that they were attacked by a strong body, fled precipitately in all directions. Malcolm, on reaching the prisoners, instantly severed their bonds.

"Quick, my lads!" he exclaimed; "we shall have them upon us again in a minute."

The men in vain tried to struggle to their feet -- their limbs were too numbed to bear them.

"Crawl to the nearest cottage!" Malcolm exclaimed; "we can hold it until your limbs are recovered."

He caught up from the ground some pikes and scythes which the peasants had dropped in their flight, and aided the men to make their way to the nearest cottage. They were but just in time; for the peasants, finding they were not pursued, had looked round, and seeing but one opponent had gained courage and were beginning to approach again. Malcolm barred the door, and then taking down a skin of wine bade his companions take a drink. There were loaves on the shelves, and these he cut up and handed to them.

"Quick, lads!" he said; "stamp your legs and swing your arms, and get the blood in motion. I will keep these fellows at bay a few minutes longer."

He reloaded his pistols and fired through the door, at which the peasants were now hewing with axes. A cry and a heavy fall told him that one of the shots had taken effect. Suddenly there was a smell of smoke.

"They have fired the roof," Malcolm said. "Now, lads, each of you put a loaf of bread under his jerkin. There is no saying when we may get more. Now get ready and sally out with me. There are but six or eight men in the village, and they are no match for us. They only dared to attack us because they saw that you couldn't walk."

The door was opened, and headed by Malcolm the four Scotchmen dashed out. They were assailed by a shower of missiles by the crowd as they appeared, but as soon as it was seen that the men were on foot again the peasants gave way. Malcolm shot one and cut down another, and the rest scattered in all directions.

"Now, lads, follow me while we may," and Malcolm again took to the fields. The peasants followed for some distance, but when the soldiers had quite recovered the use of their limbs Malcolm suddenly turned on his pursuers, overtaking and killing two of them. Then he and his men again continued their journey, the peasants no longer following. When at some distance from the village he said:

"We must turn and make for the Lech again. It is no farther than it is to Ingolstadt, and we shall find friends there. These peasants will go on ahead and raise all the villagers against us, and we should never get through. What regiment do you belong to, lads?" for in the darkness he had been unable to see their faces.

"Your own, Captain Graheme. We were in charge of one of the wagons with sick. The wheel came off, and we were left behind the convoy while we were mending it. As we were at work, our weapons laid on the ground, some twenty men sprang out from some bushes hard by and fell upon us. We killed five or six of them, but were beaten down and ten of our number were slain. They murdered all the sick in the wagons and marched us away, bound, to this village where you found us. Sandy McAlister they had murdered just as you came up, and we should have had a like horrible fate had you been a few minutes later. Eh, sir! but it's an awful death to be cut in pieces by these devils incarnate!"

"Well, lads," Malcolm said, "we will determine that they shall not take us alive again. If we are overtaken or met by any of these gangs of peasants we will fight till we die. None of us, I hope, are afraid of death in fair strife, but the bravest might well shrink from such a death as that of your poor comrade. Now let us see what arms we have between us."

Malcolm had his sword and pistols, two of the men had pikes, the other two scythes fastened to long handles.

"These are clumsy weapons," Malcolm said. "You had best fit short handles to them, so as to make them into double handed swords."

They were unable to travel far, for all were exhausted with the sufferings they had gone through, but they kept on until they came upon a village which had been fired when the troops marched through. The walls of a little church were alone standing. It had, like the rest of the village, been burned, but the shell still remained.

"So far as I can see," Malcolm said, "the tower has escaped. Had it been burned we should see through the windows. We may find shelter in the belfry."

On reaching the church they found that the entrance to the belfry tower was outside the church, and to this, no doubt, it owed its escape from the fire which had destroyed the main edifice. The door was strong and defied their efforts to break it in.

"I must fire my pistol through the lock," Malcolm said. "I do not like doing so, for the sound may reach the ears of any peasants in the neighbourhood; but we must risk it, for the cold is extreme, and to lie down in the snow would be well nigh certain death."

He placed his pistol to the keyhole and fired. The lock at once yielded and the party entered the door.

"Before we mount," Malcolm said, "let each pick up one of these blocks of stone which have fallen from the wall. We will wedge the door from behind, and can then sleep secure against a surprise."

When the door was closed one of the men, who was a musketeer, struck some sparks from a flint and steel on to a slow match which he carried in his jerkin, and by its glow they were enabled to look around them. The stone steps began to ascend close to the door, and by laying the stones between the bottom step and the door they wedged the latter firmly in its place. They then ascended the stairs, and found themselves in a room some ten feet square, in which hung the bell which had called the village to prayers. It hung from some beams which were covered with a boarded floor, and a rough ladder led to a trapdoor, showing that there was another room above. The floor of the room in which they stood was of stone.

"Now, lads," Malcolm said, "two of you make your way up that ladder and rip up some of the planks of the flooring. See if there are any windows or loopholes in the chamber above, and if so stuff your jerkins into them; we will close up those here. In a few minutes we will have a roaring fire; but we must beware lest a gleam of light be visible without, for this belfry can be seen for miles round."

Some of the boards were soon split up into fragments; but before the light was applied to them Malcolm carefully examined each window and loophole to be sure that they were perfectly stopped. Then the slow match was placed in the centre of a number of pieces of dry and rotten wood. One of the men kneeling down blew lustily, and in a few seconds a flame sprang up. The wood was now heaped on, and a bright fire was soon blazing high.

A trapdoor leading out on to the flat top of the tower was opened for the escape of the smoke, and the party then seated themselves round the fire, under whose genial warmth their spirits speedily rose. They now took from their wallets the bread which they had brought away with them.

"If we had," one of the soldiers said, "but a few flasks of Rhine wine with us we need not envy a king."

"No," Malcolm replied, "we are better off at present than our comrades who are sleeping in the snow round the watchfires; but for all that I would that we were with them, for we have a long and dangerous march before us. And now, lads, you can sleep soundly. There will be no occasion to place a watch, for the door is securely fastened; but at the first dawn of light we must be on our feet; for although I do not mean to march until nightfall, we must remove the stoppings from the windows, for should the eye of any passing peasant fall upon them, he will guess at once that some one is sheltering here, and may proceed to find out whether it be friend or foe."

Having finished half their bread, for Malcolm had warned them to save the other half for the next day, the men lay down round the fire, and soon all were sound asleep.



Chapter XIV In The Churchtower


Malcolm was the first to awake, and was vexed to find by a stream of light pouring down through the half open trapdoor above that it was broad day. He roused the men, and the stoppings were at once removed from the loopholes. The sun was already high, for the party, overpowered with fatigue, had slept long and soundly.

Malcolm looked cautiously from the window; no one was in sight, and the ruins of the village below lay black and deserted. The men resumed the clothes which had been used for blocking the loopholes, and sat down to pass the long hours which would elapse before the time for action arrived. It was exceedingly cold, for there were loopholes on each side of the chamber, and the wind blew keenly through.

"Sergeant," Malcolm said, "we will risk a bit of fire again, for the cold pierces to the bone; only be sure that you use perfectly dry wood. Examine each piece to see that no drip from the roof has penetrated it. If it is dry it will give but little smoke, and a slight vapour is not likely to be observed rising from the top of the tower."

The fire was again lighted, and the smoke was so slight that Malcolm had little fear of its being observed.

An hour later, as the men were talking, Malcolm suddenly held up his hand for silence, and the murmur of voices was heard without. Malcolm rose to his feet to reconnoitre, standing far back from the loophole as he did so. A group of some eight or ten peasants were standing looking at the tower, while a woman was pointing to it and talking eagerly.

It was towards the windows that she was pointing, and Malcolm guessed at once that, having returned in the early morning to see what remained of her home, she had happened to notice the garments stuffed in the windows, and had carried the news to some of her companions. Malcolm regretted bitterly now that he had not set a watch, so that at the first gleam of daylight the windows might have been unblocked; but it was now too late.

"We shall have to fight for it, lads," he said, turning round. "Our clothes must have been seen early this morning, and there is a party of peasants watching the tower. Of course they cannot know at present whether we are friends or foes; but no doubt the news of last evening's doings has travelled through the country, and the peasants are on the lookout for us, so they may well guess that we are here. However, we shall soon see. Sergeant, place one of your men on sentry at the foot of the stairs, but do not let him speak or give any signs of his presence if the door is tried."

One of the soldiers was placed on guard. Scarcely had he taken his station when there was a knocking at the door, and shouts were heard outside from the peasants calling on those within, if they were friends, to come out. No answer was returned.

"It's fortunate for you," Malcolm muttered, "that we don't come out, or we should make short work of you; but I know you would fly like hares if you saw us, and would bring the whole country down on us. No; we must hold out here. Our only hope is to escape at night, or to hold this place till some of our troops come along. At any moment some regiments from the Lech may be marching forward to join the king.

"We must make our bread last, lads," he said cheerfully to the men, "for we may have to stand a long siege. Methinks we can hold this stone staircase against all the peasants of this part of Bavaria; and we must do so until we hear the sound of the Swedish drums; they may come along at any time. If the worst comes to the worst one of us must start at night and carry news of our peril to the Lech. We made a good supper last night, and can fast for a bit. If we cut our bread up into small portions we can hold out for days. There should be snow enough on the tower top to furnish us with drink."

After hammering at the door for some time, the peasants retired convinced that there were none of their own people within the tower, and that those who had slept there were the fugitives of whom they had been in search during the night. These might, indeed, have departed in the interval between the time when the woman first saw the traces of their presence and her return with them; but they did not think that this was so, for in that case they could not have fastened the door behind them. The peasants accordingly withdrew a short distance from the church, and three of their number were sent off in different directions to bring up reinforcements. As soon as Malcolm saw this movement he knew that concealment was useless, and began to make preparations for the defence. First, he with the sergeant ascended to the roof of the tower. To his disappointment he saw that the heat of the flames had melted the snow, and that most of the water had run away. Some, however, stood in the hollows and inequalities of the stone platform, where it had again frozen into ice.

As the supply would be very precious, Malcolm directed that before any moved about on the platform every piece of ice should be carefully taken up and carried below. Here it was melted over the fire in one of the iron caps, and was found to furnish three quarts of water. The appearance of Malcolm and his companion on the tower had been hailed by a shout of hatred and exultation by the peasants; but the defenders had paid no attention to the demonstration, and had continued their work as if regardless of the presence of their enemies.

On his return to the platform Malcolm found, looking over the low parapet, that on the side farthest from the church great icicles hung down from the mouth of the gutter, the water having frozen again as it trickled from the platform. These icicles were three or four inches in diameter and many feet in length. They were carefully broken off, and were laid down on the platform where they would remain frozen until wanted. Malcolm now felt secure against the attacks of thirst for some days to come. The stones of the parapet were next tried, and were without much trouble moved from their places, and were all carried to the side in which the door was situated, in readiness to hurl down upon any who might assault it. Some of the beams of the upper flooring were removed from their places, and being carried down, were wedged against the upper part of the door, securing it as firmly as did the stones below. These preparations being finished, Malcolm took a survey of the situation outside.

The group of peasants had increased largely, some thirty or forty men armed with pikes, bills, and scythes being gathered in a body, while many more could be seen across the country hurrying over the white plain towards the spot. The windows of the lower apartment had been barricaded with planks, partly to keep out missiles, partly for warmth. A good fire now blazed in the centre, and the soldiers, confident in themselves and their leader, cracked grim jokes as, their work being finished, they sat down around it and awaited the attack, one of their number being placed on the summit of the tower to give warning of the approach of the enemy.

"I would that we had a musket or two," Malcolm said; "for we might then keep them from the door. I have only some twenty charges for my pistols, and the most of these, at any rate, I must keep for the defence of the stairs."

Presently the sentry from above called out that the peasants were moving forward to the attack.

"Sergeant," Malcolm said, "do you fasten my green scarf to a long strip of plank and fix it to the top of the tower. We cannot fight under a better banner. Now let us mount to the roof and give them a warm reception."

"Look out, sir," the sentry exclaimed as Malcolm ascended the stair, "three or four of them have got muskets."

"Then we must be careful," Malcolm said. "I don't suppose they are much of marksmen, but even a random shot will tell at times, and I want to take you all back safe with me; so keep low when you get on the roof, lads, and don't show your heads more than you can help."

Heralding their attack by a discharge from their muskets, whose balls whistled harmlessly round the tower, the peasants rushed forward to the door and commenced an assault upon it with hatchets and axes.

Malcolm and his men each lifted a heavy stone and rolled it over the parapet, the five loosing the missiles simultaneously. There was a dull crash, and with a terrible cry the peasants fled from the door. Looking over, Malcolm saw that six or seven men had been struck down. Five of these lay dead or senseless; two were endeavouring to drag themselves away.

"That is lesson number one," he said. "They will be more prudent next time."

The peasants, after holding a tumultuous council, scattered, most of them making for a wood a short distance off.

"They are going to cut down a tree and use it as a battering ram," Malcolm observed. "They know that these large stones are too heavy for us to cast many paces from the foot of the wall. We must get to work and break some of them up. That will not be difficult, for the wind and weather have rotted many of them half through."

The stones were for the most part from two to three feet long and nine or ten inches square. Two were laid down on the platform some eighteen inches apart and another placed across them. The four men then lifted another stone, and holding it perpendicularly brought it down with all their strength upon the unsupported centre of the stone, which broke in half at once. To break it again required greater efforts, but it yielded to the blows. Other stones were similarly treated, until a large pile was formed of blocks of some ten inches each way, besides a number of smaller fragments.

In half an hour the peasants reappeared with a slight well grown tree some forty feet long which had been robbed of its branches. It was laid down about fifty yards from the church, and then twenty men lifted it near the butt and advanced to use it as a battering ram, with the small end forward; but before they were near enough to touch the door the bearers were arrested by a cry from the crowd as the defenders appeared on the tower, and poising their blocks of stone above their heads, hurled them down. Three of them flew over the heads of the peasants, but the others crashed down among them, slaying and terribly mutilating two of the bearers of the tree and striking several others to the ground. The battering ram was instantly dropped, and before the Scotchmen had time to lift another missile the peasants were beyond their reach.

"Lesson number two," Malcolm said. "What will our friends do next, I wonder?"

The peasants were clearly at a loss. A long consultation was held, but this was not followed by any renewal of the attack.

"I think they must have made up their minds to starve us out, sir," the sergeant remarked as the hours went slowly by without any renewal of the attack.

"Yes; either that, sergeant, or a night attack. In either case I consider that we are safe for a time, but sooner or later our fate is sealed unless aid comes to us, and therefore I propose that one of you should tonight try and bear a message to the Lech. We can lower him down by the bell rope from this window in the angle where the tower touches the church. Keeping round by the church he will be in deep shadow until he reaches the other end, and will then be close to the ruins of the village. Before morning he could reach our camp."

"I will undertake it myself, sir, if you will allow me," the sergeant said, while the other men also volunteered for the duty.

"You shall try first, sergeant," Malcolm said. "It will be dangerous work, for as the news of our being here spreads the peasants will be coming in from all quarters. Their numbers are already greatly increased since they commenced the attack, and there must be at least three or four hundred men around us. They will be sure to keep a sharp lookout against our escaping, and it will need all your care and caution to get through them."

"Never fear, sir," the man replied confidently. "I have stalked the deer scores of times, and it will be hard if I cannot crawl through a number of thick witted Bavarian peasants."

"Even beyond the village you will have to keep your eyes open, as you may meet parties of peasants on their way here. Fortunately you will have no difficulty in keeping the road, so well beaten is it by the march of the army. If by tomorrow night no rescue arrives I shall consider that you have been taken or killed, and shall try with the others to make my way through. It would be better to die sword in hand while we have still the strength to wield our arms than to be cooped up here until too weak any longer to defend ourselves, and then to be slowly tortured to death."

As soon as it was dusk a sentry was placed on the top of the tower, with orders to report the slightest sound or stir. During the day this had not been necessary, for a view could be obtained from the windows, and the men with firearms, who had now considerably increased in numbers, kept up a constant fire at the tower.

An hour later the sentry reported that he could hear the sound of many feet in the darkness, with the occasional snapping as of dry twigs.

"They are going to burn down the door," Malcolm said. "That is what I expected. Now, sergeant, is your time. They are all busy and intent upon their purpose. You could not have a better time."

The rope was fastened round the sergeant's waist, and with some difficulty he squeezed himself through the narrow window, after listening attentively to discover if any were below.

All seemed perfectly still on this side, and he was gradually and steadily lowered down. Presently those above felt the rope slack. Another minute and it swung loosely. It was drawn up again, and Malcolm, placing one of the men at the loophole, with instructions to listen intently for any sound of alarm or conflict, turned his attention to the other side.

Soon he saw a number of dark figures bearing on their heads great bundles which he knew to be faggots approaching across the snow.

As they approached a brisk fire suddenly opened on the tower. Malcolm at once called the sentry down.

"It is of no use exposing yourself," he said, "and we could not do much harm to them did we take to stoning them again. We have nothing to do now but to wait."

Soon a series of dull heavy crashes were heard as the faggots were thrown down against the door. Malcolm descended the stairs until he reached the lowest loophole which lighted them, and which was a few feet above the top of the door. He took one of the men with him.

"Here are my flask and bullet pouch," he said. "Do you reload my pistols as I discharge them."

For some minutes the sound of the faggots being thrown down continued, then the footsteps were heard retreating, and all was quiet again.

"Now it is our turn again," Malcolm said. "It is one thing to prepare a fire and another to light it, my fine fellows. I expect that you have forgotten that there are firearms here."

Presently a light was seen in the distance, and two men with blazing brands approached. They advanced confidently until within twenty yards of the tower, then there was the sharp crack of a pistol, and one of them fell forward on his face, the other hesitated and stood irresolute, then, summoning up courage, he sprang forward.

As he did so another shot flashed out, and he, too, fell prostrate, the brand hissing and spluttering in the snow a few feet from the pile of brushwood. A loud yell of rage and disappointment arose on the night air, showing how large was the number of peasants who were watching the operations. Some time elapsed before any further move was made on the part of the assailants, then some twenty points of light were seen approaching.

"Donald," Malcolm said to the soldier, "go up to the top of the tower with your comrades. They are sure to light the pile this time, but if it is only fired in one place you may possibly dash out the light with a stone."

The lights rapidly approached, but when the bearers came within forty yards they stopped. They were a wild group, as, with their unkempt hair and beards, and their rough attire, they stood holding the lighted brands above their heads. A very tall and powerful man stood at their head.

"Come on," he said, "why do you hesitate? Let us finish with them." And he rushed forward.

Malcolm had his pistol lying on the sill of the loophole covering him, and when the peasant had run ten paces he fired, and the man fell headlong. The others stopped, and a second shot took effect among them. With a yell of terror they hurled the brands towards the pile and fled. Most of the brands fell short, others missed their aim, but from his loophole Malcolm saw that one had fallen on to the outside faggot of the pile.

Almost instantly a heavy stone fell in the snow close by, another, and another. Malcolm stood with his eyes fixed on the brand. The twigs against which it leaned were catching, and the flames began to shoot up. Higher and higher they rose, and a shout of triumph from the peasants told how keenly they were also watching. Still the heavy stones continued to fall. The flames rose higher, and half the faggot was now alight. Another minute and the fire would communicate with the pile. Then there was a crash. A shower of sparks leapt up as the faggot, struck by one of the heavy stones, was dashed from its place and lay blazing twenty feet distant from the pile. There it burnt itself out, and for a time the tower was safe.

For an hour the defenders watched the peasants, who had now lighted great fires just out of pistol shot from the tower, and were gathered thickly round them, the light flashing redly from pike head and scythe.

The uproar of voices was loud; but though the defenders guessed that they were discussing the next plan of attack they could catch no meaning from such words as reached them, for the patois of the Bavarian peasants was unintelligible. At last a large number seized brands, some approached as before towards the pile, the others scattered in various directions, while the men with muskets again opened fire at the top of the tower.

Malcolm took his post at the loophole awaiting attack, but the men in front of him did not advance. Suddenly a light sprang up beneath him. There was a sound of falling stones, but the light grew brighter and brighter, and he knew that this time the pile had been fired. As he ran upstairs he was met by one of the soldiers from above.

"They crept round by the back of the church, sir, and round at the foot of the tower, and they had fired the pile before we saw that they were there."

"It cannot be helped," Malcolm said, "they were sure to succeed sooner or later. Call the others down from the roof."

The door at the top of the stairs was now closed, and the crevices were stuffed tightly with strips torn from the men's clothes so as to prevent the smoke from entering when the door below gave way to the flames. A broad glare of light now lit up the scene, and showers of sparks, and an occasional tongue of flame were visible through the window.

"Shut down the trapdoor in the roof," Malcolm said, "that will check the draught through the windows."

The wood was dry, and what smoke made its way in through the window found its way out through the loopholes of the upper chamber without seriously incommoding those below.

"We can take it easy, now," Malcolm said as he set the example by sitting down against the wall. "It will be hours before the stonework below will be cool enough to permit them to attack."

"They are lighting a circle of fires all round the church," one of the soldiers said looking out.

"They think we shall be trying to escape, now that our door is burned. They are too late; I trust our messenger is miles away by this time."

In half an hour the flames died away, but a deep red glow showed that the pile of embers was still giving out an intense heat. One of the men was now placed on the top of the tower again, as a measure of precaution, but it was certain that hours would elapse before an attack could be made. The peasants, indeed, secure of their prey, evinced no hurry to commence the attack, but spent the night in shouting and singing round their fires, occasionally yelling threats of the fate which awaited them against the defenders of the tower.

Towards daylight Malcolm commenced his preparations for defence. The door was taken off its hinges and was laid on the stone stairs. These were but two feet wide, the door itself being some three inches less. The rope was fastened round its upper end to prevent it from sliding down.

"I wish we had some grease to pour over it," Malcolm said, "but dry as it is it will be next to impossible for anyone to walk up that sharp incline, and we four should be able to hold it against the peasants till doomsday."

It was not until broad daylight that the peasants prepared for the attack. So long as the operation had been a distant one it had seemed easy enough, but as in a confused mass they approached the open doorway they realized that to ascend the narrow staircase, defended at the top by desperate men, was an enterprise of no common danger, and that the work which they had regarded as finished was in fact scarcely begun.

The greater part then hung back, but a band of men, who by their blackened garments and swarthy faces Malcolm judged to be charcoal burners, armed with heavy axes, advanced to the front, and with an air of dogged resolution approached the door. The defenders gave no sign of their presence, no pistol flashed out from window or loophole.

Striding through the still hot ashes the leader of the woodmen passed through the doorway and advanced up the stairs. These ran in short straight flights round the tower, lighted by narrow loopholes. No resistance was encountered until he reached the last turning, where a broader glare of light came from the open doorway, where two of the soldiers, pike in hand, stood ready to repel them. With a shout to his followers to come on, the peasant sprang forward. He ascended three steps, and then, as he placed his foot upon the sharply inclined plane of the door, which he had not noticed, he stumbled forward. His companions, supposing he had been pierced with a spear, pressed on after him, but each fell when they trod upon the door until a heap of men cumbered the stair. These were not unharmed, for with their long pikes the Scottish spearmen ran them through and through as they lay.

Their bodies afforded a foothold to those who followed, but these could make but little way, for as but one could advance at a time, each as he came on was slain by the pikes. Finding that two were well able to hold the door, Malcolm with the other ran up to the top of the tower, and toppled over the stones of the parapet upon the mass gathered around the door. These at once scattered, and those on the stairs, finding themselves unable to get forward, for the narrow passage was now completely choked with the dead, made their way out again and rejoined their comrades.

"I expect they will send their musketeers first next time," Malcolm said as he rejoined those below, leaving the soldier on the watch. "Now let us get the door up again, and bring the dead here; we can form a barrier with them breast high."

The door was quickly shifted on one side, and then the troopers brought up the dead, who were eleven in number.

"Now replace the door," Malcolm ordered; "fill your iron caps with blood -- there is plenty flowing from these fellows -- and pour it over the door, it will be as good as oil."

This was done, and the bodies were then piled shoulder high across the door.

"They can fire as much as they like now," Malcolm said, "they will be no nearer, and I defy anyone to climb up that door now."



Chapter XV A Timely Rescue


Although unaware how much more formidable the task before them had become, the peasants were disheartened by their defeat, and even the boldest hesitated at the thought of again attacking foes so formidably posted. None of those who had returned were able to explain what was the obstacle which had checked their advance. All that they could tell was, that those before them had fallen, in some cases even before they were touched by the spears of the defenders. This mystery added to the dread which the assault of so difficult a position naturally inspired, and some hours were spent in discussing how the next attack should be made. Many indeed were strongly in favour of remaining quietly around the tower and starving its defenders into surrendering.

Others advocated an attempt to stifle them by heaping green wood and damp straw round the tower; but the more timid pointed out that many would be killed in carrying out the task by the firearms of the besieged, and that even were the combustibles placed in position and lighted the success of the experiment would be by no means certain, as the besieged might stuff up all the orifices, or at the worst might obtain sufficient fresh air on the top of the tower to enable them to breathe.

"You are forgetting," one of the peasants exclaimed, "the powder wagon which broke down as Count Tilly retreated from the Lech. Did we not carry off the powder barrels and hide them, partly to prevent them falling into the hands of these accursed Swedes, partly because the powder would last us for years for hunting the wolf and wild boar? We have only to stow these inside the tower to blow it into the air."

The idea was seized with shouts of acclamation. Most of the peasants who had assisted in carrying off the contents of the wagon were present, and these started instantly to dig up the barrels which they had taken as their share of the booty. The shouts of satisfaction and the departure of forty or fifty men at full speed in various directions did not pass unnoticed by the garrison of the tower.

"They have got a plan of some sort," Malcolm said; "what it is I have no idea, but they certainly seem confident about it. Look at those fellows throwing up their caps and waving their arms. I do not see how we can be attacked, but I do not like these signs of confidence on their part, for they know now how strong our position is. It seems to me that we are impregnable except against artillery."

Unable to repress his uneasiness Malcolm wandered from window to window watching attentively what was going on without, but keeping himself as far back as possible from the loopholes; for the men with muskets kept up a dropping fire at the openings, and although their aim was poor, bullets occasionally passed in and flattened themselves against the opposite walls.

"There is a man returning," he said in about half an hour; "he is carrying something on his shoulder, but I cannot see what it is."

In another ten minutes the man had reached the group of peasants standing two or three hundred yards from the church, and was greeted with cheers and waving of hats.

"Good heavens!" Malcolm exclaimed suddenly, "it is a barrel of powder. They must have stripped some broken down ammunition wagon. This is a danger indeed."

The men grasped their weapons and rose to their feet at the news, prepared to take any steps which their young officer might command, for his promptitude and ingenuity had inspired them with unbounded confidence in him.

"We must at all hazards," he said after a few minutes thought, "prevent them from storing these barrels below. Remove the barricade of bodies and then carry the door down the stairs. We must fix it again on the bottom steps. The bottom stair is but a foot or two inside the doorway; if you place it there it will hinder their rushing up to attack you, and your pikes, as you stand above it, will prevent any from placing their barrels inside.

"I will take my place at the loophole as before. We cannot prevent their crawling round from behind as they did to light the faggots; but if they pile them outside, they may blow in a hole in the wall of the tower, but it is possible that even then it may not fall. Two will be sufficient to hold the stairs, at any rate for the present. Do you, Cameron, take your place on the tower, and drop stones over on any who may try to make their way round from behind; even if you do no harm you will make them careful and delay the operation, and every hour now is of consequence."

Malcolm's instructions were carried out, and all was in readiness before the peasants, some of whom had to go considerable distances, had returned with the powder.

The lesson of the previous evening had evidently not been lost upon the peasants, for Malcolm saw a tall man who was acting as their leader wave his hand, and those who had brought the powder started to make a detour round the church. Malcolm, finding that no movement was being made towards the front, and that at present he could do nothing from his loophole, ran up to the top of the tower and took his place by the soldier who was lying down on the roof and looking over the edge.

Presently the first of the peasants appeared round the corner of the main building, and dashed rapidly across to the angle of the tower. Two heavy stones were dropped, but he had passed on long before they had reached the bottom. Man after man followed, and Malcolm, seeing that he could do nothing to stop them, again ran down. As he did so he heard a scream of agony. The leading peasants had reached the doorway, but as they dashed in to place their barrels of powder they were run through and through by the spears of the pikemen. They fell half in and half out of the doorway, and the barrels rolled some distance away. Those behind them stopped panic stricken at their sudden fall. Several of them dropped their barrels and fled, while others ran round the angle of the tower again, coming in violent contact with those following them; all then hurried round behind the church. Malcolm stamped his feet with vexation.

"What a fool I am," he muttered, "not to have thought of a sortie! If we had all held ourselves in readiness to spring out, we might have cut down the whole of them; at any rate none would have got off with their barrels."

This unexpected failure greatly damped the spirit of the peasants, and there was much consultation among them before any fresh move was made. As he saw that they were fully occupied, and paying no heed to the tower, Malcolm said to his men:

"I am going outside; prepare to help me up over the door again quickly if necessary."

Leaving his sword behind him, he took a leap from the step above the inclined plane and landed at the bottom, and at once threw himself down outside. With his dagger he removed the hoops of one of the barrels, and scattered the contents thickly along the front of the tower. None of the peasants perceived him, for there were many bodies lying round the foot of the tower; and even had any looked that way they would not have noticed that one prone figure had been added to the number.

Crawling cautiously along Malcolm pushed two other barrels before him, and opening them as before, spread the contents of one upon the ground near the side of the tower, and the other by the hinder face. The thick black layer on the snow would have told its tale instantly to a soldier, but Malcolm had little fear of the peasants in their haste paying attention to it. When his task was completed he crawled back again to the door and laid a train from the foot of the slide to the powder without.

"I will remain here," he said, "for the present. Do one of you take your place in the belfry. Tell Cameron to shout down to you what is passing behind, and do you run instantly down the stairs to tell me."

The peasants advanced next time accompanied by a strong force of their armed comrades. As before they came round from behind, intending to stack their barrels in the angle there. As the bearers of the first two or three powder barrels came round the corner Cameron shouted the news, and the soldier below ran down to Malcolm, who fired his pistol into the train. A broad flash of fire rose round the tower followed instantaneously by two heavy explosions. There was silence for an instant, and then a chorus of shrieks and yells.

The powder barrels borne by the two first men had exploded, their heads having been knocked in previously to admit of their ignition. Some thirty of the peasants were killed or terribly mutilated by the explosion, and the rest took to their heels in terror, leaving their wounded comrades on the ground.

The echoes of the explosion had scarce died away when a shout of terror broke from the main body of peasants, and Malcolm saw them flying in all directions. An instant afterwards the ringing sound of the Swedish trumpets was heard, and a squadron of horse galloped down full speed. The peasants attempted no resistance, but fled in all directions, hotly pursued by the Swedes, who broke up into small parties and followed the fugitives cross the country cutting down great numbers of them. The Swedish leader at once rode up to the foot of the tower, where Malcolm had already sallied out.

"I am glad indeed I am in time, Captain Graheme; we have ridden without drawing rein since your messenger arrived at four o'clock this morning."

"Thanks indeed, Captain Burgh," Malcolm replied. "Your coming is most welcome; though I think we have given the peasants so hot a lesson that they would not have attacked us again, and by tightening our waistbelts we could have held on for another three or four days."

"I see that you have punished them heavily," the Swedish officer said, looking round at the bodies; "but what was the explosion I heard?"

"You will see its signs behind the tower," Malcolm said as he led the way there. "They tried to blow us up, but burnt their own fingers."

The scene behind the tower was ghastly. Some thirty peasants lay with their clothes completely burned from their bodies, the greater portion of them dead, but some still writhing in agony. Malcolm uttered an exclamation of horror.

"It were a kindness to put these wretches out of their misery," the Swede said, and dismounting he passed his sword through the bodies of the writhing men. "You know I am in favour of carrying on the war as mercifully as may be," he continued turning to Malcolm, "for we have talked the matter over before now; and God forbid that I should strike a fallen foe; but these poor wretches were beyond help, and it is true mercy to end their sufferings."

"They have had a heavy lesson," Malcolm said; "there are eleven more dead up in the belfry, which they tried to carry by storm, and a dozen at least crushed by stones.

"You and your three men have indeed given a good account of yourselves," Captain Burgh exclaimed; "but while I am talking you are fasting. Here is a bottle of wine, a cold chicken, and a manchet of bread which I put in my wallet on starting; let us breakfast, for though I do not pretend to have been fasting as you have, the morning ride has given me an appetite. I see your fellows are hard at work already on the viands which my orderly brought for them in his havresack; but first let us move away to the tree over yonder, for verily the scent of blood and of roasted flesh is enough to take away one's appetite, little squeamish as these wars have taught us to be."

Captain Burgh asked no questions until Malcolm had finished his meal. "I have plenty more food," he said, "for we have brought three led horses well laden; but it were better that you eat no more at present, tis ill overloading a fasting stomach. My men will not be back from the pursuit for a couple of hours yet, for they will not draw rein so long as their horses can gallop, so excited are they over the tales of the horrible cruelties which have been perpetrated on all our men who have fallen into the hands of the peasants, so now you can tell me in full the tale of your adventures. I had no time to ask any questions of your sergeant, for we were called up and sent off five minutes after he arrived with the news that you with three men were beleaguered here by a party of peasants."

Malcolm related the whole incidents which had befallen him since he had been suddenly felled and made captive by the women in the hut in the village. The Swede laughed over this part of the adventure.

"To think," he said, "of you, a dashing captain of the Green Brigade, being made captive by a couple of old women. There is more than one gallant Scot, if reports be true, has fallen a captive to German maidens, but of another sort; to be taken prisoner and hid in a straw yard is too good."

"It was no laughing matter, I can tell you," Malcolm said, "though doubtless it will serve as a standing jest against me for a long time; however, I am so thankful I have got out of the scrape that those may laugh who will."

When Malcolm finished his story Captain Burgh said: "You have managed marvellously well indeed, Graheme, and can well afford to put up with a little laughter anent that matter of the women, for in truth there are few who would with three men have held a post against four or five hundred, as you have done -- ay, and fairly defeated them before I came on the scene. That thought of yours of laying the door upon the stairs was a masterly one, and you rarely met and defeated every device of the enemy.

"Now, if you will, I will mount this stronghold of yours with you, and see exactly how it stands, for I shall have to tell the tale a score of times at least when I get back to camp, and I can do it all the better after I have seen for myself the various features of the place."

By the time they had mounted the top of the tower and Captain Burgh had fully satisfied himself as to the details of the defence the troopers began to return. Their horses were far too fatigued with the long ride from the camp and the subsequent pursuit to be able to travel farther. Fires were accordingly lit, rations distributed, and a halt ordered till the following morning, when, at daybreak, they returned to the Lech.

Two days later Malcolm and his men marched forward with a brigade which was advancing to reinforce the army under Gustavus, and reached Ingolstadt on the day when the king raised the siege, and accompanied him on his march to Munich.

Malcolm on rejoining was greeted with great pleasure by his comrades, who had made up their minds that he had in some way fallen a victim to the peasants. The noncommissioned officers and men of his party had been severely reprimanded for leaving the village without finding him. In their defence they declared that they had searched every house and shed, and, having found no sign of him, or of any struggle having taken place, they supposed that he must have returned alone. But their excuses were not held to be valid, the idea of Malcolm having left his men without orders being so preposterous that it was held it should never have been entertained for a moment by them.

"I shall never be anxious about you again," Nigel Graheme said, when Malcolm finished the narrative of his adventures to the officers of his regiment as they sat round the campfire on the evening when he rejoined them. "This is the third or fourth time that I have given you up for dead. Whatever happens in the future, I shall refuse to believe the possibility of any harm having come to you, and shall be sure that sooner or later you will walk quietly into camp with a fresh batch of adventures to tell us. Whoever of us may be doomed to lay our bones in this German soil, it will not be you. Some good fairy has distinctly taken charge of you, and there is no saying what brilliant destiny may await you."

"But he must keep clear of the petticoats, Graheme," Colonel Munro laughed; "evidently danger lurks for him there, and if he is caught napping again some Delilah will assuredly crop the hair of this young Samson of ours."

"There was not much of Delilah in that fury who felled me with a mallet, colonel," Malcolm laughed; "however, I will be careful in future, and will not give them a chance."

"Ah! it may come in another form next time, Malcolm," Munro said; "this time it was an old woman, next time it may be a young one. Beware, my boy! they are far the most dangerous, innocent though they may look."

A laugh ran round the circle.

"Forewarned forearmed, colonel," Malcolm said sturdily, "I will be on my guard against every female creature, young or old, in future. But I don't think that in this affair the woman has had much to boast about -- she and her friends had best have left me alone."

"That is so, Malcolm," the colonel said warmly. "You have borne yourself well and bravely, and you have got an old head on those young shoulders of yours. You are as full of plans and stratagems as if you had been a campaigner for the last half century; and no man, even in the Green Brigade, no, not Hepburn himself, could have held that church tower more ably than you did. It will be a good tale to tell the king as we ride on the march tomorrow, for he loves a gallant deed, and the more so when there is prudence and good strategy as well as bravery. He has more than once asked if you have been getting into any new adventures, and seemed almost surprised when I told him that you were doing your duty with your company. He evidently regards it as your special mission to get into harebrained scrapes. He regards you, in fact, as a pedagogue might view the pickle of the school."

There was a general laugh at Malcolm's expense.

"I don't know how it is I am always getting into scrapes," the lad said half ruefully when the laugh subsided. "I am sure I don't want to get into them, colonel, and really I have never gone out of my way to do so, unless you call my march to help the Count of Mansfeld going out of my way. All the other things have come to me without any fault of my own."

"Quite so, Graheme," the colonel said smiling; "that's always the excuse of the boy who gets into scrapes. The question is, Why do these things always happen to you and to nobody else? If you can explain that your whole case is made out. But don't take it seriously, Malcolm," he continued, seeing that the lad looked really crestfallen.

"You know I am only laughing, and there is not a man here, including myself, who does not envy you a little for the numerous adventures which have fallen to your lot, and for the courage and wisdom which you have shown in extricating yourself from them."

"And now, please, will you tell me, colonel," Malcolm said more cheerfully, "why we are turning our backs upon Ingolstadt and are marching away without taking it? I have been away for ten days, you know, and it is a mystery to me why we are leaving the only enemy between us and Vienna, after having beaten him so heartily a fortnight since, without making an effort to rout him thoroughly."

"Maximilian's position is a very strong one, my lad, and covered as he is by the guns of Ingolstadt it would be even a harder task to dislodge him than it was to cross the Lech in his teeth. But you are wrong; his is not the only army which stands between us and Vienna. No sooner is old Tilly dead than a greater than Tilly appears to oppose us. Wallenstein is in the field again. It has been known that he has for some time been negotiating with the emperor, who has been imploring him to forgive the slight that was passed upon him before, and to again take the field.

"Wallenstein, knowing that the game was in his hands, and that the emperor must finally agree to any terms which he chose to dictate, has, while he has been negotiating, been collecting an army; and when the emperor finally agreed to his conditions, that he was at the conclusion of the peace to be assured a royal title and the fief of a sovereign state, he had an army ready to his hand, and is now on the point of entering Bohemia with 40,000 men."

"What his plans may be we cannot yet say, but at any rate it would not do to be delaying here and leaving Germany open to Wallenstein to operate as he will. It was a stern day at Leipzig, but, mark my words, it will be sterner still when we meet Wallenstein; for, great captain as Tilly undoubtedly was, Wallenstein is far greater, and Europe will hold its breath when Gustavus and he, the two greatest captains of the age, meet in a pitched battle."

At Munich the regiments of Munro and Spynie were quartered in the magnificent Electoral Palace, where they fared sumptuously and enjoyed not a little their comfortable quarters and the stores of old wines in the cellar. Sir John Hepburn was appointed military governor of Munich.

In the arsenal armour, arms, and clothing sufficient for 10,000 infantry were found, and a hundred and forty pieces of cannon were discovered buried beneath the floors of the palace. Their carriages were ready in the arsenal, and they were soon put in order for battle. For three weeks the army remained at Munich, Gustavus waiting to see what course Wallenstein was taking. The Imperialist general had entered Bohemia, had driven thence, with scarcely an effort, Arnheim and the Saxons, and formed a junction near Eger with the remnants of the army which had been beaten on the Lech; then, leaving a strong garrison in Ratisbon, he had marched on with an army of sixty thousand men.

He saw that his best plan to force Gustavus to loose his hold of Bavaria was to march on some important point lying between him and North Germany. He therefore selected a place which Gustavus could not abandon, and so would be obliged to leave Bavaria garrisoned only by a force insufficient to withstand the attacks of Pappenheim, who had collected a considerable army for the recovery of the territories of Maximilian. Such a point was Nuremberg, the greatest and strongest of the free cities, and which had been the first to open its gates to Gustavus. The Swedish king could hardly abandon this friendly city to the assaults of the Imperialists, and indeed its fall would have been followed by the general defection from his cause of all that part of Germany, and he would have found himself isolated and cut off from the North.

As soon as Gustavus perceived that Nuremberg was the point towards which Wallenstein was moving, he hastened at once from Munich to the assistance of the threatened city. The forces at his disposal had been weakened by the despatch of Marshal Horn to the Lower Palatinate, and by the garrisons left in the Bavarian cities, and he had but 17,000 men disposable to meet the 60,000 with whom Wallenstein was advancing. He did not hesitate, however, but sent off messengers at once to direct the corps in Swabia under General Banner, Prince William of Weimar, and General Ruthven, to join him, if possible, before Nuremberg.

Marching with all haste he arrived at Nuremberg before Wallenstein reached it, and prepared at once for the defence of the city. He first called together the principal citizens of Nuremberg and explained to them his position. He showed them that were he to fall back with his army he should be able to effect a junction with the troops under his generals, and would ere long be in a position to offer battle to Wallenstein upon more equal terms, but that were he to do so he would be forced to abandon the city to the vengeance of the Imperialists. He told them that did he remain before the city he must to a great extent be dependent upon them for food and supplies, as he would be beleaguered by Wallenstein, and should be unable to draw food and forage from the surrounding country; he could therefore only maintain himself by the aid of the cordial goodwill and assistance of the citizens.

The people of Nuremberg were true to the side they had chosen, and placed the whole of their resources at his disposal. Gustavus at once set his army to work to form a position in which he could confront the overwhelming forces of the enemy. Round the city, at a distance of about thirteen hundred yards from it, he dug a ditch, nowhere less than twelve feet wide and eight deep, but, where most exposed to an attack, eighteen feet wide and twelve deep. Within the circuit of this ditch he erected eight large forts and connected them with a long and thick earthen parapet strengthened with bastions. On the ramparts and forts three hundred cannon, for the most part supplied by the city of Nuremberg, were placed in position. As the camp between the ramparts and the town was traversed by the river Pegnitz numerous bridges were thrown across it, so that the whole force could concentrate on either side in case of attack. So vigorously did the army, assisted by the citizens, labour at these works, that they were completed in fourteen days after Gustavus reached Nuremberg.

It was on the 19th of June that the Swedish army arrived there, and on the 30th Wallenstein and Maximilian of Bavaria appeared before it with the intention of making an immediate assault. The works, however, although not yet quite completed, were so formidable that Wallenstein saw at once that the success of an assault upon them would be extremely doubtful, and, in spite of the earnest entreaties of Maximilian to lead his army to the assault, he decided to reduce the place by starvation. This method appeared at once easy and certain. The whole of the surrounding country belonged to the Bishop of Bamberg, who was devoted to the Imperialist cause, and he possessed all the towns, and strong places in the circle of country around Nuremberg. Wallenstein had brought with him vast stores of provisions, and could draw upon the surrounding country for the further maintenance of his army. It was only necessary then to place himself in a position where the Swedes could not attack him with a hope of success.

Such a position lay at a distance of three miles from Nuremberg, where there was a wooded hill known as the Alte Veste. Round this Wallenstein threw up a circle of defences, consisting of a ditch behind which was an interlacement of forest trees, baggage wagons, and gabions, forming an almost insurpassable obstacle to an attacking force. Within this circle he encamped his army, formed into eight divisions, each about seven thousand strong, while two considerable bodies of troops in the diocese of Bamberg and the Upper Palatinate prepared to oppose any forces approaching to the aid of Nuremberg, and the Croats, horse and foot, scoured the country day and night to prevent any supplies entering the city. Having thus adopted every means for starving out the beleaguered army and city, Wallenstein calmly awaited the result.



Chapter XVI The Siege Of Nuremberg


Drearily passed the days in the beleaguered camp, varied only by an occasional raid by small parties to drive in cattle from the surrounding country, or to intercept convoys of provisions on their way to the Imperialists' camp. So active and watchful were the Croats that these enterprises seldom succeeded, although, to enable his men to move with celerity, Gustavus mounted bodies of infantry on horseback. Thus they were enabled to get over the ground quickly, and if attacked they dismounted and fought on foot.

To these mounted infantry the name of dragoons was given, and so useful were they found that the institution was adopted in other armies, and dragoons became a recognized portion of every military force. In time the custom of dismounting and fighting on foot was gradually abandoned, and dragoons became regular cavalry; but in modern times the utility of Gustavus's invention of mounted infantry has been again recognized, and in all the small wars in which England has been engaged bodies of mounted infantry have been organized. Ere long mounted infantry will again become a recognized arm of the service.

But these raids in search of provisions occupied but a small portion of the army. The rest passed their time in enforced idleness. There was nothing to be done save to clean and furbish their arms and armour; to stand on the ramparts and gaze on the distant heights of the Alte Veste, to watch the solid columns of the Imperial army, which from time to time Wallenstein marched down from his stronghold and paraded in order of battle, as a challenge to the Swedes to come out and fight, or to loiter through the narrow streets of Nuremberg, and to talk to the citizens, whose trade and commerce were now entirely at a standstill. Malcolm, with the restlessness of youth, seldom stayed many hours quiet in camp. He did not care either for drinking or gambling; nor could he imitate the passive tranquillity of the old soldiers, who were content to sleep away the greater part of their time. He therefore spent many hours every day in the city, where he speedily made many acquaintances.

In the city of Nuremberg time dragged as slowly as it did in the camp. At ordinary times the centre of a quiet and busy trade, the city was now cut off from the world. The shops were for the most part closed; the artisans stood idle in the streets, and the townsfolk had nought to do, save to gather in groups and discuss the times, or to take occasional excursions beyond the gates into the camp of their allies. The advances then of the young Scottish officer were willingly responded to, and he soon became intimate in the houses of all the principal citizens; and while the greater part of his comrades spent their evenings in drinking and gambling, he enjoyed the hours in conversation and music in the houses of the citizens of Nuremberg.

The long inaction brought its moral consequences, and the troops became demoralized and insubordinate from their enforced idleness. Plundering and acts of violence became so common that Gustavus was obliged to issue the most stringent ordinances to restore discipline; and an officer and many men had to be executed before the spirit of insubordination was quelled. In order to pass some of the hours of the days Malcolm obtained leave from one of the great clockmakers of the town -- for Nuremberg was at that time the centre of the craft of clockmaking -- to allow him to work in his shop, and to learn the mysteries of his trade.

Most of the establishments were closed, but Malcolm's acquaintance was one of the wealthiest of the citizens, and was able to keep his craftsmen at work, and to store the goods he manufactured until better times should return. Malcolm began the work purely to occupy his time, but he presently came to take a lively interest in it, and was soon able to take to pieces and put together again the cumbrous but simple machines which constituted the clocks of the period.

Workshops were not in those days factories. The master of a craft worked, surrounded by his craftsmen and apprentices. Every wheel and spring were made upon the premises, fashioned and finished with chisel and file; and there was an interest in the work far beyond any which it possesses in the present day, when watches are turned out wholesale, the separate parts being prepared by machinery, and the work of the artisan consisting solely in the finishing and putting them together.

Laying aside his armour and gay attire, and donning a workman's apron, Malcolm sat at the bench by the side of the master, shaping and filing, and listening to his stories connected with the trade and history of Nuremberg. He anticipated no advantage from the knowledge he was gaining, but regarded it simply as a pleasant way of getting through a portion of the day.

Thus for three months the armies confronted each other. Provisions were becoming terribly scarce, the magazines of the city were emptying fast, and although working night and day, the mills of the place did not suffice to grind flour for the needs of so many mouths. The population of the city itself was greatly swollen by the crowds of Protestant fugitives who had fled there for refuge on the approach of the Imperialists, and the magazines of the city dwindled fast under the demands made upon them by this addition, and that of the Swedish army, to the normal population. Fever broke out in the city and camp. The waters of the Pegnitz were tainted by the carcasses of dead horses and other animals. The supplies of forage had long since been exhausted, and the baggage and troop animals died in vast numbers.

Still there was no sign of a change. Wallenstein would not attack, Gustavus could not. The Swedish king waited to take advantage of some false move on the part of the Imperial commander; but Wallenstein was as great a general as himself, and afforded him no opening, turning a deaf ear to the entreaties and importunities of Maximilian that he would end the tedious siege by an attack upon the small and enfeebled army around Nuremberg.

All this time Gustavus was in constant communication with his generals outside, his messengers making their way by speed or stratagem through the beleaguering Croats, and kept up the spirits of his men by daily reviews and by the cheerful countenance which he always wore.

The Swedish columns were gradually closing in towards Nuremberg. One was led by the chancellor Oxenstiern, to whom had been committed the care of the Middle Rhine and the Lower Palatinate, where he had been confronted by the Spanish troops under Don Philip de Sylva.

On the 11th July, leaving Horn with a small force to oppose the Spaniards, the chancellor set out to join his master. On the way he effected a junction with the forces of the Landgrave of Hesse-Cassel. This general had been opposed in Westphalia by Pappenheim, but he seized the opportunity when the latter had marched to relieve Maestricht, which was besieged by Frederic of Nassau, to march away and join Oxenstiern.

The Scotch officers Ballandine and Alexander Hamilton were with their regiment in the Duchy of Magdeburg. When the news of the king's danger reached them without waiting for instructions they marched to Halle and joining a portion of the division of the Duke of Saxe-Weimar, to which they were attached, pushed on to Zeitz, and were there joined by the duke himself, who had hurried on from the Lake of Constance, attended only by his guards, but, picking up five Saxon regiments in Franconia. Together they passed on to Wurtzburg, where they joined Oxenstiern and the Landgrave of Hesse-Cassel. General Banner, with the fourth corps, was at Augsburg, opposed to Cratz, who was at the head of the remains of Tilly's old army.

Slipping away from his foes he marched to Windsheim, and was there joined by a body of troops under Bernhard of Weimar. The force from Wurtzburg soon afterwards came up, and the whole of the detached corps, amounting to 49,000 men, being now collected, they marched to Bruck, ten miles north of Nuremberg. Three days later, on the 16th of August, Gustavus rode into their camp, and on the 21st marched at their head into Nuremberg, unhindered by the Imperialists.

Gustavus probably calculated that the Imperialists would now move down and offer battle; but Wallenstein, who had detached 10,000 men to bring up supplies, could not place in the field a number equal to those of the reinforcements, and preferred to await an attack in the position which he had prepared with such care. He knew the straits to which Nuremberg and its defenders were reduced, and the impossibility there would be of feeding the new arrivals.

The country round for a vast distance had been long since stripped of provisions, and Gustavus had no course open to him but to march away with his army and leave the city to its fate, or to attack the Imperialists in their stronghold.

On the day after his arrival, the 21st of August, Gustavus marched out and opened a cannonade upon the Imperialists' position, in order to induce Wallenstein to come down and give battle. Wallenstein was not, however, to be tempted, but kept his whole army busy with the spade and axe further intrenching his position. The next day the king brought his guns nearer to the enemy's camp, and for twenty-four hours kept up a heavy fire. The only result, however, was that Wallenstein fell back a few hundred yards on to two ridges, on one of which was the ruined castle called the Alte Veste; the other was known as the Altenburg. The ascent to these was steep and craggy, and they were covered by a thick forest. Here Wallenstein formed in front of his position a threefold barrier of felled trees woven and interlaced with each other, each barrier rising in a semicircle one above the other. Before the Swedish cannon ceased to fire the new position of the Imperialists had been made impregnable.

Unfortunately for Gustavus he had at this moment lost the services of the best officer in his army, Sir John Hepburn, whom he had always regarded as his right hand. The quarrel had arisen from some trifling circumstance, and Gustavus in the heat of the moment made some disparaging allusion to the religion of Hepburn, who was a Catholic and also to that officer's love of dress and finery. The indignant Hepburn at once resigned his commission and swore never again to draw his sword in the service of the king -- a resolution to which he adhered, although Gustavus, when his anger cooled, endeavoured in every way to appease the angry soldier.

As he persisted in his resolution Colonel Munro was appointed to the command of the Green Brigade. It is probable that the quarrel was the consummation of a long standing grievance. Hepburn as well as the other Scottish officers had shared the indignation of Sir John Hamilton when the latter resigned in consequence of the Swedish troop being placed in the post of honour at the storm of the castle of Marienburg after the Scots had done all the work. There had, too, been much discontent among them concerning the Marquis of Hamilton, whom they considered that Gustavus had treated ungenerously; and still more concerning Lieutenant Colonel Douglas, whom Gustavus had committed to a common prison for a slight breach of etiquette, a punishment at which the English ambassador, Sir Harry Vane, remonstrated, and which the whole Scottish officers considered an insult to them and their country.

There were probably faults on both sides. The Scottish troops were the backbone of the Swedish army, and to them were principally due almost the whole of the successes which Gustavus had gained. Doubtless they presumed upon the fact, and although Gustavus recognized his obligations, as is shown by the immense number of commands and governorships which he bestowed upon his Scottish officers, he may well have been angered and irritated by the insistance with which they asserted their claims and services. It was, however, a most unfortunate circumstance that just at this critical moment he should have lost the services of an officer whose prudence was equal to his daring, and who was unquestionably one of the greatest military leaders of his age.

It is probable that had Hepburn remained by his side the king would not have undertaken the attack upon the impregnable position of the Imperialists. Deprived of the counsellor upon whose advice he had hitherto invariably relied, Gustavus determined to attempt to drive Wallenstein from his position, the decision being finally induced by a ruse of the Imperialist commander, who desired nothing so much as that the Swedes should dash their forces against the terrible position he had prepared for them. Accordingly on the 24th of August he directed a considerable portion of his force to march away from the rear of his position as if, alarmed at the superior strength of the Swedes, he had determined to abandon the heights he had so long occupied and to march away.

Gustavus fell into the trap, and prepared at once to assault the position. Two hundred pieces of artillery heralded the advance, which was made by the whole body of the musketeers of the army, drafted from the several brigades and divided into battalions 500 strong, each commanded by a colonel. It was a terrible position which they were advancing to storm. Each of the lines of intrenchments was surmounted by rows of polished helmets, while pikes and arquebuses glittered in the sunshine; but it was not long that the scene was visible, for as the battalions approached the foot of the Altenburg 80 pieces of artillery opened from its summit and from the ridge of the Alte Veste, while the smoke of the arquebuses drifted up in a cloud from the lines of intrenchments.

Steadily and in good order the Scotch and Swedish infantry pressed forward, and forcing the lower ditch strove to climb the rocky heights; but in vain did they strive. Over and over again they reached the intrenchments, but were unable to force their way through the thickly bound fallen trees, while their lines were torn with a storm of iron and lead. Never did the Scottish soldiers of Gustavus fight with greater desperation and valour. Scores of them rolled lifeless down the slope, but fresh men took their places and strove to hack their way through the impenetrable screen through which the Imperialist bullets whistled like hail.

At last, when nigh half their number had fallen, the rest, exhausted, broken, and in disorder, fell suddenly back. Gustavus in person then led on his Finlanders, but these, after a struggle as obstinate and heroic as that of their predecessors, in their turn fell back baffled. The Livonians next made the attempt, but in vain.

In the meantime a sharp conflict had taken place between the Imperial cavalry and the Swedish left wing. Wallenstein's cuirassiers, hidden by the smoke, charged right through a column of Swedish infantry; but this success was counterbalanced by the rout of Cronenberg's Invincibles, a magnificent regiment of 1500 horsemen, by 200 Finland troopers. The troops of Duke Bernhard of Weimar, among whom were still the Scottish regiments of Hamilton and Douglas, marched against the heights which commanded the Alte Veste, and drove back the Imperialists with great loss. Five hundred musketeers of the Green Brigade under Colonel Munro then pushed gallantly forward and posted themselves far in advance, resisting all attempts of the Imperialists to drive them back, until Lieutenant Colonel Sinclair, who was now in command of Munro's own regiment, brought it forward to his assistance. Until the next morning this body of one thousand men maintained the ground they had won in spite of all the efforts of the Imperialists to dislodge them.

Colonel Munro was severely wounded in the left side. Lieutenant Colonel Maken, Capt. Innis, and Capt. Traill were killed, and an immense number of other Scottish officers were killed and wounded. The news was brought down to Gustavus of the advantage gained by Duke Bernhard, but he was unable to take advantage of it by moving his army round to that position, as he would have exposed himself to a counter attack of the enemy while doing so. He therefore launched a fresh column of attack against the Alte Veste.

This was followed by another and yet another, until every regiment in the army had in its turn attempted to storm the position, but still without success.

The battle had now raged for ten hours, and nightfall put an end to the struggle. Hepburn had all day ridden behind the king as a simple cavalier, and had twice carried messages through the thick of the fire when there were no others to bear them, so great had been the slaughter round the person of the king.

It was the first time that Gustavus had been repulsed, and he could hardly yet realize the fact; but as messenger after messenger came in from the different divisions he discovered how terrible had been his loss. Most of his generals and superior officers had been killed or wounded, 2000 men lay dead on the field, and there were nigh three times that number of wounded.

The Imperialists on their side lost 1000 killed and 1500 wounded; but the accounts of the losses on both sides differ greatly, some placing the Imperial loss higher than that of the Swedes, a palpably absurd estimate, as the Imperialists, fighting behind shelter, could not have suffered anything like so heavily as their assailants, who were exposed to their fire in the open.

Hepburn bore the order from the king for Munro's troops and those of Duke Bernhard to retire from the position they had won, as they were entirely cut off from the rest of the army, and would at daylight have had the whole of the Imperialists upon them. The service was one of great danger, and Hepburn had to cut his way sword in hand through the Croats who intervened between him and his comrades of the Green Brigade. He accomplished his task in safety, and before daylight Munro's men and the regiments of Duke Bernhard rejoined the army in the plain. But though repulsed Gustavus was not defeated. He took up a new position just out of cannon shot of the Altenburg, and then offered battle to Wallenstein, the latter, however, well satisfied with his success, remained firm in his policy of starving out the enemy, and resisted every device of the king to turn him from his stronghold.

For fourteen days Gustavus remained in position. Then he could hold out no longer. The supplies were entirely exhausted. The summer had been unusually hot. The shrunken waters of the Pegnitz were putrid and stinking, the carcasses of dead horses poisoned the air, and fever and pestilence raged in the camp. Leaving, then, Kniphausen with eight thousand men to aid the citizens of Nuremberg to defend the city should Wallenstein besiege it, Gustavus marched on the 8th of September by way of Neustadt to Windsheim, and there halted to watch the further movements of the enemy.

Five days later Wallenstein quitted his camp and marched to Forsheim. So far the advantage of the campaign lay with him. His patience and iron resolution had given the first check to the victorious career of the Lion of the North.

Munro's regiment, as it was still called -- for he was now its full colonel, although Lieutenant Colonel Sinclair commanded it in the field -- had suffered terribly, but less, perhaps, than some of those who had in vain attempted to force their way up the slopes of the Alte Veste; and many an eye grew moist as at daybreak the regiment marched into its place in the ranks of the brigade and saw how terrible had been the slaughter among them. Munro's soldiers had had but little of that hand to hand fighting in which men's blood becomes heated and all thought of danger is lost in the fierce desire to kill. Their losses had been caused by the storm of cannonball and bullet which had swept through them, as, panting and breathless, they struggled up the steep slopes, incapable of answering the fire of the enemy. They had had their triumph, indeed, as the Imperial regiments broke and fled before their advance; but although proud that they at least had succeeded in a day when failure was general, there was not a man but regretted that he had not come within push of pike of the enemy.

Malcolm Graheme had passed scatheless through the fray -- a good fortune that had attended but few of his brother officers. His uncle was badly wounded, and several of his friends had fallen. Of the men who had marched from Denmark but a year before scarce a third remained in the ranks, and although the regiment had been strengthened by the breaking up of two or three of the weaker battalions and their incorporation with the other Scottish regiments, it was now less than half its former strength. While Gustavus and Wallenstein had been facing each other at Nuremberg the war had continued without interruption in other parts, and the Swedes and their allies had gained advantages everywhere except in Westphalia and Lower Saxony, where Pappenheim had more than held his own against Baudissen, who commanded for Gustavus; and although Wallenstein had checked the king he had gained no material advantages and had wrested no single town or fortress from his hands. Gustavus was still in Bavaria, nearer to Munich than he was, his garrisons still holding Ulm, Nordlingen, and Donauworth, its strongest fortresses.

He felt sure, however, that it would be impossible for Gustavus to maintain at one spot the army which he had at Windsheim, and that with so many points to defend he would soon break it up into separate commands. He resolved then to wait until he did so, and then to sweep down upon Northern Germany, and so by threatening the king's line of retreat to force him to abandon Bavaria and the south and to march to meet him.

At present he was in no position to risk a battle, for he had already detached 4000 men to reinforce Holk, whom he had sent with 10,000 to threaten Dresden. The 13,000 Bavarians who were with him under Maximilian had separated from him on his way to Forsheim, and on arriving at that place his army numbered but 17,000 men, while Gustavus had more than 40,000 gathered at Windsheim.

Gustavus, on his part, determined to carry out his former projects, to march against Ingolstadt, which he had before failed to capture, and thence to penetrate into Upper Austria. But fearful lest Wallenstein, released from his presence, should attempt to recover the fortresses in Franconia, he despatched half his force under Duke Bernhard to prevent the Imperial general from crossing the Rhine. Could he succeed in doing this he would be in a position to dictate terms to the emperor in Vienna.

On the 12th of October he reached Neuberg, on the Danube, and halted there, awaiting the arrival of his siege train from Donauworth. While making the most vigorous exertions to press on the necessary arrangements for his march against Vienna he received the most urgent messages to return to Saxony. Not only, as he was told, had Wallenstein penetrated into that province, but he was employing all his influence to detach its elector from the Protestant cause, and there was great fear that the weak prince would yield to the solicitations of Wallenstein and to his own jealousy of the King of Sweden.

No sooner, in fact, had Gustavus crossed the Danube than Wallenstein moved towards Schweinfurt, and by so doing drew to that place the Swedish army under the command of Duke Bernhard. He then suddenly marched eastward at full speed, capturing Bamberg, Baireuth, and Culmbach, and pushed on to Colberg.

The town was captured, but the Swedish Colonel Dubatel, who was really a Scotchman, by name M'Dougal, a gallant and brilliant officer, threw himself with his dragoons into the castle, which commanded the town, and defended it so resolutely against the assaults of Wallenstein that Duke Bernhard had time to march to within twenty miles of the place. Wallenstein then raised the siege, marched east to Kronach, and then north to Weida, on the Elster. Thence he pressed on direct to Leipzig, which he besieged at once; and while the main body of his troops were engaged before the city, others took possession of the surrounding towns and fortresses.

Leipzig held out for only two days, and after its capture Wallenstein marched to Merseburg, where he was joined by the army under Pappenheim. Thus reinforced he was in a position to capture the whole of Saxony. The elector, timid and vacillating, was fully conscious of his danger and the solicitations of Wallenstein to break off from his alliance with the King of Sweden and to join the Imperialists were strongly seconded by Marshal Von Arnheim, his most trusted councillor, who was an intimate friend of the Imperialist general.

It was indeed a hard decision which Gustavus was called upon to make. On the one hand Vienna lay almost within his grasp, for Wallenstein was now too far north to interpose between him and the capital. On the other hand, should the Elector of Saxony join the Imperialists, his position after the capture of Vienna would be perilous in the extreme. The emperor would probably leave his capital before he arrived there, and the conquest would, therefore, be a barren one. Gustavus reluctantly determined to abandon his plan, and to march to the assistance of Saxony.



Chapter XVII The Death Of Gustavus


The determination of Gustavus to march to the assistance of Saxony once taken, he lost not a moment in carrying it into effect. General Banner, whom he greatly trusted, was unfortunately suffering from a wound, and until he should recover he appointed the Prince Palatine of Burkenfeldt to command a corps 12,000 strong which he determined to leave on the Danube; then strengthening the garrisons of Augsburg, Rain, and Donauworth, he set out with the remainder of his army on his march to Saxony.

From Donauworth he marched to Nuremberg, stayed there forty-eight hours to recover the fortress of Lauf, and, having forced the garrison of that place to surrender at discretion, pushed on with all possible speed to Erfurt, which he had fixed upon as the point of junction for his several corps. The Green Brigade formed a portion of the force which Gustavus left behind him in Bavaria under the Prince Palatine. So terribly weakened were the Scottish regiments by the various battles of the campaign, in all of which they had borne the brunt of the fighting, that Gustavus determined reluctantly to leave them behind for rest and reorganization.

Hepburn, Sir James Hamilton, Sir James Ramsay, and the Marquis of Hamilton, who like Hepburn had quarrelled with Gustavus, left the Swedish army the day after they arrived at Neustadt, after marching away from Nuremberg. All the Scottish officers in the Swedish army accompanied Hepburn and his three companions along the road for a long German mile from Neustadt, and then parted with great grief from the gallant cavalier who had led them so often to victory.

Malcolm Graheme did not remain behind in Bavaria with his comrades of the Green Brigade. Gustavus, who had taken a great fancy to the young Scotch officer, whose spirit of adventure and daring were in strong harmony with his own character, appointed him to ride on his own personal staff. Although he parted with regret from his comrades, Malcolm was glad to accompany the king on his northward march, for there was no probability of any very active service in Bavaria, and it was certain that a desperate battle would be fought when Gustavus and Wallenstein met face to face in the open field.

At Erfurt Gustavus was joined by Duke Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar with his force, which raised his army to a strength of 20,000. The news of his approach had again revived the courage of the Elector of Saxony, who had occupied the only towns where the Elbe could be crossed, Dresden, Torgau, and Wittenberg -- he himself, with his main army of 15,000 men, lying at Torgau. From him Gustavus learned that the Imperial army was divided into three chief corps -- that of Wallenstein 12,000 strong, that of Pappenheim 10,000, those of Gallas and Holk united 16,000, making a total of 38,000 men.

So great was the speed with which Gustavus had marched to Erfurt that Wallenstein had received no notice of his approach; and believing that for some time to come he should meet with no serious opposition, he had on the very day after the Swedes reached Erfurt despatched Gallas with 12,000 men into Bohemia. A division of his troops was at the same time threatening Naumburg, whose possession would enable him to block the only easy road with which Gustavus could enter the country held by him.

But Gustavus at Erfurt learned that Naumburg had not yet fallen, and marching with great rapidity reached the neighbourhood of that town before the Imperialists were aware that he had quitted Erfurt, and cutting up a small detachment of the enemy who lay in his way, entered the town and at once began to intrench it. Wallenstein first learned from the fugitives of the beaten detachment that Gustavus had arrived at Naumburg, but as his own position lay almost centrally between Naumburg and Torgau, so long as he could prevent the Swedes and Saxons from uniting, he felt safe; for although together they would outnumber him, he was superior in strength to either if alone. The Imperialist general believed that Gustavus intended to pass the winter at Naumburg, and he had therefore no fear of an immediate attack.

In order to extend the area from which he could draw his supplies Wallenstein despatched Pappenheim to secure the fortress of Halle; for although that town had been captured the fortress held out, and barred the main road to the north. From Halle Pappenheim was to proceed to the relief of Cologne, which was menaced by the enemy.

Having done this, Wallenstein withdrew from the line of the Saale and prepared to distribute his army in winter quarters in the towns of the district, he himself with a portion of the force occupying the little town of Lutzen. But Gustavus had no idea of taking up his quarters for the winter at Naumburg; and he proposed to the Elector of Saxony that if he would march to Eilenberg, midway to Leipzig, he himself would make a detour to the south round Wallenstein's position and join him there. Without waiting to receive the answer of the elector, Gustavus, leaving a garrison in Naumburg, set out at one o'clock in the morning on the 5th of November on his march; but before he had proceeded nine miles he learned from a number of gentlemen and peasants favourable to the cause that Pappenheim had started for Halle, that the remainder of the Imperial army lay dispersed among the towns and villages of the neighbourhood, and that Wallenstein himself was at Lutzen.

Gustavus called his generals together and informed them of the news. Learning that Lutzen was but five miles distant -- as it turned out, a mistaken piece of information, as it was nearly twice as far -- he ordered that the men should take some food, and then wheeling to the left, push on towards Lutzen.

It was not until some time later that Wallenstein learned from the Imperial scouts that Gustavus was upon him. It was then nearly five o'clock in the evening, and darkness was at hand. Considering the heavy state of the roads, and the fact that Gustavus would have in the last three miles of his march to traverse a morass crossed by a bridge over which only two persons could pass abreast, he felt confident that the attack could not be made until the following morning.

Mounted messengers were sent in all directions to bring up his troops from the villages in which they were posted, and in the meantime the troops stationed around Lutzen were employed in preparing obstacles to hinder the advance of the Swedes. On either side of the roads was a low swampy country intersected with ditches, and Wallenstein at once set his men to work to widen and deepen these ditches, which the troops as they arrived on the ground were to occupy. All night the troops laboured at this task.

In the meantime Gustavus had found the distance longer and the difficulties greater than he had anticipated; the roads were so heavy that it was with difficulty that the artillery and ammunition wagons could be dragged along them, and the delay caused by the passage of the morass was very great.

Indeed the passage would have been scarcely possible had the men of an Imperial regiment of cuirassiers and a battalion of Croats, who were posted in a village on the further side of the morass, defended it; but instead of doing so they fell back to an eminence in the rear of the village, and remained there quietly until, just as the sun set, the whole Swedish army got across. The cuirassiers and Croats were at once attacked and put to flight; but as darkness was now at hand it was impossible for Gustavus to make any further advance, and the army was ordered to bivouac as it stood. The state of the roads had defeated the plans of Gustavus. Instead of taking the enemy by surprise, as he had hoped, and falling upon them scattered and disunited, the delays which had occurred had given Wallenstein time to bring up all his forces, and at daybreak Gustavus would be confronted by a force nearly equal to his own, and occupying a position very strongly defended by natural obstacles.

Before the day was won, Pappenheim, for whom Wallenstein would have sent as soon as he heard of the Swedish advance, might be on the field, and in that case the Imperialists would not only have the advantage of position but also that of numbers. It was an anxious night, and Gustavus spent the greater part of it in conversation with his generals, especially Kniphausen and Duke Bernhard.

The former strongly urged that the army should repass the morass and march, as originally intended, to effect a junction with the Saxons. He pointed out that the troops were fatigued with their long and weary march during the day, and would have to fight without food, as it had been found impossible to bring up the wagons with the supplies; he particularly urged the point that Pappenheim would arrive on the field before the victory could be won. But Gustavus was of opinion that the disadvantages of retreat were greater than those of action. The troops, hungry, weary, and dispirited, would be attacked as they retired, and he believed that by beginning the action early the Imperialists could be defeated before Pappenheim could return from Halle.

Gustavus proposed to move forward at two o'clock in the morning; but fate was upon this occasion against the great Swedish leader. Just as on the previous day the expected length of the march and the heavy state of the roads had prevented him from crushing Wallenstein's scattered army, so now a thick fog springing up, making the night so dark that a soldier could not see the man standing next to him, prevented the possibility of movement, and instead of marching at two o'clock in the morning it was nine before the sun cleared away the fog sufficiently to enable the army to advance. Then, after addressing a few stirring words to his men, Gustavus ordered the advance towards Chursitz, the village in front of them.

The king himself led the right wing, consisting of six regiments of Swedes, supported by musketeers intermingled with cavalry. The left, composed of cavalry and infantry intermixed, was commanded by Duke Bernhard. The centre, consisting of four brigades of infantry supported by the Scottish regiments under Henderson, was commanded by Nicholas Brahe, Count of Weissenburg.

The reserves behind each of these divisions were formed entirely of cavalry, commanded on the right by Bulach, in the centre by Kniphausen, and on the left by Ernest, Prince of Anhalt. The field pieces, twenty in number, were disposed to the best advantage between the wings. Franz Albert of Lauenburg, who had joined the army the day before, rode by the king. A short halt was made at Chursitz, where the baggage was left behind, and the army then advanced against the Imperialists, who at once opened fire.

Wallenstein had posted his left so as to be covered by a canal, while his right was protected by the village of Lutzen. On some rising ground to the left of that village, where there were several windmills, he planted fourteen small pieces of cannon, while to support his front, which was composed of the musketeers in the ditches on either side of the road, he planted a battery of seven heavy pieces of artillery.

The main body of his infantry he formed into four massive brigades, which were flanked on both sides by musketeers intermixed with cavalry. Count Coloredo commanded on the left, Holk on the right, Terzky in the centre.

As the Swedish army advanced beyond Chursitz the seven heavy pieces of artillery on the side of the road opened upon them, doing much execution, while their own lighter guns could not reply effectively. The Swedes pressed forward to come to close quarters. The left wing, led by Duke Bernhard, was the first to arrive upon the scene of action. Gallantly led by the duke his men forced the ditches, cleared the road, charged the deadly battery, killed or drove away the gunners, and rushed with fury on the Imperialist right.

Holk, a resolute commander, tried in vain to stem the assault; the ardour of the Swedes was irresistible, and they scattered, one after the other, his three brigades. The battle seemed already lost when Wallenstein himself took his place at the head of the fourth brigade, and fell upon the Swedes, who were disordered by the rapidity and ardour of their charge, while at the same moment he launched three regiments of cavalry on their flanks.

The Swedes fought heroically but in vain; step by step they were driven back, the battery was recaptured, and the guns, which in the excitement of the advance the captors had omitted to spike, were retaken by the Imperialists.

In the meantime on the right the king had also forced the road, and had driven from the field the Croats and Poles opposed to him, and he was on the point of wheeling his troops to fall on the flank of the Imperialist centre when one of Duke Bernhard's aides-de-camp dashed up with the news that the left wing had fallen back broken and in disorder.

Leaving to Count Stalhaus to continue to press the enemy, Gustavus, accompanied by his staff, rode at full gallop to the left at the head of Steinboch's regiment of dragoons. Arrived on the spot he dashed to the front at a point where his men had not yet been forced back across the road, and riding among them roused them to fresh exertions. By his side were Franz Albert of Lauenberg and a few other followers. But his pace had been so furious that Steinboch's dragoons had not yet arrived. As he urged on his broken men Gustavus was struck in the shoulder by a musketball. He reeled in his saddle, but exclaimed, "It is nothing," and ordered them to charge the enemy with the dragoons. Malcolm Graheme and others on his staff hesitated, but the king exclaimed, "Ride all, the duke will see to me." The cavalry dashed forward, and the king, accompanied only by Franz Albert, Duke of Lauenberg, turned to leave the field, but he had scarcely moved a few paces when he received another shot in the back. Calling out to Franz Albert that it was all over with him, the mortally wounded king fell to the ground.

Franz Albert, believing the battle lost, galloped away; the king's page alone remained with the dying man. A minute later three Austrian cuirassiers rode up, and demanded the name of the dying man. The page Leubelfing refused to give it, and firing their pistols at him they stretched him mortally wounded beside the dying king. Gustavus then, but with difficulty, said who he was. The troopers leapt from their horses and stripped his rich armour from him, and then, as they saw Steinboch's dragoons returning from their charge, they placed their pistols close to the king's head and fired, and then leaping on their horses fled.

Great was the grief when Malcolm, happening to ride near the body, recognized it as that of the king. An instant later a regiment of Imperialist cavalry charged down, and a furious fight took place for some minutes over the king's body. It was, however, at last carried off by the Swedes, so disfigured by wounds and by the trampling of the horses in the fray as to be unrecognizable.

The news of the fall of their king, which spread rapidly through the ranks, so far from discouraging the Swedes, inspired them with a desperate determination to avenge his death, and burning with fury they advanced against the enemy, yet preserving the most perfect steadiness and order in their ranks.

In vain did Wallenstein and his officers strive to stem the attack of the left wing, their bravery and skill availed nothing to arrest that furious charge. Regiment after regiment who strove to bar their way were swept aside, the guns near the windmills were captured and turned against the enemy. Step by step the Imperial right wing was forced back, and the centre was assailed in flank by the guns from the rising ground, while Stalhaus with the right wing of the Swedes attacked them on their left.

Hopeless of victory the Imperialist centre was giving way, when the explosion of one of their powder wagons still further shook them. Attacked on both flanks and in front the Imperialist centre wavered, and in a few minutes would have been in full flight. The Swedish victory seemed assured, when a mighty trampling of horse was heard, and emerging from the smoke Pappenheim with eight regiments of Imperial cavalry dashed into the fray.

Pappenheim had already captured the citadel of Halle when Wallenstein's messenger reached him. To wait until his infantry, who were engaged in plundering, could be collected, and then to proceed at their pace to the field of battle, would be to arrive too late to be of service, and Pappenheim instantly placed himself at the head of his eight regiments of magnificent cavalry, and galloped at full speed to the battlefield eighteen miles distant. On the way he met large numbers of flying Poles and Croats, the remnants of the Austrian left, who had been driven from the field by Gustavus; these he rallied, and with them dashed upon the troops of Stalhaus who were pursuing them, and forced them backward. The relief afforded to the Imperialists by this opportune arrival was immense, and leaving Pappenheim to deal with the Swedish right, Wallenstein rallied his own right on the centre, and opposed a fresh front to the advancing troops of Duke Bernhard and Kniphausen. Inspirited by the arrival of the reinforcements, and burning to turn what had just appeared a defeat into a victory, the Imperialists advanced with such ardour that the Swedes were driven back, the guns on the hills recaptured, and it seemed that in this terrible battle victory was at last to declare itself in favour of the Imperialists.

It needed only the return of Pappenheim from the pursuit of the Swedish right to decide the day, but Pappenheim was not to come. Though driven back by the first impetuous charge of the Imperial cavalry, the Swedes under Stalhaus, reinforced by the Scottish regiments under Henderson, stubbornly opposed their further attacks.

While leading his men forward Pappenheim fell with two musketballs through his body. While lying there the rumour for the first time reached him that Gustavus had been killed. When upon inquiry the truth of the rumour was confirmed, the eyes of the dying man lighted up.

"Tell Wallenstein," he said to the officer nearest to him, "that I am lying here without hope of life, but I die gladly, knowing, as I now know, that the irreconcilable enemy of my faith has fallen on the same day."

The Imperialists, discouraged by the fall of their general, could not withstand the ardour with which the Swedes and Scottish infantry attacked them, and the cavalry rode from the field. Elsewhere the battle was still raging. Wallenstein's right and centre had driven Count Bernhard, the Duke of Brahe, and Kniphausen across that desperately contested road, but beyond this they could not force them, so stubbornly and desperately did they fight. But Stalhaus and his men, refreshed and invigorated by their victory over Pappenheim's force, again came up and took their part in the fight. Wallenstein had no longer a hope of victory, he fought now only to avoid defeat. The sun had already set, and if he could but maintain his position for another half hour darkness would save his army.

He fell back across the road again, fighting stubbornly and in good order, and extending his line to the left to prevent Stalhaus from turning his flank; and in this order the terrible struggle continued till nightfall. Both sides fought with splendid bravery. The Swedes, eager for the victory once again apparently within their grasp, pressed on with fury, while the Imperialists opposed them with the most stubborn obstinacy.

Seven times did Piccolomini charge with his cavalry upon the advancing Swedes. Seven times was his horse shot under him, but remounting each time, he drew off his men in good order, and in readiness to dash forward again at the first opportunity. The other Imperialist generals fought with equal courage and coolness, while Wallenstein, present wherever the danger was thickest, animated all by his courage and coolness. Though forced step by step to retire, the Imperialists never lost their formation, never turned their backs to the foe; and thus the fight went on till the darkness gathered thicker and thicker, the combatants could no longer see each other, and the desperate battle came to an end.

In the darkness, Wallenstein drew off his army and fell back to Leipzig, leaving behind him his colours and all his guns. In thus doing he threw away the opportunity of turning what his retreat acknowledged to be a defeat into a victory on the following morning, for scarcely had he left the field when the six regiments of Pappenheim's infantry arrived from Halle. Had he held his ground he could have renewed the battle in the morning, with the best prospects of success, for the struggle of the preceding day had been little more than a drawn battle, and the accessions of fresh troops should have given him a decided advantage over the weary Swedes. The newcomers, finding the field deserted, and learning from the wounded lying thickly over it that Wallenstein had retreated, at once marched away.

In the Swedish camp there was no assurance whatever that a victory had been gained, for nightfall had fallen on the Imperialists fighting as stubbornly as ever. The loss of the king, the master spirit of the war, dispirited and discouraged them, and Duke Bernhard and Kniphausen held in the darkness an anxious consultation as to whether the army should not at once retreat to Weissenburg. The plan was not carried out, only because it was considered that it was impracticable -- as the army would be exposed to destruction should the Imperialists fall upon them while crossing the terrible morass in their rear.

The morning showed them that the Imperialists had disappeared, and that the mighty struggle had indeed been a victory for them -- a victory won rather by the superior stubbornness with which the Swedish generals held their ground during the night, while Wallenstein fell back, than to the splendid courage with which the troops had fought on the preceding day. But better far would it have been for the cause which the Swedes championed, that they should have been driven a defeated host from the field of Lutzen, than that they should have gained a barren victory at the cost of the life of their gallant monarch -- the soul of the struggle, the hope of Protestantism, the guiding spirit of the coalition against Catholicism as represented by Ferdinand of Austria.

The losses in the battle were about equal, no less than 9000 having fallen upon each side -- a proportion without precedent in any battle of modern times, and testifying to the obstinacy and valour with which on both sides the struggle was maintained from early morning until night alone terminated it.

It is said, indeed, that every man, both of the yellow regiments of Swedish guards and of the blue regiments, composed entirely of English and Scotchmen, lay dead on the field. On both sides many men of high rank were killed. On the Swedish side, besides Gustavus himself, fell Count Milo, the Count of Brahe, General Uslar, Ernest Prince of Anhalt, and Colonels Gersdorf and Wildessein. On the Imperialist side Pappenheim, Schenk, Prince and Abbot of Fulda, Count Berthold Wallenstein, General Brenner, Issolani, general of the Croats, and six colonels were killed. Piccolomini received ten wounds, but none of them were mortal.

Holk was severely wounded, and, indeed, so close and desperate was the conflict, that it is said there was scarcely a man in the Imperial army who escaped altogether without a wound.



Chapter XVIII Wounded


A controversy, which has never been cleared up, has long raged as to the death of Gustavus of Sweden; but the weight of evidence is strongly in favour of those who affirm that he received his fatal wound, that in the back, at the hand of Franz Albert of Lauenburg. The circumstantial evidence is, indeed, almost overwhelming. By birth the duke was the youngest of four sons of Franz II, Duke of Lauenburg. On his mother's side he was related to the Swedish royal family, and in his youth lived for some time at the court of Stockholm.

Owing to some impertinent remarks in reference to Gustavus he fell into disfavour with the queen, and had to leave Sweden. On attaining manhood he professed the Catholic faith, entered the Imperial army, obtained the command of a regiment, attached himself with much devotion to Wallenstein, and gained the confidence of that general. While the negotiations between the emperor and Wallenstein were pending Franz Albert was employed by the latter in endeavouring to bring about a secret understanding with the court of Dresden.

When Gustavus was blockaded in Nuremberg by Wallenstein Franz Albert left the camp of the latter and presented himself in that of Gustavus as a convert to the Reformed Religion and anxious to serve as a volunteer under him. No quarrel or disagreement had, so far as is known, taken place between him and Wallenstein, nor has any explanation ever been given for such an extraordinary change of sides, made, too, at a moment when it seemed that Gustavus was in a position almost desperate. By his profession of religious zeal he managed to win the king's heart, but Oxenstiern, when he saw him, entertained a profound distrust of him, and even warned the king against putting confidence in this sudden convert.

Gustavus, however, naturally frank and open in disposition, could not believe that treachery was intended, and continued to treat him with kindness. After the assault made by Gustavus upon Wallenstein's position Franz Albert quitted his camp, saying that he was desirous of raising some troops for his service in his father's territory. He rejoined him, however, with only his personal followers, on the very day before the battle of Lutzen, and was received by Gustavus with great cordiality, although the absence of his retainers increased the general doubts as to his sincerity.

He was by the king's side when Gustavus received his first wound. He was riding close behind him when the king received his second and fatal wound in the back, and the moment the king had fallen he rode away from the field, and it is asserted that it was he who brought the news of the king's death to Wallenstein.

Very soon after the battle he exchanged the Swedish service for the Saxon, and some eighteen months later he re-embraced the Roman Catholic faith and re-entered the Imperial army.

A stronger case of circumstantial evidence could hardly be put together, and it would certainly seem as if Lauenburg had entered the Swedish service with the intention of murdering the king. That he did not carry out his purpose during the attack on the Altenburg was perhaps due to the fact that Gustavus may not have been in such a position as to afford him an opportunity of doing so with safety to himself.

It is certainly curious that after that fight he should have absented himself, and only rejoined on the eve of the battle of Lutzen. The only piece of evidence in his favour is that of Truchsess, a chamberlain of the king, who, affirmed that he saw the fatal shot fired at a distance of ten paces from the king by an Imperial officer, Lieutenant General Falkenberg, who at once turned and fled, but was pursued and cut down by Luckau, master of horse of Franz Albert.

The general opinion of contemporary writers is certainly to the effect that the King of Sweden was murdered by Franz Albert; but the absolute facts must ever remain in doubt.

On the morning after the battle Wallenstein, having been joined by Pappenheim's infantry, sent a division of Croats back to the battlefield to take possession of it should they find that the Swedes had retired; but on their report that they still held the ground he retired at once from Leipzig, and, evacuating Saxony, marched into Bohemia, leaving the Swedes free to accomplish their junction with the army of the Elector, thus gaining the object for which they had fought at Lutzen.

After the death of the king, Malcolm Graheme, full of grief and rage at the loss of the monarch who was loved by all his troops, and had treated him with special kindness, joined the soldiers of Duke Bernhard, and took part in the charge which swept back the Imperialists and captured the cannon on the hill. At the very commencement of the struggle his horse fell dead under him, and he fought on foot among the Swedish infantry; but when the arrival of Pappenheim on the field enabled the Imperialists again to assume the offensive, Malcolm, having picked up a pike from the hands of a dead soldier, fought shoulder to shoulder in the ranks as the Swedes, contesting stubbornly every foot of the ground, were gradually driven back towards the road.

Suddenly a shot struck him; he reeled backwards a few feet, strove to steady himself and to level his pike, and then all consciousness left him, and he fell prostrate. Again and again, as the fortune of the desperate fray wavered one way or the other, did friend and foe pass over the place where he lay.

So thickly strewn was the field with dead that the combatants in their desperate struggle had long ceased to pick their way over the fallen, but trampled ruthlessly upon and over them as, hoarsely shouting their battle cry, they either pressed forward after the slowly retreating foe or with obstinate bravery strove to resist the charges of the enemy. When Malcolm recovered his consciousness all was still, save that here and there a faint moan was heard from others who like himself lay wounded on the battlefield. The night was intensely dark, and Malcolm's first sensation was that of bitter cold.

It was indeed freezing severely, and great numbers of the wounded who might otherwise have survived were frozen to death before morning; but a few, and among these were Malcolm, were saved by the frost. Although unconscious of the fact, he had been wounded in two places. The first ball had penetrated his breastpiece and had entered his body, and a few seconds later another ball had struck him in the arm. It was the first wound which had caused his insensibility; but from the second, which had severed one of the principal veins in the arm, he would have bled to death had it not been for the effects of the cold. For a time the life blood had flowed steadily away; but as the cold increased it froze and stiffened on his jerkin, and at last the wound was staunched.

It was none too soon, for before it ceased to flow Malcolm had lost a vast quantity of blood. It was hours before nature recovered from the drain. Gradually and slowly he awoke from his swoon. It was some time before he realized where he was and what had happened, then gradually his recollection of the fight returned to him.

"I remember now," he murmured to himself, "I was fighting with the Swedish infantry when a shot struck me in the body, I think, for I seemed to feel a sudden pain like a red hot iron. Who won the day, I wonder? How bitterly cold it is! I feel as if I were freezing to death."

So faint and stiff was he, partly from loss of blood, partly from being bruised from head to foot by being trampled on again and again as the ranks of the combatants swept over him, that it was some time before he was capable of making the slightest movement. His left arm was, he found, entirely useless; it was indeed firmly frozen to the ground; but after some difficulty he succeeded in moving his right, and felt for the flask which had hung from his girdle.

So frozen and stiff were his fingers that he was unable to unbuckle the strap which fastened it; but, drawing his dagger, he at last cut through this, and removing the stopper of the flask, took a long draught of the wine with which it was filled. The relief which it afforded him was almost instantaneous, and he seemed to feel life again coursing in his veins.

After a while he was sufficiently restored to be enabled to get from his havresack some bread and meat which he had placed there after finishing his breakfast on the previous morning. He ate a few mouthfuls, took another long draught of wine, and then felt that he could hope to hold on until morning. He was unable to rise even into a sitting position, nor would it have availed him had he been able to walk, for he knew not where the armies were lying, nor could he have proceeded a yard in any direction without falling over the bodies which so thickly strewed the ground around him.

Though in fact it wanted but two hours of daylight when he recovered consciousness, the time appeared interminable; but at last, to his delight, a faint gleam of light spread across the sky. Stronger and stronger did it become until the day was fairly broken. It was another hour before he heard voices approaching. Almost holding his breath he listened as they approached, and his heart gave a throb of delight as he heard that they were speaking in Swedish. A victory had been won, then, for had it not been so, it would have been the Imperialists, not the Swedes, who would have been searching the field of battle.

"There are but few alive," one voice said, "the cold has finished the work which the enemy began."

Malcolm, unable to rise, lifted his arm and held it erect to call the attention of the searchers; it was quickly observed.

"There is some one still alive," the soldier exclaimed, "an officer, too; by his scarf and feathers he belongs to the Green Brigade."

"These Scotchmen are as hard as iron," another voice said; "come, bring a stretcher along."

They were soon by the side of Malcolm.

"Drink this, sir," one said, kneeling beside him and placing a flask of spirits to his lips; "that will warm your blood, I warrant, and you must be well nigh frozen."

Malcolm took a few gulps at the potent liquor, then he had strength to say:

"There is something the matter with my left arm, I can't move it, and I think I am hit in the body."

"You are hit in the body, sure enough," the man said, "for there is a bullet hole through your cuirass, and your jerkin below it is all stained with blood. You have been hit in the left arm too, and the blood is frozen to the ground; but we will soon free that for you. But before trying to do that we will cut open the sleeve of your jerkin and bandage your arm, or the movement may set it off bleeding again, and you have lost a pool of blood already."

Very carefully the soldiers did their work, and then placing Malcolm on the stretcher carried him away to the camp. Here the surgeons were all hard at work attending to the wounded who were brought in. They had already been busy all night, as those whose hurts had not actually disabled them found their way into the camp. As he was a Scotch officer he was carried to the lines occupied by Colonel Henderson with his Scotch brigade. He was known to many of the officers personally, and no time was lost in attending to him. He was nearly unconscious again by the time that he reached the camp, for the movement had caused the wound in his body to break out afresh.

His armour was at once unbuckled, and his clothes having been cut the surgeons proceeded to examine his wounds. They shook their heads as they did so. Passing a probe into the wound they found that the ball, breaking one of the ribs in its course, had gone straight on. They turned him gently over.

"Here it is," the surgeon said, producing a flattened bullet. The missile indeed had passed right through the body and had flattened against the back piece, which its force was too far spent to penetrate.

"Is the case hopeless, doctor?" one of the officers who was looking on asked.

"It is well nigh hopeless," the doctor said, "but it is just possible that it has not touched any vital part. The lad is young, and I judge that he has not ruined his constitution, as most of you have done, by hard drinking, so that there is just a chance for him. There is nothing for me to do but to put a piece of lint over the two holes, bandage it firmly, and leave it to nature. Now let me look at his arm.

"Ah!" he went on as he examined the wound, "he has had a narrow escape here. The ball has cut a vein and missed the principal artery by an eighth of an inch. If that had been cut he would have bled to death in five minutes. Evidently the lad has luck on his side, and I begin to think we may save him if we can only keep him quiet."

At the earnest request of the surgeons tents were brought up and a hospital established on some rising ground near the field of battle for the serious cases among the wounded, and when the army marched away to join the Saxons at Leipzig a brigade was left encamped around the hospital.

Here for three weeks Malcolm lay between life and death. The quantity of blood he had lost was greatly in his favour, as it diminished the risk of inflammation, while his vigorous constitution and the life of fatigue and activity which he had led greatly strengthened his power. By a miracle the bullet in its passage had passed through without injuring any of the vital parts; and though his convalescence was slow it was steady, and even at the end of the first week the surgeons were able to pronounce a confident opinion that he would get over it.

But it was not until the end of the month that he was allowed to move from his recumbent position. A week later and he was able to sit up. On the following day, to his surprise, the Count of Mansfeld strode into his tent.

"Ah! my young friend," he exclaimed, "I am glad indeed to see you so far recovered. I came to Leipzig with the countess and my daughter; for Leipzig at present is the centre where all sorts of political combinations are seething as in a cooking pot. It is enough to make one sick of humanity and ashamed of one's country when one sees the greed which is displayed by every one, from the highest of the princes down to petty nobles who can scarce set twenty men in the field.

"Each and all are struggling to make terms by which he may better himself, and may add a province or an acre, as the case may be, to his patrimony at the expense of his neighbours. Truly I wonder that the noble Oxenstiern, who represents Sweden, does not call together the generals and troops of that country from all parts and march away northward, leaving these greedy princes and nobles to fight their own battles, and make the best terms they may with their Imperial master.

"But there, all that does not interest you at present; but I am so full of spleen and disgust that I could not help letting it out. We arrived there a week since, and of course one of our first inquiries was for you, and we heard to our grief that the Imperialists had shot one of their bullets through your body and another through your arm. This, of course, would have been sufficient for any ordinary carcass; but I knew my Scotchman, and was not surprised when they told me you were mending fast.

"I had speech yesterday with an officer who had ridden over from this camp, and he told me that the doctors said you were now convalescent, but would need repose and quiet for some time before you could again buckle on armour. The countess, when I told her, said at once, 'Then we will take him away back with us to Mansfeld.' Thekla clapped her hands and said, 'That will be capital! we will look after him, and he shall tell us stories about the wars.'

"So the thing was settled at once. I have brought over with me a horse litter, and have seen your surgeon, who says that although it will be some weeks before you can sit on a horse without the risk of your wound bursting out internally, there is no objection to your progression in a litter by easy stages; so that is settled, and the doctor will write to your colonel saying that it will be some months before you are fit for duty, and that he has therefore ordered you change and quiet.

"You need not be afraid of neglecting your duty or of getting out of the way of risking your life in harebrained ventures, for there will be no fighting till the spring. Everyone is negotiating at present, and you will be back with your regiment before fighting begins again. Well, what do you say?"

"I thank you, indeed," Malcolm replied. "It will of all things be the most pleasant; the doctor has told me that I shall not be fit for duty until the spring, and I have been wondering how ever I should be able to pass the time until then."

"Then we will be off without a minute's delay," the count said. "I sent off the litter last night and started myself at daybreak, promising the countess to be back with you ere nightfall, so we have no time to lose."

The news soon spread that Malcolm Graheme was about to leave the camp, and many of the Scottish officers came in to say adieu to him; but time pressed, and half an hour after the arrival of the count he started for Leipzig with Malcolm in a litter swung between two horses. As they travelled at a foot pace Malcolm did not find the journey uneasy, but the fresh air and motion soon made him drowsy, and he was fast asleep before he had left the camp an hour, and did not awake until the sound of the horses' hoofs on stone pavements told him that they were entering the town of Leipzig.

A few minutes later he was lying on a couch in the comfortable apartments occupied by the count, while the countess with her own hands was administering refreshments to him, and Thekla was looking timidly on, scarce able to believe that this pale and helpless invalid was the stalwart young Scottish soldier of whose adventures she was never weary of talking.



Chapter XIX A Pause In Hostilities


Never had Malcolm Graheme spent a more pleasant time than the two months which he passed at Mansfeld. Travelling by very easy stages there he was so far convalescent upon his arrival that he was able to move about freely and could soon ride on horseback. For the time the neighbourhood of Mansfeld was undisturbed by the peasants or combatants on either side, and the count had acted with such vigour against any parties of brigands and marauders who might approach the vicinity of Mansfeld, or the country under his control, that a greater security of life and property existed than in most other parts of Germany. The ravages made by war were speedily effaced, and although the peasants carried on their operations in the fields without any surety as to who would gather the crops, they worked free from the harassing tyranny of the petty bands of robbers.

As soon as he was strong enough Malcolm rode with the count on his visits to the different parts of his estates, joined in several parties got up to hunt the boar in the hills, or to make war on a small scale against the wolves which, since the outbreak of the troubles, had vastly increased in number, committing great depredations upon the flocks and herds, and rendering it dangerous for the peasants to move between their villages except in strong parties.

The evenings were passed pleasantly and quietly. The countess would read aloud or would play on the zither, with which instrument she would accompany herself while she sang. Thekla would sit at her embroidery and would chat merrily to Malcolm, and ask many questions about Scotland and the life which the ladies led in that, as she asserted, "cold and desolate country." Sometimes the count's chaplain would be present and would gravely discuss theological questions with the count, wearying Malcolm and Thekla so excessively, that they would slip away from the others and play checkers or cards on a little table in a deep oriel window where their low talk and laughter did not disturb the discussions of their elders.

Once Malcolm was absent for two days on a visit to the village in the mountains he had so much aided in defending. Here he was joyfully received, and was glad to find that war had not penetrated to the quiet valley, and that prosperity still reigned there. Malcolm lingered at Mansfeld for some time after he felt that his strength was sufficiently restored to enable him to rejoin his regiment; but he knew that until the spring commenced no great movement of troops would take place, and he was so happy with his kind friends, who treated him completely as one of the family, that he was loath indeed to tear himself away. At last he felt that he could no longer delay, and neither the assurances of the count that the Protestant cause could dispense with his doughty services for a few weeks longer, or the tears of Thekla and her insistance that he could not care for them or he would not be in such a hurry to leave, could detain him longer, and mounting a horse with which the count had presented him he rode away to rejoin his regiment.

No military movements of importance had taken place subsequent to the battle of Lutzen. Oxenstiern had laboured night and day to repair as far as possible the effects of the death of Gustavus. He had been left by the will of the king regent of Sweden until the king's daughter, now a child of six years old, came of age, and he at once assumed the supreme direction of affairs. It was essential to revive the drooping courage of the weaker states, to meet the secret machinations of the enemy, to allay the jealousy of the more powerful allies, to arouse the friendly powers, France in particular, to active assistance, and above all to repair the ruined edifice of the German alliance and to reunite the scattered strength of the party by a close and permanent bond of union.

Had the emperor at this moment acted wisely Oxenstiern's efforts would have been in vain. Wallenstein, farseeing and broad minded, saw the proper course to pursue, and strongly urged upon the emperor the advisability of declaring a universal amnesty, and of offering favourable conditions to the Protestant princes, who, dismayed at the loss of their great champion, would gladly accept any proposals which would ensure the religious liberty for which they had fought; but the emperor, blinded by this unexpected turn of fortune and infatuated by Spanish counsels, now looked to a complete triumph and to enforce his absolute will upon the whole of Germany.

Instead, therefore, of listening to the wise counsels of Wallenstein he hastened to augment his forces. Spain sent him considerable supplies, negotiated for him with the ever vacillating Elector of Saxony, and levied troops for him in Italy. The Elector of Bavaria increased his army, and the Duke of Lorraine prepared again to take part in the struggle which now seemed to offer him an easy opportunity of increasing his dominions. For a time the Elector of Saxony, the Duke of Brunswick, and many others of the German princes wavered; but when they saw that Ferdinand, so far from being disposed to offer them favourable terms to detach them from the league, was preparing with greater vigour than ever to overwhelm them, they perceived that their interest was to remain faithful to their ally, and at a great meeting of princes and deputies held at Heilbronn the alliance was re-established on a firmer basis.

Before, however, the solemn compact was ratified scarce one of the German princes and nobles but required of Oxenstiern the gratification of private greed and ambition, and each bargained for some possession either already wrested or to be afterwards taken from the enemy. To the Landgrave of Hesse the abbacies of Paderborn, Corvey, Munster, and Fulda were promised, to Duke Bernhard of Weimar the Franconian bishoprics, to the Duke of Wurtemburg the ecclesiastical domains and the Austrian counties lying within his territories, all to be held as fiefs of Sweden.

Oxenstiern, an upright and conscientious man, was disgusted at the greed of these princes and nobles who professed to be warring solely in defence of their religious liberties, and he once exclaimed that he would have it entered in the Swedish archives as an everlasting memorial that a prince of the German empire made a request for such and such territory from a Swedish nobleman, and that the Swedish noble complied with the request by granting him German lands. However, the negotiations were at last completed, the Saxons marched towards Lusatia and Silesia to act in conjunction with Count Thurn against the Austrians in that quarter, a part of the Swedish army was led by the Duke of Weimar into Franconia, and the other by George, Duke of Brunswick, into Westphalia and Lower Saxony.

When Gustavus had marched south from Ingolstadt on the news of Wallenstein's entry into Saxony he had left the Count Palatine of Birkenfeld and General Banner to maintain the Swedish conquests in Bavaria. These generals had in the first instance pressed their conquests southward as far as Lake Constance; but towards the end of the year the Bavarian General Altringer pressed them with so powerful an army that Banner sent urgent requests to Horn to come to his assistance from Alsace, where he had been carrying all before him. Confiding his conquests to the Rhinegrave Otto Ludwig, Horn marched at the head of seven thousand men towards Swabia. Before he could join Banner, however, Altringer had forced the line of the Lech, and had received reinforcements strong enough to neutralize the aid brought to Banner by Horn. Deeming it necessary above all things to bar the future progress of the enemy, Horn sent orders to Otto Ludwig to join him with all the troops still remaining in Alsace; but finding himself still unable to resist the advance of Altringer, he despatched an urgent request to Duke Bernhard, who had captured Bamberg and the strong places of Kronach and Hochstadt in Franconia, to come to his assistance. The duke at once quitted Bamberg and marched southward, swept a strong detachment of the Bavarian army under John of Werth from his path, and pressing on reached Donauwurth in March 1633.

Malcolm had rejoined his regiment, which was with Duke Bernhard, just before it advanced from Bamberg and was received with a hearty welcome by his comrades, from whom he had been separated nine months, having quitted them three months before the battle of Lutzen.

The officers were full of hope that Duke Bernhard was going to strike a great blow. Altringer was away on the shore of Lake Constance facing Horn, Wallenstein was in Bohemia. Between Donauworth and Vienna were but the four strong places of Ingolstadt, Ratisbon, Passau, and Linz. Ingolstadt was, the duke knew, commanded by a traitor who was ready to surrender. Ratisbon had a Protestant population who were ready to open their gates. It seemed that the opportunity for ending the war by a march upon Vienna, which had been snatched by Wallenstein from Gustavus just when it appeared in his grasp, was now open to Duke Bernhard. But the duke was ambitious, his demands for Franconia had not yet been entirely complied with by Oxenstiern, and he saw an opportunity to obtain his own terms. The troops under his orders were discontented, owing to the fact that their pay was many months in arrear, and private agents of the duke fomented this feeling by assuring the men that their general was with them and would back their demands. Accordingly they refused to march further until their demands were fully satisfied. The Scotch regiments stood apart from the movement, though they too were equally in arrear with their pay. Munro and the officers of the Brigade chafed terribly at this untimely mutiny just when the way to Vienna appeared open to them. Duke Bernhard forwarded the demands of the soldiers to Oxenstiern, sending at the same time a demand on his own account, first that the territory of the Franconian bishoprics should at once be erected into a principality in his favour, and secondly, that he should be nominated commander-in-chief of all the armies fighting in Germany for the Protestant cause with the title of generalissimo.

Oxenstiern was alarmed by the receipt of the mutinous demands of the troops on the Danube, and was disgusted when he saw those demands virtually supported by their general. His first thought was to dismiss Duke Bernhard from the Swedish service; but he saw that if he did so the disaffection might spread, and that the duke might place himself at the head of the malcontents and bring ruin upon the cause. He therefore agreed to bestow at once the Franconian bishoprics upon him, and gave a pledge that Sweden would defend him in that position.

He declined to make him generalissimo of all the armies, but appointed him commander-in-chief of the forces south of the Maine. The duke accepted this modification, and had no difficulty in restoring order in the ranks of his army. But precious months had been wasted before this matter was brought to a conclusion, and the month of October arrived before the duke had completed all his preparations and was in a position to move forward.

While the delays had been going on Altringer, having been joined by the army of the Duke of Feria, quitted the line of the Danube, in spite of Wallenstein's absolute order not to do so, and, evading Horn and Birkenfeldt, marched into Alsace. The Swedish generals, however, pressed hotly upon him, and finally drove him out of Alsace. Ratisbon being left open by Altringer's disobedience to Wallenstein's orders, Duke Bernhard marched upon that city without opposition, and laid siege to it. Maximilian of Bavaria was himself there with a force sufficient to defend the city had he been supported by the inhabitants; but a large majority of the people were Protestants, and, moreover, bitterly hated the Bavarians, who had suppressed their rights as a free city.

Maximilian wrote urgently to the emperor and to Wallenstein, pledging himself to maintain Ratisbon if he could receive a reinforcement of 5000 men. The emperor was powerless; he had not the men to send, but he despatched to Wallenstein, one after another, seven messengers, urging him at all hazards to prevent the fall of so important a place. Wallenstein replied to the order that he would do all in his power, and in presence of the messengers ordered the Count of Gallas to march with 12,000 men on Ratisbon, but privately furnished the general with absolute orders, forbidding him on any account to do anything which might bring on an action with the duke.

Wallenstein's motives in so acting were, as he afterwards assured the emperor, that he was not strong enough to divide his army, and that he could best cover Vienna by maintaining a strong position in Bohemia, a policy which was afterwards justified by the event. Ratisbon resisted for a short time; but, finding that the promised relief did not arrive, it capitulated on the 5th of November, Maximilian having left the town before the surrender.

The duke now pushed on towards Vienna, and captured Straubing and Plattling. John of Werth, who was posted here, not being strong enough to dispute the passage of the Isar, fell back towards the Bohemian frontier, hoping to meet the troops which the emperor had urged Wallenstein to send to his aid, but which never came. Duke Bernhard crossed the Isar unopposed, and on the 12th came within sight of Passau.

So far Wallenstein had not moved; he had seemed to comply with the emperor's request to save Ratisbon, but had seemed only, and had not set a man in motion to reinforce John of Werth. He refused, in fact, to fritter away his army. Had he sent Gallas with 12,000 men to join John of Werth, and had their united forces been, as was probable, attacked and defeated by the Swedes, Wallenstein would have been too weak to save the empire. Keeping his army strong he had the key of the position in his hands.

He had fixed upon Passau as the point beyond which Duke Bernhard should not be allowed to advance, and felt that should he attack that city he and his army were lost. In front of him was the Inn, a broad and deep river protected by strongly fortified places; behind him John of Werth, a bitterly hostile country, and the river Isar. On his left would be Wallenstein himself marching across the Bohemian forest. When, therefore, he learned that Duke Bernhard was hastening on from the Isar towards Passau he put his army in motion and marched southward, so as to place himself in the left rear of the duke. This movement Duke Bernhard heard of just when he arrived in sight of Passau, and he instantly recognized the extreme danger of his position, and perceived with his usual quickness of glance that to be caught before Passau by Wallenstein and John of Werth would be absolute destruction. A moment's hesitation and the Swedish army would have been lost. Without an hour's delay he issued the necessary orders, and the army retraced its steps with all speed to Ratisbon, and not stopping even there marched northward into the Upper Palatinate, to defend that conquered country against Wallenstein even at the cost of a battle.

But Wallenstein declined to fight a battle there. He had but one army, and were that army destroyed, Duke Bernhard, with the prestige of victory upon him, could resume his march upon Vienna, which would then be open to him. Therefore, having secured the safety of the capital, he fell back again into winter quarters in Bohemia. Thus Ferdinand again owed his safety to Wallenstein, and should have been the more grateful since Wallenstein had saved him in defiance of his own orders.

At the time he fully admitted in his letters to Wallenstein that the general had acted wisely and prudently, nevertheless he was continually listening to the Spaniards, the Jesuits, and the many envious of Wallenstein's great position, and hoping to benefit by his disgrace, and, in spite of all the services his great general had rendered him, was preparing to repeat the humiliation which he had formerly laid upon him and again to deprive him of his command.

Wallenstein was not ignorant of the intrigue against him. Vast as were his possessions, his pride and ambition were even greater. A consciousness of splendid services rendered and of great intellectual power, a belief that the army which had been raised by him and was to a great extent paid out of his private funds, and which he had so often led to victory, was devoted to him, and to him alone, excited in his mind the determination to resist by force the intriguers who dominated the bigoted and narrow minded emperor, and, if necessary, to hurl the latter from his throne.



Chapter XX Friends In Trouble


One day in the month of December, when Malcolm Graheme was with his regiment on outpost duty closely watching the Imperialists, a countryman approached.

"Can you direct me to Captain Malcolm Graheme, who, they tell me, belongs to this regiment?"

"You have come to the right man," Malcolm said. "I am Captain Graheme -- what would you with me?"

"I am the bearer of a letter to you," the man said, and taking off his cap he pulled out the lining and brought out a letter hidden beneath it.

"I am to ask for some token from you by which it may be known that it has been safely delivered."

Malcolm cut with his dagger the silk with which the letter was fastened. It began:

"From the Lady Hilda, Countess of Mansfeld, to Captain Malcolm Graheme of Colonel Munro's Scottish regiment. -- My dear friend, -- I do not know whether you have heard the misfortune which has fallen upon us. The town and castle of Mansfeld were captured two months since by a sudden assault of the Imperialists, and my dear husband was grievously wounded in the defence. He was brought hither a prisoner, and Thekla and I also carried here. As the count still lies ill with his wounds he is not placed in a prison, but we are treated as captives and a close watch is kept upon us. The count is threatened with the forfeiture of all his possessions unless he will change sides and join the Imperialists, and some of his estates have been already conferred upon other nobles as a punishment for the part he has taken.

"Were my husband well and free he would treat the offers with scorn, believing that the tide will turn and that he will recover his possessions. Nor even were he certain of their perpetual forfeiture would he desert the cause of Protestantism. Moreover, the estates which I brought him in marriage lie in the north of Pomerania, and the income there from is more than ample for our needs. But the emperor has ordered that if the count remain contumacious Thekla shall be taken from us and placed in a convent, where she will be forced to embrace Catholicism, and will, when she comes of age, be given in marriage to some adherent of the emperor, who will with her receive the greater portion of her father's lands.

"She is now sixteen years old, and in another year will be deemed marriageable. My heart is broken at the thought, and I can scarce see the paper on which I write for weeping. I know not why I send to you, nor does the count know that I am writing, nor does it seem possible that any aid can come to us, seeing that we are here in the heart of Bohemia, and that Wallenstein's army lies between us and you. But somehow in my heart I have a hope that you may aid us, and at any rate I know that you will sympathize with us greatly. I feel sure that if there be any mode in which we may be aided it will be seized by your ready wit. And now adieu! This letter will be brought to you by a messenger who will be hired by a woman who attends us, and who has a kind heart as well as an eye to her own interests. Send back by the messenger some token which she may pass on to me, that I may know that you have received it. Send no written answer, for the danger is too great."

Malcolm twisted off two or three links of the chain which had long before been presented to him by the count, and then, until relieved from duty, paced up and down, slowly revolving in his mind what could best be done to aid his friends. His mind was at last made up, and when his company was called in he went to his colonel and asked for leave of absence, stating his reasons for wishing to absent himself from the regiment.

"It is a perilous business, Malcolm," Colonel Munro said. "I have scarce a handful of the friends with whom I joined Gustavus but three years and a half ago remaining, and I can ill spare another; nevertheless I will not stay you in your enterprise. The Count of Mansfeld has been a steady ally of ours, and is one of the few who has appeared to have at heart the cause of Protestantism rather than of personal gain.

"Moreover, he is as you say a friend of yours, and has shown you real kindness in time of need. Therefore go, my boy, and Heaven be with you! It is not likely that there will be any more serious fighting this year. Wallenstein lies inactive, negotiating now with Saxony, now with Oxenstiern. What are his aims and plans Heaven only knows; but at any rate we have no right to grumble at the great schemer, for ever since Lutzen he has kept the emperor's best army inactive. Make it a point, Malcolm, to find out, so far as you can, what is the public opinion in Bohemia as to his real intentions. If you can bring back any information as to his plans you will have done good service to the cause, however long your absence from the camp may be."

That evening Malcolm packed up his armour, arms, court suits, and valuables, and sent them away to the care of his friend the syndic of the clockmakers of Nuremberg, with a letter requesting him to keep them in trust for him until he returned; and in the event of his not arriving to claim them in the course of six months, to sell them, and to devote the proceeds to the assistance of sick or wounded Scottish soldiers. Then he purchased garments suitable for a respectable craftsman, and having attired himself in these, with a stout sword banging from his leathern belt, a wallet containing a change of garments and a number of light tools used in clockmaking, with a long staff in his hand, and fifty ducats sewed in the lining of the doublet, he set out on foot on his journey.

It was nigh three weeks from the time when he started before he arrived at Prague, for not only had he to make a very long detour to avoid the contending armies, but he was forced to wait at each considerable town until he could join a company of travellers going in the same direction, for the whole country so swarmed with disbanded soldiers, plunderers, and marauding bands that none thought of traversing the roads save in parties sufficiently strong to defend themselves and their property. None of those with whom he journeyed suspected Malcolm to be aught but what he professed himself -- a craftsman who had served his time at a clockmaker's in Nuremberg, and who was on his way to seek for employment in Vienna.

During his three years and a half residence in Germany he had come to speak the language like a native, and, indeed, the dialect of the different provinces varied so widely, that, even had he spoken the language with less fluency, no suspicion would have arisen of his being a foreigner. Arrived at Prague, his first care was to hire a modest lodging, and he then set to work to discover the house in which the Count of Mansfeld was lying as a prisoner.

This he had no difficulty in doing without exciting suspicion, for the count was a well known personage, and he soon found that he and his family had apartments in a large house, the rest of which was occupied by Imperialist officers and their families. There was a separate entrance to the portion occupied by the count, and a sentry stood always at the door.

The day after his arrival Malcolm watched the door from a distance throughout the whole day, but none entered or came out. The next morning he resumed his watch at a much earlier hour, and presently had the satisfaction of seeing a woman in the attire of a domestic issue from the door. She was carrying a basket, and was evidently bent upon purchasing the supplies for the day. He followed her to the market, and, after watching her make her purchases, he followed her until, on her return, she entered a street where but few people were about. There he quickened his pace and overtook her.

"You are the attendant of the Countess of Mansfeld, are you not?" he said.

"I am," she replied; "but what is that to you?"

"I will tell you presently," Malcolm replied, "but in the first place please inform me whether you are her only attendant, and in the next place how long you have been in her service. I can assure you," he went on, as the woman, indignant at thus being questioned by a craftsman who was a stranger to her, tossed her head indignantly, and was about to move on, "that I ask not from any impertinent curiosity. Here is a ducat as a proof that I am interested in my questions."

The woman gave him a quick and searching glance; she took the piece of money, and replied more civilly. "I am the only attendant on the countess. I cannot be said to be in her service, since I have been placed there by the commandant of the prison, whither the count will be moved in a few days, but I have been with them since their arrival there, nigh three months since."

"Then you are the person whom I seek. I am he to whom a certain letter which you wot of was sent, and who returned by the messenger as token that he received it two links of this chain."

The woman started as he spoke, and looked round anxiously to see that they were not observed; then she said hurriedly:

"For goodness sake, sir, if you be he, put aside that grave and earnest look, and chat with me lightly and laughingly, so that if any observe us speaking they will think that you are trying to persuade me that my face has taken your admiration. Not so very difficult a task, methinks," she added coquettishly, acting the part she had indicated.

"By no means," Malcolm replied laughing, for the girl was really good looking, "and were it not that other thoughts occupy me at present you might well have another captive to look after; and now tell me, how is it possible for me to obtain an interview with the count?"

"And the countess, and the Fraulein Thekla," the girl said laughing, "for I suppose you are the young Scottish officer of whom the young countess is always talking. I don't see that it is possible."

"Twenty ducats are worth earning," Malcolm said quietly.

"Very well worth earning," the woman replied, "but a costly day's work if they lead to a prison and flogging, if not to the gallows."

"But we must take care that you run no risk," Malcolm said. "Surely such a clever head as I see you have can contrive some way for me to get in."

"Yes; it might be managed," the girl said thoughtfully. "The orders were strict just at first, but seeing that the count cannot move from his couch, and that the countess and the fraulein have no motive in seeking to leave him, the strictness has been relaxed. The orders of the sentry are stringent that neither of the ladies shall be allowed to set foot outside the door, but I do not think they have any orders to prevent others from going in and out had they some good excuse for their visit."

"Then it is not so impossible after all," Malcolm said with a smile, "for I have an excellent excuse.

"What is that?" the woman asked.

"The clock in the count's chamber has stopped, and it wearies him to lie there and not know how the time passes, so he has requested you to fetch in a craftsman to set it going again."

"A very good plan," the girl said. "There is a clock, and it shall stop this afternoon. I will find out from the sentry as I go in whether he has any orders touching the admission of strangers. If he has I will go across to the prison and try and get a pass for you. I shall come to market in the morning."

So saying, with a wave of her hand she tripped on towards the house, which was now near at hand, leaving Malcolm to arrange his plans for next day. His first care was to purchase a suit of clothes such as would be worn by a boy of the class to which he appeared to belong. Then he went to one of the small inns patronized by the peasants who brought their goods into market, and without difficulty bargained with one of them for the purchase of a cart with two oxen, which were to remain at the inn until he called for them. Then he bought a suit of peasant's clothes, after which, well satisfied with the day's work, he returned to his lodging. In the morning he again met the servant.

"It was well I asked," she said, "for the sentry had orders to prevent any, save nobles and officers, from passing in. However, I went to the prison, and saw one of the governor's deputies, and told him that the count was fretting because his clock had stopped, and, as while I said so I slipped five ducats the countess had given me for the purpose into his hand, he made no difficulty about giving me the pass. Here it is. Now," she said, "I have earned my twenty ducats."

"You have earned them well," Malcolm replied, handing them to her.

"Now mind," she said, "you must not count on me farther. I don't know what you are going to do, and I don't want to know. I have run quite a risk enough as it is, and mean, directly the count is lodged in the prison, to make my way home, having collected a dowry which will enable me to buy a farm and marry my bachelor, who has been waiting for me for the last three years. His father is an old curmudgeon, who has declared that his son shall never marry except a maid who can bring as much money as he will give him. I told Fritz that if he would trust to my wits and wait I would in five years produce the dowry. Now I have treble the sum, and shall go off and make Fritz happy."

"He is a lucky fellow," Malcolm said laughing. "It is not every one who gets beauty, wit, and wealth all together in a wife."

"You are a flatterer," the girl laughed; "but for all that I think myself that Fritz is not unfortunate."

"And now tell me," Malcolm asked, "at what time is the sentry generally changed?"

"At sunrise, at noon, at sunset, and at midnight," the girl replied; "but what is that to you?"

"Never mind;" Malcolm laughed; "you know you don't want to be told what I'm going to do. I will tell you if you like."

"No, no," the girl replied hurriedly. "I would rather be able to always take my oath on the holy relics that I know nothing about it."

"Very well," Malcolm replied; "then this afternoon I will call."

Having hidden away under his doublet the suit of boy's clothes, and with the tools of his trade in a small basket in his hand, Malcolm presented himself at three o'clock in the afternoon to the sentry at the door leading to the count's apartments. The soldier glanced at the pass and permitted him to enter without remark.

The waiting maid met him inside and conducted him upstairs, and ushered him into a spacious apartment, in which the count was lying on a couch, while the countess and Thekla sat at work beside him. She then retired and closed the door after her. The count and Thekla looked with surprise at the young artisan, but the countess ran to meet him, and threw her arms round his neck as if she had been his mother, while Thekla gave a cry of delight as she recognized him.

"Welcome a thousand times! Welcome, my brave friend!" the countess exclaimed. "What dangers must you not have encountered on your way hither to us! The count and Thekla knew not that I had written to you, for I feared a failure; and when I learned yesterday that you had arrived I still kept silence, partly to give a joyful surprise to my lord today, partly because, if the governor called, I was sure that this child's telltale face would excite his suspicion that something unusual had happened."

"How imprudent!" the count said, holding out his hand to Malcolm. "Had I known that my wife was sending to you I would not have suffered her to do so, for the risk is altogether too great, and yet, indeed, I am truly glad to see you again."

Thekla gave Malcolm her hand, but said nothing. She had now reached an age when girls feel a strange shyness in expressing their feelings; but her hand trembled with pleasure as she placed it in Malcolm's, and her cheek flushed hotly as, in accordance with the custom of the times, she presented it to his kiss.

"Now," the count said, "do not let us waste time; tell us quickly by what miracle you have arrived here, and have penetrated to what is really my prison. You must be quick, for we have much to say, and your visit must be a short one for every third day the governor of the prison pays me a visit to see how I am getting on, and I expect that he will be here ere long."

"Then," Malcolm said, "I had best prepare for his coming, for assuredly I am not going to hurry away."

So saying, he lifted down the great clock which stood on a bracket on the wall, and placed it on a side table. "I am a clockmaker," he said, "and am come to put this machine, whose stopping has annoyed you sadly, into order."

So saying, he took some tools from his basket, removed the works of the clock, and, taking them in pieces, laid them on the table.

"I spent much of my time at Nuremberg," he said, in answer to the surprised exclamations of the count, "in learning the mysteries of horology, and can take a clock to pieces and can put it together again with fair skill. There, now, I am ready, and if the governor comes he will find me hard at work. And now I will briefly tell you how I got here; then I will hear what plans you may have formed, and I will tell you mine."

"For myself, I have no plans," the count said. "I am helpless, and must for the present submit to whatever may befall me. That I will not renounce the cause of my religion you may be sure; as for my wife, we know not yet whether, when they remove me to the fortress, they will allow her to accompany me or not. If they do, she will stay with me, but it is more likely that they will not. The emperor is merciless to those who oppose him. They will more likely keep her under their eye here or in Vienna. But for ourselves we care little; our anxiety is for Thekla. It is through her that they are striking us. You know what they have threatened if I do not abandon the cause of Protestantism. Thekla is to be placed in a convent, forced to become a Catholic, and married to the man on whom the emperor may please to bestow my estates."

"I would rather die, father, than become a Catholic," Thekla exclaimed firmly.

"Yes, dear!" the count said gently, "but it is not death you have to face; with a fresh and unbroken spirit, it were comparatively easy to die, but it needs an energy and a spirit almost superhuman to resist the pressure which may be placed on those who are committed to a convent. The hopelessness, the silence, the gloom, to say nothing of threats, menaces, and constant and unremitting pressure, are sufficient to break down the firmest resolution. The body becomes enfeebled, the nerves shattered, and the power of resistance enfeebled. No, my darling, brave as you are in your young strength, you could not resist the influence which would be brought to bear upon you."

"Then it is clear," Malcolm said cheerfully, "that we must get your daughter out of the clutches of the emperor and the nuns."

"That is what I have thought over again and again as I have lain here helpless, but I can see no means of doing so. We have no friends in the city, and, could the child be got safely out of this place, there is nowhere whither she could go."

"And it is for that I have sent for you," the countess said. "I knew that if it were in any way possible you would contrive her escape and aid her to carry it out."

"Assuredly I will, my dear countess," Malcolm said. "You only wanted a friend outside, and now you have got one. I see no difficulty about it."

At this moment the door suddenly opened; the waiting maid put in her head and exclaimed, "The governor is alighting at the door." Malcolm at once seated himself at the side table and began oiling the wheels of the clock, while the countess and Thekla took up their work again and seated themselves, as before, by the couch of the count. A moment later the attendant opened the door and in a loud voice announced the Baron of Steinburg.

The governor as he entered cast a keen glance at Malcolm, and then bowing ceremoniously approached the count and inquired after his health, and paid the usual compliments to the countess. The count replied languidly that he gained strength slowly, while the countess said quietly that he had slept but badly and that his wound troubled him much. It was well for Thekla that she was not obliged to take part in the conversation, for she would have found it impossible to speak quietly and indifferently, for every nerve was tingling with joy at Malcolm's last words. The prospect had seemed so hopeless that her spirits had sunk to the lowest ebb. Her mother had done her best to cheer her, but the count, weakened by pain and illness, had all along taken the most gloomy view. He had told himself that it was better for the girl to submit to her fate than to break her heart like a wild bird beating out its life against the bars of its cage, and he wished to show her that neither he nor the world would blame her for yielding to the tremendous pressure which would be put upon her.

For himself, he would have died a thousand times rather than renounce his faith; but he told himself that Thekla was but a child, that women cared little for dogmas, and that she would learn to pray as sincerely in a Catholic as in a Protestant church, without troubling her mind as to whether there were gross abuses in the government of the church, in the sale of absolutions, or errors in abstruse doctrines. But to Thekla it had seemed impossible that she could become a Catholic.

The two religions stood in arms against each other; Catholics and Protestants differed not only in faith but in politics. In all things they were actively and openly opposed to each other, and the thought that she might be compelled to abjure her faith was most terrible to the girl; and she was firmly resolved that, so long as her strength lasted and her mind was unimpaired, she would resist whatever pressure might be placed upon her, and would yield neither to menaces, to solitary confinement, or even to active cruelty. The prospect, however; had weighed heavily upon her mind. Her father had appeared to consider any escape impossible; her mother had said nothing of her hopes; and the words which Malcolm had spoken, indicating something like a surety of freeing her from her terrible position, filled her with surprise and delight.

"Whom have you here?" the governor asked, indicating Malcolm by a motion of the head.

"It is a craftsman from Nuremberg. The clock had stopped, and the count, with whom the hours pass but slowly, fretted himself at not being able to count them; so I asked our attendant to bring hither a craftsman to put it in order, first sending her with a note to you asking for permission for him to come; as you were out your deputy signed the order."

"He should not have done so," the baron said shortly, "for the orders are strict touching the entry of any here. However, as he has taken the clock to pieces, he can put it together again." So saying he went over to the table where Malcolm was at work and stood for a minute or two watching him. The manner in which Malcolm fitted the wheels into their places, filing and oiling them wherever they did not run smoothly, satisfied him that the youth was what he seemed.

"You are young to have completed your apprenticeship," he said.

"It is expired but two months, sir," Malcolm said, standing up respectfully.

"Under whom did you learn your trade?" the governor asked; "for I have been in Nuremberg and know most of the guild of clockmakers by name."

"Under Jans Boerhoff, the syndic of the guild," Malcolm replied.

"Ah!" the baron said shortly; "and his shop is in -- "

"The Cron Strasse," Malcolm said promptly in answer to the implied question.

Quite satisfied now, the baron turned away and conversed a few minutes with the count, telling him that as the surgeon said he could now be safely removed he would in three days be transferred to an apartment in the fortress.

"Will the countess be permitted to accompany me?" the count asked.

"That I cannot tell you," the baron replied. "We are expecting a messenger with his majesty's orders on the subject tomorrow or next day. I have already informed you that, in his solicitude for her welfare, his majesty has been good enough to order that the young countess shall be placed in the care of the lady superior of the Convent of St. Catherine."

A few minutes later he left the room. Not a word was spoken in the room until the sound of horse's hoofs without told that he had ridden off.

As the door closed the countess and Thekla had dropped their work and sat anxiously awaiting the continuance of the conversation. The count was the first to speak.

"How mean you, Malcolm? How think you it possible that Thekla can escape, and where could she go?"

"I like not to make the proposal," Malcolm said gravely, "nor under any other circumstances should I think of doing so; but in a desperate position desperate measures must be adopted. It is impossible that in your present state you can escape hence, and the countess will not leave you; but what is absolutely urgent is that your daughter should be freed from the strait. Save myself you have no friends here; and therefore, count, if she is to escape it must be through my agency and she must be committed wholly to my care. I know it is a great responsibility; but if you and the countess can bring yourselves to commit her to me I swear to you, as a Scottish gentleman and a Protestant soldier, that I will watch over her as a brother until I place her in all honour in safe hands."

The count looked at the countess and at Thekla, who sat pale and still.

"We can trust you, Malcolm Graheme," he said after a pause. "There are few, indeed, into whose hands we would thus confide our daughter; but we know you to be indeed, as you say, a Scottish gentleman and a Protestant soldier. Moreover, we know you to be faithful, honourable, and true. Therefore we will, seeing that there is no other mode of escape from the fate which awaits her, confide her wholly to you. And now tell us what are your plans?"



Chapter XXI Flight


"I THANK you, count, and you, dear lady," Malcolm said gratefully, "for the confidence you place in me, and will carry out my trust were it to cost me my life. My plan is a simple one. The guard will be changed in half an hour's time. I have brought hither a suit of boy's garments, which I must pray the Countess Thekla to don, seeing that it will be impossible for her to sally out in her own garb. I show my pass to the sentry, who will deem that my companion entered with me, and is my apprentice, and will suppose that, since the sentry who preceded him suffered him to enter with me he may well pass him out without question. In the town I have a wagon in readiness, and shall, disguised as a peasant, start with it this evening. Thekla will be in the bottom covered with straw. We shall travel all night.

"Tomorrow, when your attendant discovers that your daughter has escaped, she will at once take the news to the governor. The sentries will all be questioned, and it will be found that, whereas but one clockmaker came in two went out. The city will be searched and the country round scoured but if the horsemen overtake me they will be looking for a craftsman and his apprentice, and will not suspect a solitary peasant with a wagon.

"The first danger over I must be guided by circumstances; but in any case Thekla must travel as a boy to the end of the journey, for in such troubled times as these it were unsafe indeed for a young girl to travel through Germany except under a strong escort of men-at-arms. I design to make my way to Nuremberg, and shall then place her in the hands of my good friend Jans Boerhoff, whose wife and daughters will, I am sure, gladly receive and care for her until the time, which I hope is not far off, that peace be made and you can again rejoin her."

"The plan is a good one," the count said when Malcolm had concluded, "and offers every prospect of success. 'Tis hazardous, but there is no escape from such a strait as ours without risk. What say you, wife?"

"Assuredly I can think of nothing better. But what say you, Thekla? Are you ready to run the risks, the danger, and the hardships of such a journey under the protection only of this brave Scottish gentleman?"

"I am ready, mother," Thekla said quickly, "but I wish -- I wish" -- and she hesitated.

"You wish you could go in your own garments, Thekla, with jewels on your fingers and a white horse to carry you on a pillion behind your protector," the count said with a smile, for his spirits had risen with the hope of his daughter's escape from the peril in which she was placed. "It cannot be, Thekla. Malcolm's plan must be carried out to the letter, and I doubt not that you will pass well as a 'prentice boy. But your mother must cut off that long hair of yours; I will keep it, my child, and will stroke it often and often in my prison as I have done when it has been on your head; your hair may be long again before I next see you."

His eyes filled with tears as he spoke, and Thekla and the countess both broke into a fit of crying. Leaving them by themselves, Malcolm returned to his work, and in half an hour had replaced the machinery of the clock and had set it in motion, while a tender conversation went on between the count and countess and their daughter. By this time the sun had set, and the attendant entered and lighted the candles in the apartment, saying, as she placed one on the table by Malcolm, "You must need a light for your work." No sooner had she left the room than Malcolm said:

"I would not hurry your parting, countess, but the sooner we are off now the better."

Without a word the countess rose, and, taking the clothes which Malcolm produced from his doublet, retired to her chamber, followed by Thekla.

"Malcolm Graheme," the count said, "it may be that we shall not meet again. The emperor is not tender with obstinate prisoners, and I have no strength to support long hardships. Should aught happen to me I beseech you to watch over the happiness of my child. Had she been a year older, and had you been willing, I would now have solemnly betrothed her to you, and should then have felt secure of her future whatever may befall me. Methinks she will make a good wife, and though my estates may be forfeited by the emperor her mother's lands will make a dowry such as many a German noble would gladly accept with his wife.

"I might betroth her to you now, for many girls are betrothed at a far younger age, but I would rather leave it as it is. You are young yet, and she in most matters is but a child, and it would be better in every way did she start on this adventure with you regarding you as a brother than in any other light. Only remember that if we should not meet again, and you in future years should seek the woman who is now a child as your wife, you have my fullest approval and consent -- nay, more, that it is my dearest wish."

"I thank you most deeply for what you have said, count," Malcolm replied gravely. "As I have seen your daughter growing up from a child I have thought how sweet a wife she would make, but I have put the thought from me, seeing that she is heiress to broad lands and I a Scottish soldier of fortune, whose lands, though wide enough for me to live in comfort at home, are yet but a mere farm in comparison with your broad estates. I have even told myself that as she grew up I must no longer make long stays in your castle, for it would be dishonourable indeed did I reward your kindness and hospitality by winning the heart of your daughter; but after what you have so generously said I need no longer fear my heart, and will, when the time comes, proudly remind you of your promise. For this journey I will put all such thoughts aside, and will regard Thekla as my merry playfellow of the last three years. But after I have once placed her in safety I shall thenceforward think of her as my wife who is to be, and will watch over her safety as over my greatest treasure, trusting that in some happy change of times and circumstances you yourself and the dear countess, whom I already regard almost as my parents, will give her to me."

"So be it," the count said solemnly. "My blessing on you both should I ne'er see you again. I can meet whatever fate may be before me with constancy and comfort now that her future is assured -- but here they come."

The door opened, and the countess appeared, followed by Thekla, shrinking behind her mother's skirts in her boyish attire.

"You will pass well," the count said gravely, for he knew that jest now would jar upon her. "Keep that cap well down over your eyes, and try and assume a little more of the jaunty and impudent air of a boy. Fortunately it will be dark below, and the sentry will not be able to mark how fair is your skin and how delicate your hands. And now farewell, my child. Let us not stand talking, for the quicker a parting is over the better. May God in heaven bless you and keep you! Malcolm knows all my wishes concerning you, and when I am not with you trust yourself to his advice and guidance as you would to mine. There, my darling, do not break down. You must be brave for all our sakes. Should the emperor hold me in durance your mother will try and join you ere long at Nuremberg."

While the count was embracing Thekla, as she bravely but in vain tried to suppress her tears, the countess opened the door, and glanced into the anteroom to see that all was clear and the attendant in her own apartment. Then she returned, kissed her daughter fondly, and placed her hand in Malcolm's, saying to the latter, "God bless you, dear friend! Take her quickly away for her sake and ours." One last adieu and Malcolm and Thekla stood alone in the anteroom.

"Now, Thekla," he said firmly, "be brave, the danger is at hand, and your safety and escape from your fate, and my life, depend upon your calmness. Do you carry this basket of tools and play your part as my apprentice. Just as we open the door drop the basket and I will rate you soundly for your carelessness. Keep your head down, and do not let the light which swings over the door fall upon your face."

For a minute or two Thekla stood struggling to master her emotions. Then she said, in a quiet voice, "I am ready now," and taking up the basket of tools she followed Malcolm down the stairs. Malcolm opened the door, and as he did so Thekla dropped the basket.

"How stupid you are!" Malcolm exclaimed sharply. "How often have I told you to be careful! You don't suppose that those fine tools can stand being knocked about in that way without injury? Another time an' you are so careless I will give you a taste of the strap, you little rascal."

"What is all this?" the sentry asked, barring the way with his pike, "and who are you who are issuing from this house with so much noise? My orders are that none pass out here without an order from the governor."

"And such an order have I," Malcolm said, producing the document. "There's the governor's seal. I have been sent for to repair the clock in the Count of Mansfeld's apartment, and a rare job it has been."

The sentry was unable to read, but he looked at the seal which he had been taught to recognize.

"But there is only one seal," he said, "and there are two of you."

"Pooh!" Malcolm said scornfully. "Dost think that when ten persons are admitted to pass in together the governor puts ten seals on the pass? You see for yourself that it is but a young boy, my apprentice. Why, the governor himself left scarce an hour ago, and was in the apartment with me while I was at work. Had it not been all right he would have hauled me to the prison quickly enough."

As the sentry knew that the governor had left but a short time before he came on guard this convinced him, and, standing aside, he allowed Malcolm and his companion to pass. Malcolm made his way first to the apartment he had occupied, where he had already settled for his lodging.

Leaving Thekla below he ran upstairs, and hastily donned the suit of peasant's clothes, and then making the others into a bundle descended again, and with Thekla made his way to the quiet spot outside the city gates where the wagon was standing ready for a start. He had already paid the peasant half the sum agreed, and now handed him the remainder.

"I should scarce have known you," the peasant said, examining Malcolm by the light of his pinewood torch. "Why, you look like one of us instead of a city craftsman."

"I am going to astonish them when I get home," Malcolm said, "and shall make the old folks a present of the wagon. So I am going to arrive just as I was when I left them."

The peasant asked no farther questions, but, handing the torch to Malcolm, and telling him that he would find half a dozen more in the wagon, he took his way back to the town, where he intended to sleep in the stables and to start at daybreak for his home.

He thought that the transaction was a curious one; but, as he had been paid handsomely for his wagon, he troubled not his head about any mystery there might be in the matter. As soon as he had gone Malcolm arranged the straw in the bottom of the wagon so as to form a bed; but Thekla said that for the present she would rather walk with him.

"It is weeks since I have been out, and I shall enjoy walking for a time; besides, it is all so strange that I should have no chance to sleep were I to lie down."

Malcolm at once consented, and taking his place at the head of the oxen, he started them, walking ahead to light the way and leading them by cords passed through their nostrils. He had not the least fear of pursuit for the present, for it had been arranged that the countess should inform their attendant that Thekla was feeling unwell, and had retired to bed, and the woman, whatever she might suspect, would take care not to verify the statement, and it would be well on in the following morning before her absence was discovered.

Malcolm tried his best to distract Thekla's thoughts from her parents, and from the strange situation in which she was placed, and chatted to her of the events of the war since he had last seen her, of the route which he intended to adopt, and the prospects of peace. In two hours' time the girl, unaccustomed to exercise, acknowledged that she was tired; she therefore took her place in the wagon.

Malcolm covered her up with straw and threw some sacks lightly over her, and then continued his journey. He travelled all night, and in the morning stopped at a wayside inn, where his arrival at that hour excited no surprise, as the peasants often travelled at night, because there was then less chance of their carts being seized and requisitioned by the troops. He only stopped a short time to water and feed the oxen, and to purchase some black bread and cheese. This he did, not because he required it, for he had an ample supply of provisions in the cart far more suited for Thekla's appetite than the peasant's fare, but to act in the usual manner, and so avoid any comment. Thekla was still asleep under the covering, which completely concealed her. Malcolm journeyed on until two miles further he came to a wood, then, drawing aside from the road, he unyoked the oxen and allowed them to lie down, for they had already made a long journey. Then he woke Thekla, who leaped up gaily on finding that it was broad daylight. Breakfast was eaten, and after a four hours' halt they resumed their way, Thekla taking her place in the wagon again, and being carefully covered up in such a manner that a passerby would not suspect that anyone was lying under the straw and sacks at one end of the wagon. Just at midday Malcolm heard the trampling of horses behind him and saw a party of cavalry coming along at full gallop. The leader drew rein when he overtook the wagon.

"Have you seen anything," he asked Malcolm, "of two seeming craftsmen, a man and a boy, journeying along the road?"

Malcolm shook his head. "I have seen no one on foot since I started an hour since."

Without a word the soldiers went on. They had no reason, indeed, for believing that those for whom they were in search had taken that particular road. As soon as Thekla's disappearance had been discovered by the waiting woman she had hurried to the governor, and with much perturbation and many tears informed him that the young countess was missing, and that her couch had not been slept on. The governor had at once hurried to the spot. The count and countess resolutely refused to state what had become of their daughter.

The sentries had all been strictly questioned, and it was found that the mender of clocks had, when he left, been accompanied by an apprentice whom the sentry previously on duty asserted had not entered with him. The woman was then closely questioned; she asserted stoutly that she knew nothing whatever of the affair. The count had commissioned her to obtain a craftsman to set the clock in order, and she had bethought her of a young man whose acquaintance she had made some time previously, and who had informed her in the course of conversation that he had come from Nuremberg, and was a clockmaker by trade, and was at present out of work. She had met him, she said, on several occasions, and as he was a pleasant youth and comely, when he had spoken to her of marriage she had not been averse, now it was plain he had deceived her; and here she began to cry bitterly and loudly.

Her story seemed probable enough, for any friend of the count who had intended to carry off his daughter would naturally have begun by ingratiating himself with her attendant. She was, however, placed in confinement for a time. The count and countess were at once removed to the fortress. Orders were given that the town should be searched thoroughly, and any person answering to the description which the governor was able to give of the supposed clockmaker should be arrested, while parties of horse were despatched along all the roads with orders to arrest and bring to Prague any craftsman or other person accompanied by a young boy whom they might overtake by the way. Several innocent peasants with their sons were pounced upon on the roads and hauled to Prague; but no news was obtained of the real fugitives, who quietly pursued their way undisturbed further by the active search which was being made for them. The anger of the emperor when he heard of the escape of the prize he had destined for one of his favourite officers was extreme. He ordered the count to be treated with the greatest rigour, and declared all his estates and those of his wife forfeited, the latter part of the sentence being at present inoperative, her estates being in a part of the country far beyond the range of the Imperialist troops. The waiting maid was after some weeks' detention released, as there was no evidence whatever of her complicity in the affair.

Malcolm continued his journey quietly towards the frontier of Bavaria; but, on arriving at a small town within a few miles of Pilsen, he learned that Wallenstein had fallen back with his army to that place. Much alarmed at the news he determined to turn off by a cross road and endeavour to avoid the Imperialists. He had not, however, left the place before a party of Imperialist horse rode in.

Malcolm was at once stopped, and was told that he must accompany the troops to Pilsen, as they had orders to requisition all carts for the supply of provisions for the army. Malcolm knew that it was of no use to remonstrate, but, with many loud grumblings at his hard lot, he moved to the marketplace, where he remained until all the wagons in the place and in the surrounding country had been collected.

Loud and bitter were the curses which the peasants uttered at finding themselves taken from their homes and compelled to perform service for which the pay, if received at all, would be scanty in the extreme. There was, however, no help for it; and when all were collected they started in a long procession guarded by the cavalry for Pilsen. On arriving there they were ordered to take up their station with the great train of wagons collected for the supply of the army.

Thekla had from her hiding place heard the conversation, and was greatly alarmed at finding that they were again in the power of the Imperialists. No one, however, approached the wagon, and it was not until darkness had set in that she heard Malcolm's voice whispering to her to arise quietly.

"We must leave the wagon; it will be impossible for you to remain concealed here longer, for tomorrow I may be sent out to bring in supplies. For the present we must remain in Pilsen. The whole country will be scoured by the troops, and it will not be safe to traverse the roads. Here in Pilsen no one will think of looking for us.

"Wallenstein's headquarters are the last place where we should be suspected of hiding, and you may be sure that, however close the search may be elsewhere, the governor of Prague will not have thought of informing Wallenstein of an affair so foreign to the business of war as the escape from the emperor's clutches of a young lady. I have donned my craftsman dress again, and we will boldly seek for lodgings."

They soon entered the town, which was crowded with troops, searching about in the poorer quarters.

Malcolm presently found a woman who agreed to let him two rooms. He accounted for his need for the second room by saying that his young brother was ill and needed perfect rest and quiet, and that the filing and hammering which was necessary in his craft prevented the lad from sleeping. As Malcolm agreed at once to the terms she asked for the rooms, the woman accepted his statement without doubt. They were soon lodged in two attics at the top of the house, furnished only with a table, two chairs, and a truckle bed in each; but Malcolm was well contented with the shelter he had found.

Seeing that it would be extremely difficult at present to journey further, he determined to remain some little time in the town, thinking that he might be able to carry out the instructions which he had received from Colonel Munro, and to obtain information as to the plans of Wallenstein and the feelings of the army.

"You will have to remain a prisoner here, Thekla, I am afraid, almost as strictly as at Prague, for it would not do to risk the discovery that you are a girl by your appearing in the streets in daylight, and after dark the streets of the town, occupied by Wallenstein's soldiers, are no place for any peaceful persons.

"I may as well be here as at Nuremberg," Thekla said, "and as I shall have you with me instead of being with strangers, the longer we stay here the better."

The next morning Malcolm sallied out into the town to see if he could find employment. There was, however, but one clockmaker in Pilsen, and the war had so injured his trade that he had discharged all his journeymen, for clocks were still comparatively rare luxuries, and were only to be seen in the houses of nobles and rich citizens. Knowing that Wallenstein was devoted to luxury and magnificence, always taking with him, except when making the most rapid marches, a long train of baggage and furniture, Malcolm thought it possible that he might obtain some employment in his apartments. He accordingly went boldly to the castle where the duke had established himself, and, asking for his steward, stated that he was a clockmaker from the workshop of the celebrated horologist, Master Jans Boerhoff, and could repair any clocks or watches that might be out of order.

"Then you are the very man we need," the steward said. "My master, the duke, is curious in such matters, and ever carries with him some half dozen clocks with his other furniture; and, use what care I will in packing them, the shaking of the wagons is constantly putting them out of repair. It was but this morning the duke told me to bring a craftsman, if one capable of the work could be found in the town, and to get the clocks put in order, for it displeases him if they do not all keep the time to the same minute. Follow me."

He led the way into the private apartments of the duke. These were magnificently furnished, the walls being covered with rich velvet hangings. Thick carpets brought from the East covered the floors. Indeed, in point of luxury and magnificence, Wallenstein kept up a state far surpassing that of his Imperial master.

There were several clocks standing on tables and on brackets, for Wallenstein, although in most respects of a clear and commanding intellect, was a slave to superstition. He was always accompanied by an astrologer, who read for him the course of events from the movements of the stars, who indicated the lucky and unlucky days, and the hours at which it was not propitious to transact important business. Hence it was that he placed so great an importance on the exact observance of the hour by his numerous time pieces.

"Here are some of the clocks," the steward said, indicating them. "Of course you cannot work here, and they are too heavy to be removed, besides being too costly to intrust out of my charge, I will have a room prepared in the castle where you can work. Come again at noon with your tools, and all shall be in readiness."

At the hour appointed Malcolm again presented himself.

"The duke has given personal instructions," he said, "that a closet close by shall be fitted up for you, in order that he himself if he chooses may see you at work."

Malcolm was conducted to a small room near at hand. Here one of the clocks which had stopped had been placed on the table, and he at once set to work. He soon discovered that one of the wheels had been shaken from its place by the jolting of the wagons, and that the clock could be set going by a few minutes work. As, however, his object was to prolong his visit to the castle as long as possible, he set to work and took it entirely to pieces. Two hours later the door opened and a tall handsome man of commanding presence entered. Malcolm rose and bowed respectfully, feeling that he was in the presence of the great general.

"You come from Nuremberg," Wallenstein said, "as I am told, and have learned your craft in the workshop of Master Jans Boerhoff, who is well known as being the greatest master of his craft."

Malcolm bowed silently.

"It is strange," Wallenstein muttered to himself, "that this young man's destiny should be connected with mine; and yet the astrologer said that he who should present himself at the castle nearest to the stroke of nine this morning would be a factor in my future, and, as my steward tells me, the clock sounded nine as this young man addressed him." He then asked Malcolm several questions as to the work upon which he was engaged, and then said abruptly: "Dost know the day and hour on which you were born?"

Malcolm was somewhat surprised at the question, for he had not heard the muttered words of Wallenstein, but he at once replied that he had heard that he was born at the stroke of midnight on the last day in the year.

The duke said no more, but left the closet and proceeded at once to an apartment near his own bed chamber, which, although he had arrived but a few hours previously, had already been fitted up for the use of his astrologer. The walls were hidden by a plain hanging of scarlet cloth; a large telescope stood at the window, a chart of the heavens was spread out on the table, and piles of books stood beside it. On the ceiling the signs of the zodiac had been painted, and some mystical circles had been marked out on the floor. A tall spare old man with a long white beard was seated at the table. He rose when Wallenstein entered.

"I cannot but think," the duke said, "that your calculations must for once have been mistaken, and that there must have been an error in the hour, for I see not how the destiny of this craftsman, who seems to be a simple lad, can in any way be connected with mine."

"I have made the calculation three times, your grace," the old man replied, "and am sure there is no error."

"He was born," Wallenstein said, "at midnight on December 31st, 1613. Work out his nativity, and see what stars were in the ascendant, and whether there are any affinities between us."

"I will do so at once," the astrologer said; "by tonight I shall be able to give your grace the information you require."

"Tonight," the duke said, "we will go over your calculations together as to our great enterprise. It is all important that there should be no mistake. I have for a whole year remained inactive because you told me that the time had not yet come, and now that you say the propitious moment is approaching would fain be sure that no error has been committed. All seems well, the troops are devoted to me, and will fight against whomsoever I bid them. By lavish gifts and favours I have attached all my generals firmly to me, and soon this ungrateful emperor shall feel how rash and foolish he has been to insult the man to whom alone he owes it that he was not long ago a fugitive and an exile, with the Swedes victorious masters of his capital and kingdom.

"Have not I alone saved him? Did not I at my own cost raise an army and stand between him and the victorious Gustavus? Have not I alone of all his generals checked the triumphant progress of the invaders? And yet he evades all his promises, he procrastinates and falters. Not one step does he take to give me the sovereignty of Bohemia which he so solemnly promised me, and seems to think that it is honour and reward enough for me to have spent my treasure and blood in his service. But my turn is at hand, and when the hand which saved his throne shall cast him from it he will learn how rash he has been to have deceived and slighted me. And you say that the stars last night all pointed to a favourable conjunction, and that the time for striking the great blow is at hand?"

"Nothing could be better," the astrologer said; "Jupiter, your own planet, and Mars are in the ascendant. Saturn is still too near them to encourage instant action, but he will shortly remove to another house and then your time will have come."

"So be it," Wallenstein said, "and the sooner the better. Now I will leave you to your studies, and will ride out to inspect the troops, and to see that they have all that they need, for they must be kept in the best of humours at present."



Chapter XXII The Conspiracy


The next day Wallenstein again entered Malcolm's workroom and said abruptly to him: "What deeds of bravery have you performed?"

Malcolm looked astonished.

"In an idle moment," the duke said, "having an interest in nativities and seeing that you were born between two years, I asked my astrologer to work out the calculations. He tells me that it was fated that you should perform deeds of notable bravery while still young. It seemed the horoscope of a soldier rather than of a craftsman, and so I told the sage; but he will have it that he has made no mistake."

Malcolm hesitated for a moment; the blind faith which the otherwise intelligent and capable general placed in the science of astrology was well known to the world. Should he deny that he had accomplished any feats, the duke, believing implicitly the statement which his astrologer had made him, would suspect that he was not what he seemed; he therefore replied modestly, "I have done no deeds worthy relating to your excellency, but I once swam across a swollen river to direct some travellers who would otherwise have perished, and my neighbours were good enough to say that none in those parts save myself would have attempted such a feat."

"Ah!" the duke exclaimed in a tone of satisfaction, "as usual the stars have spoken correctly. Doubtless as great courage is required to swim a river in flood as to charge into the ranks of the enemy."

So saying Wallenstein left the room, filled with a desire to attach to himself the young man whom his adviser had assured him was in some way connected with his destiny. Wallenstein a day or two later offered Malcolm to take him into his permanent service, saying that he was frequently plagued by the stoppages of his clocks, and desired to have a craftsman capable of attending to them on his establishment. He even told the young man that he might expect promotion altogether beyond his present station.

Malcolm could not refuse so flattering an offer, and was at once installed as a member of Wallenstein's household, declining however the use of the apartment which the steward offered him, saying that he had a sick brother lodging with him in the town. Mingling with the soldiers in the evenings Malcolm learned that there were rumours that negotiations for peace were going on with Saxony and Sweden. This was indeed the case, but Wallenstein was negotiating on his own behalf, and not on that of the emperor. So far but little had come of these negotiations, for Oxenstiern had the strongest doubts of Wallenstein's sincerity, and believed that he was only trying to gain time and delay operations by pretended proposals for peace. He could not believe that the great Imperialist general, the right hand of the emperor, had any real intention of turning against his master. Towards the end of January there was some excitement in Pilsen owing to the arrival there of all the generals of the Imperialist army save only Gallas, Coloredo, and Altringer.

Malcolm was sure that such a gathering could only have been summoned by Wallenstein upon some matter of the most vital importance, and he determined at all hazards to learn what was taking place, in order that he might enlighten Oxenstiern as to the real sentiments of the duke. Learning that the principal chamber in the castle had been cleared, and that a meeting of the officers would take place there in the evening, he told Thekla when he went home to his meal at midday that she must not be surprised if he did not return until a late hour. He continued his work until nearly six o'clock, the time at which the meeting was to begin, and then extinguishing his light, he made his way through the passages of the castle until he reached the council chamber, meeting with no interruption from the domestics, who were by this time familiar with his person, and who regarded him as one rising in favour with their master. He waited in the vicinity of the chamber until he saw an opportunity for entering unobserved, then he stole into the room and secreted himself behind the arras beneath a table standing against the wall, and where, being in shadow, the bulge in the hanging would not attract attention.

In a few minutes he heard heavy steps with the clanking of swords and jingling of spurs, and knew that the council was beginning to assemble. The hum of conversation rose louder and louder for a quarter of an hour; then he heard the door of the apartment closed, and knew that the council was about to commence. The buzz of conversation ceased, and then a voice, which was that of Field Marshal Illo, one of the three men in Wallenstein's confidence, rose in the silence. He began by laying before the army the orders which the emperor had sent for its dispersal to various parts of the country, and by the turn he gave to these he found it easy to excite the indignation of the assembly.

He then expatiated with much eloquence upon the merits of the army and its generals, and upon the ingratitude with which the emperor had treated them after their noble efforts in his behalf. The court, he said, was governed by Spanish influence. The ministry were in the pay of Spain. Wallenstein alone had hitherto opposed this tyranny, and had thus drawn upon himself the deadly enmity of the Spaniards. To remove him from the command, or to make away with him entirely, had, he asserted, been long the end of their desires, and until they could succeed they endeavoured to abridge his power in the field. The supreme command was to be placed in the hands of the King of Hungary solely to promote the Spanish power in Germany, as this prince was merely the passive instrument of Spain.

It was only with the view of weakening the army that six thousand troops were ordered to be detached from it, and solely to harass it by a winter campaign that they were now called upon at this inhospitable season to undertake the recovery of Ratisbon. The Jesuits and the ministry enriched themselves with the treasure wrung from the provinces, and squandered the money intended for the pay of the troops.

The general, then, abandoned by the court, was forced to acknowledge his inability to keep his engagements to the army. For all the services which for two-and-twenty years he had rendered to the house of Austria, in return for all the difficulties with which he had struggled, for all the treasures of his own which he had expended in the Imperial service, a second disgraceful dismissal awaited him. But he was resolved the matter should not come to this; he was determined voluntarily to resign the command before it should be wrested from his hands, "and this," continued the speaker, "is what he has summoned you here to make known to you, and what he has commissioned me to inform you."

It was now for them to say whether they would permit him to leave them; it was for each man present to consider who was to repay him the sums he had expended in the emperor's service; how he was ever to reap the rewards for his bravery and devotion, when the chief who alone was cognizant of their efforts, who was their sole advocate and champion, was removed from them.

When the speaker concluded a loud cry broke from all the officers that they would not permit Wallenstein to be taken from them. Then a babel of talk arose, and after much discussion four of the officers were appointed as a deputation to wait upon the duke to assure him of the devotion of the army, and to beg him not to withdraw himself from them. The four officers intrusted with the commission left the room and repaired to the private chamber of the general. They returned in a short time, saying that the duke refused to yield.

Another deputation was sent to pray him in even stronger terms to remain with them. These returned with the news that Wallenstein had reluctantly yielded to their request; but upon the condition that each of them should give a written promise to truly and firmly adhere to him, neither to separate or to allow himself to be separated from him, and to shed his last drop of blood in his defence. Whoever should break this covenant, so long as Wallenstein should employ the army in the emperor's service, was to be regarded as a perfidious traitor and to be treated by the rest as a common enemy.

As these last words appeared to indicate clearly that Wallenstein had no thought of assuming a position hostile to the emperor, or of defying his authority, save in the point of refusing to be separated from his army, all present agreed with acclamations to sign the documents required.

"Then, gentlemen," Marshal Illo said, "I will have the document for your signatures at once drawn up. A banquet has been prepared in the next room, of which I invite you now all to partake, and at its conclusion the document shall be ready."

Malcolm from his hiding place heard the general movement as the officers left the apartment, and looking cautiously out from beneath the arras, saw that the chamber was entirely empty. He determined, however, to remain and to hear the conclusion of the conference. He accordingly remained quiet for upwards of an hour. During this time the attendants had entered and extinguished the lights, as the guests would not return to the council chamber.

He now left his hiding place and made his way to the door which separated him from the banqueting hall. Listening intently at the keyhole, he heard the clinking of glasses and the sound of voices loudly raised, and he guessed that the revelry was at its height. More and more noisy did it become, for Marshal Illo was plying his guests with wine in order that they might sign without examination the document which he had prepared for their signatures. Feeling confident that none would hear him in the state at which they had now arrived, Malcolm cautiously opened the door an inch or two, and was able to hear and see all that passed.

It was another hour before Marshal Illo produced the document and passed it round for signature. Many of those to whom it was handed signed it at once without reading the engagement; but one more sober than the rest insisted on reading it through, and at once rising to his feet, announced to the others that the important words "as long as Wallenstein shall employ the army for the emperor's service," which had been inserted in the first draft agreed to by Wallenstein and the deputation, had been omitted.

A scene of noisy confusion ensued. Several of the officers declared that they would not sign the document as it stood. General Piccolomini, who had only attended the meeting in order that he might inform the emperor, to whom he was devoted, of what took place there, had drunk so much wine that he forgot the part he was playing, and rose to his feet and with drunken gravity proposed the health of the emperor.

Louder and louder grew the din of tongues until Count Terzky, who was alone with Illo and Colonel Kinsky in Wallenstein's confidence, arose, and in a thundering voice declared that all were perjured villains who should recede from their engagement, and would, according to their agreements be treated as enemies by the rest. His menaces and the evident danger which any who might now draw back would run, overcame the scruples of the recalcitrants, and all signed the paper. This done the meeting broke up, and Malcolm, stealing away from his post of observation, made his way back to his lodgings.

He slept little that night. What he had seen convinced him that Wallenstein was really in earnest in the propositions which he had made to Oxenstiern and the Elector of Saxony, and that he meditated an open rebellion against the emperor. It was of extreme importance that Oxenstiern should be made acquainted with these facts; but it would be next to impossible to escape from Pilsen, burdened as he was with Thekla, and to cross the country which intervened between the two armies and which was constantly traversed by cavalry parties and scouts of both sides.

After much deliberation, therefore, he determined upon the bold course of frankly informing Wallenstein who he was and what he had heard, and to beg of him to furnish him with an escort to pass through the lines in order that he might make his way with all speed to Oxenstiern in order to assure him of the good faith of the duke and of the importance of his frankly and speedily accepting his proposals. It was possible, of course, that he might fall a victim to Wallenstein's first anger when he found out that he had been duped, and the plot in which he was engaged discovered; but he resolved to run the risk, believing that the duke would see the advantage to be gained by complying with his proposal.

It was necessary, however, to prepare Thekla for the worst.

"Thekla," he said in the morning, "an end has come to our stay here. Circumstances have occurred which will either enable us to continue our journey at once and in safety or which may place me in a prison."

Thekla gave a cry of surprise and terror. "I do not think, my dear girl," Malcolm went on, "that there is much fear of the second alternative, but we must be prepared for it. You must obey my instructions implicitly. Should I not return by nightfall you will know that for a time at least I have been detained. You will tell the woman of the house, who is aware that I am employed by Wallenstein, that I have been sent by him to examine and set in order the clocks in his palace in Vienna in readiness for his return there, but that as you were too unwell to travel I have bade you remain here until I return to fetch you.

"You have an ample supply of money even without the purse of gold which the duke presented to me yesterday. You must remain here quietly until the spring, when the tide of war is sure to roll away to some other quarter, and I trust that, long ere that, even should I be detained, I shall be free to come to you again; but if not, do you then despatch this letter which I have written for you to Jans Boerhoff. In this I tell him where you are, in order that, if your mother comes to him asking for you, or your parents are able to write to him to inquire for you, he may inform them of your hiding place. I have also written you a letter to the commander of any Swedish force which may enter this town, telling him who you are, and praying him to forward you under an escort to Nuremberg."

"But what shall I do without you?" Thekla sobbed.

"I trust, my dear, that you will not have to do without me, and feel convinced that tomorrow we shall be upon our way to the Swedish outposts. I only give you instructions in case of the worst. It troubles me terribly that I am forced to do anything which may possibly deprive you of my protection, but my duty to the country I serve compels me to take this step, which is one of supreme importance to our cause."

It was long before Thekla was pacified, and Malcolm himself was deeply troubled at the thought that the girl might be left alone and unprotected in a strange place. Still there appeared every probability that she would be able to remain there in safety until an opportunity should occur for her to make her way to Nuremberg. It was with a heavy heart, caused far more by the thought of Thekla's position than of danger to himself, that he took his way to the castle; but he felt that his duty was imperative, and was at heart convinced that Wallenstein would eagerly embrace his offer.

It was not until midday that he was able to see the duke. Wallenstein had been greatly angered as well as alarmed at the resistance which his scheme had met with on the previous evening. He had believed that his favours and liberality had so thoroughly attached his generals to his person that they would have followed him willingly and without hesitation, even in a war against the emperor, and the discovery that, although willing to support him against deprivation from his command, they shrunk alarmed at the idea of disloyalty to the emperor, showed that his position was dangerous in the extreme.

He found that the signatures to the document had for the most part been scrawled so illegibly that the writers would be able to repudiate them if necessary, and that deceit was evidently intended. In the morning he called together the whole of the generals, and personally received them. After pouring out the bitterest reproaches and abuse against the court, he reminded them of their opposition to the proposition set before them on the previous evening, and declared that this circumstance had induced him to retract his own promise, and that he should at once resign his command.

The generals, in confusion and dismay, withdrew to the antechamber, and after a short consultation returned to offer their apologies for their conduct on the previous evening and to offer to sign anew the engagement which bound them to him. This was done, and it now remained only for Wallenstein to obtain the adhesion of Gallas, Altringer, and Coloredo, which, as they held important separate commands, was necessary for the success of his plan. Messengers were accordingly sent out at once to request them to come instantly to Pilsen.

After this business was despatched and Wallenstein was disengaged he was informed that Malcolm desired earnestly to speak to him on particular business. Greatly surprised at the request, he ordered that he should be shown in to him.

"Your excellency," Malcolm began when they were alone, "what I am about to say may anger you, but as I trust that much advantage may arise from my communication, I implore you to restrain your anger until you hear me to the end, after which it will be for you to do with me as you will."

Still more surprised at this commencement, Wallenstein signed to him to continue.

"I am, sir," Malcolm went on, "no clockmaker, although, indeed, having worked for some time in the shop of Master Jans Boerhoff at the time of the siege of Nuremberg, I am able to set clocks and watches in repair, as I have done to those which have been placed in my hands here. In reality, sir, I am a Scottish officer, a captain in the service of Sweden."

Wallenstein gave a short exclamation of angry surprise. "You must not think, sir, that I have come hither in disguise to be a spy upon the movements of your army. I came here unwillingly, being captured by your troops, and forced to accompany them.

"I left the Swedish camp on a private mission, having received there a missive from the Countess of Mansfeld, who, with her husband, was a kind friend of mine, telling me that they were prisoners of the emperor at Prague, and begging me to come to their assistance. Bethinking me of the occupation which had amused my leisure hours during the weary months when we were shut up by you in Nuremberg, I obtained leave of absence, attired myself as a craftsman, and made my way to Prague. There I found the count confined to his couch by a wound and unable to move. The countess had no thought of quitting him. Her anxiety was wholly for her daughter, a girl of fifteen, whom the emperor purposed to shut up in a convent and force to change her religion, and then to bestow her hand upon one of his favourites, with her father's confiscated estates as her dowry.

"I succeeded in effecting her escape, disguised as a boy; I myself travelling in the disguise of a peasant with a wagon. We were making our way towards the Swedish lines when we came across your army, which had, unknown to me, suddenly moved hither. I and my cart were requisitioned for the service of the army. On the night of my arrival here I resumed my disguise as a craftsman, left my wagon, and with my young companion took up my lodging here, intending to remain quietly working at the craft I assumed until an opportunity offered for continuing our journey. Accident obtained me employment here, and as rumour said that overtures for peace were passing between yourself and the Swedish chancellor, I may frankly say that I determined to use the position in which I accidentally found myself for the benefit of the country I served, by ascertaining, if I could, how far your excellency was in earnest as to the offers you were making. In pursuance of that plan I yesterday concealed myself and overheard all that passed in the council chamber with the officers, and at the banquet subsequently."

Wallenstein leapt to his feet with an angry exclamation.

"Your excellency will please to remember," Malcolm went on quietly, "that I could have kept all this to myself and used it to the benefit or detriment of your excellency, but it seemed to me that I should benefit at once your designs and the cause I serve by frankly acquainting you with what I have discovered. It would be a work of time for me to make my way with my companion through the lines of your army and to gain those of the Swedes. I might be slain in so doing and the important information I have acquired lost.

"It is of all things important to you that the Swedish chancellor, whose nature is cautious and suspicious, should be thoroughly convinced that it is your intention to make common cause with him and to join him heart and soul in forcing the emperor to accept the conditions which you and he united may impose upon him. This the information I have acquired will assuredly suffice to do, and he will, without doubt, at once set his army in motion to act in concert with yours."

Wallenstein paced the room for a minute or two in silence.

"The stars truly said that you are a brave man and that your destiny is connected with mine," he said at length, "for assuredly none but a brave man would venture to tell me that he had spied into my councils. I see, however, that what you say is reasonable and cogent, and that the news you have to tell may well induce Oxenstiern to lay aside the doubts which have so long kept us asunder and at once to embrace my offer. What, then, do you propose?"

"I would ask, sir," Malcolm replied, "that you would at once order a squadron of horse to escort me and my companion through the debatable land between your army and that of the Swedes, with orders for us to pass freely on as soon as we are beyond your outposts and in the neighbourhood of those of the Swedes."

"It shall be done," Wallenstein said. "In half an hour a squadron of horse shall be drawn up in the courtyard here, and a horse and pillion in readiness for yourself and the maiden. In the meantime I will myself prepare a letter for you to present to the Swedish chancellor with fresh proposals for common action."



Chapter XXIII The Murder Of Wallenstein


Malcolm hurried back to his lodging, where he was received with a cry of delight from Thekla, who had passed the time since he had left her on her knees praying for his safety. He told her at once that she was about to be restored to safety among friends, that her troubles were at an end, and she was again to resume her proper garments which she had brought with her in the basket containing his tools at the time of her flight.

A few minutes sufficed to make the change, and then she accompanied Malcolm to the castle. Wallenstein's orders had been rapidly carried out; a squadron of cavalry were formed up in the courtyard, and in front of them an attendant held a horse with a pillion behind the saddle. Malcolm lifted Thekla on to the pillion and sprang into the saddle in front of her. One of Wallenstein's household handed a letter to him and then gave him into the charge of the officer commanding the squadron, who had already received his orders. The officer at once gave the word and rode from the castle followed by the cavalry.

As soon as they were out of the town the pace was quickened, and the cavalcade proceeded at a trot which was kept up with few intermissions until nightfall, by which time twenty miles had been covered. They halted for the night in a small town where the soldiers were billeted on the inhabitants, comfortable apartments being assigned to Malcolm and his charge.

Soon after daybreak the journey was continued. A sharp watch was now kept up, as at any moment parties of the Swedish cavalry making a raid far in advance of their lines might be met with. No such adventure happened, and late in the afternoon the troop halted on the crest of a low hill.

"Here," the officer said, "we part. That town which you see across the river is held by the Swedes, and you will certainly meet with no molestation from any of our side as you ride down to it."

Malcolm thanked the officer for the courtesy he had shown him on the journey, and then rode forward towards the town. It was getting dusk as he neared the bridge, but as he came close Malcolm's heart gave a bound as he recognized the green scarves and plumes worn by the sentries at the bridge. These seeing only a single horseman with a female behind him did not attempt to question him as he passed; but he reined in his horse.

"Whose regiment do you belong to?" he asked.

The men looked up in surprise at being addressed in their own language by one whose attire was that of a simple craftsman, but whom they now saw rode a horse of great strength and beauty.

"We belong to Hamilton's regiment," they replied.

"And where shall I find that of Munro?"

"It is lying in quarters fifteen miles away," one of the soldiers answered.

"Then we cannot get on there tonight," Malcolm said. "Where are your officers quartered?"

A soldier standing near at once volunteered to act as guide, and in a few minutes Malcolm arrived at the house occupied by them. He was of course personally known to all the officers, and as soon as their surprise at his disguise and at seeing him accompanied by a young lady had subsided, they received him most heartily.

Thekla was at once taken to the house of the burgomaster, which was close at hand, and handed over to the wife of that functionary for the night, and Malcolm spent a merry evening with the Scottish officers, to whom he related the adventures which had so satisfactorily terminated -- making, however, no allusion to the political secrets which he had discovered or the mission with which he was charged. He was soon furnished from the wardrobes of the officers with a suit of clothes, and although his craftsman attire had served him well he was glad to don again the uniform of the Scottish brigade.

"You have cut your narrative strangely short at the end, Graheme," Colonel Hamilton said when Malcolm brought his story to a conclusion. "How did you get away from Pilsen at last, and from whom did you steal that splendid charger on whom you rode up to the door?"

"That is not my own secret, colonel, and I can only tell you at present that Wallenstein himself gave it to me."

A roar of incredulous laughter broke from the officers round the table.

"A likely story indeed, Graheme; the duke was so fascinated with your talents as a watchmaker that he bestowed a charger fit for his own riding upon you to carry you across into our lines."

"It does not sound likely, I grant you," Malcolm said, "but it is true, as you will acknowledge when the time comes that there will be no longer any occasion for me to keep the circumstances secret. I only repeat, Wallenstein gave me the honour of an escort which conducted me to the crest of the hill two miles away, where, if your sentries and outposts had been keeping their eyes open, they might have seen them."

It was late before the party broke up, but soon after daylight Malcolm was again in the saddle, and with Thekla as before on the pillion he continued his journey, and in three hours reached the town where his regiment was quartered.

Alighting at the door of the colonel's quarters, he led Thekla to his apartments. The colonel received him with the greatest cordiality and welcomed Thekla with a kindness which soon put her at her ease, for now that the danger was past she was beginning to feel keenly the strangeness of her position.

She remembered Colonel Munro perfectly, as he and the other officers of the regiment had been frequently at her father's during the stay of the regiment at Maintz. The colonel placed her at once in charge of the wife of one of the principal citizens, who upon hearing that she was the daughter of the Count of Mansfeld, well known for his attachment to the Protestant cause, willingly received her, and offered to retain her as her guest until an opportunity should occur for sending her on to Nuremberg, should Malcolm not be able at once to continue his journey to that city.

"That," Colonel Munro said as soon as Malcolm informed him of the extremely important information he had gained, "is out of the question. Your news is of supreme importance, it alters the whole course of events, and offers hopes of an early termination of the struggle. There is no doubt that Wallenstein is in earnest now, for he has committed himself beyond reparation. The only question is whether he can carry the army with him. However, it is clear that you must ride with all haste to Oxenstiern with your tidings; not a moment must be lost. He is in the Palatinate, and it will take you four days of hard riding at the least to reach him.

"In the meantime, your little maid, who by the way is already nearly a woman, had best remain here -- I will see that she is comfortable and well cared for, and after all she is as well here as at Nuremberg, as there is no fear now of an advance of the Imperialists. In case of anything extraordinary occurring which might render this town an unsafe abiding place, I will forward her in safety to Nuremberg, even I if I have to detach a score of my men as her escort."

Before mounting again Malcolm paid a hurried visit to Thekla, who expressed her contentment with her new abode, and her readiness to stay there until he should return to take her to Nuremberg, even should it be weeks before he could do so.

"I quite feel among friends now," she said, "and Colonel Munro and your Scotch officers will, I am sure, take good care of me till you return."

Glad to feel that his charge was left in good hands Malcolm mounted his horse with a light heart and galloped away. Four days later he was closeted with the Swedish chancellor, and relating to him the scene in the castle at Pilsen. When he had finished his narrative Oxenstiern, who had, before Malcolm began, read the letter which Wallenstein had sent him, said:

"After what you tell me there can be no longer the slightest doubts of Wallenstein's intention. Ever since the death of the king he has been negotiating privately with me, but I could not believe that he was in earnest or that such monstrous treachery was possible. How could I suppose that he who has been raised from the rank of a simple gentleman to that of a duke and prince, and who, save the fortunes which he obtained with his wives, owes everything to the bounty of the emperor, could be preparing to turn his arms against him?"

"It is true that he has done great things for Ferdinand, but his ambition is even greater than his military talent. Any other man would have been content with the enormous possessions and splendid dignity which he has attained, and which in fact render him far richer than his Imperial master; but to be a prince does not suffice for him. He has been promised a kingdom, but even that is insufficient for his ambition. It is clear that he aims to dethrone the emperor and to set himself up in his place; however, his ingratitude does not concern me, it suffices now that at any rate he is sincere, and that a happy issue out of the struggle opens before us henceforth.

"I can trust him thoroughly; but though he has the will to join us has he the power? Wallenstein, with his generals and his army fighting for the emperor, is a mighty personage, but Wallenstein a rebel is another altogether. By what you tell me it seems more than doubtful whether his officers will follow him; and although his army is attached to him, and might follow him could he put himself at its head, it is scattered in its cantonments, and each section will obey the orders which the general in its command may give.

"Probably some of those who signed the document, pledging their fidelity to Wallenstein, have already sent news to the emperor of what is being done. It is a strange situation and needs great care; the elements are all uncertain. Wallenstein writes to me as if he were assured of the allegiance of the whole of his army, and speaks unquestionably of his power to overthrow the emperor; but the man is clearly blinded by his ambition and infatuated by his fixed belief in the stars. However, one thing is certain, he and as much of his army as he can hold in hand are now our allies, and I must lose no time in moving such troops as are most easily disposable to his assistance.

"I will send to Saxony and urge the elector to put in motion a force to support him, and Duke Bernhard shall move with a division of our troops. I will at once pen a despatch to Wallenstein, accepting his alliance and promising him active aid as soon as possible.

"What say you, young sir? You have shown the greatest circumspection and ability in this affair. Will you undertake to carry my despatch? You must not travel as a Scottish officer, for if there are any traitors among the officers of Wallenstein they will assuredly endeavour to intercept any despatches which may be passing between us in order to send them to the emperor as proofs of the duke's guilt."

"I will undertake the task willingly, sir," Malcolm replied, "and doubt not that I shall be able to penetrate to him in the same disguise which I before wore. When I once reach him is your wish that I should remain near him, or that I should at once return?"

"It were best that you should remain for a time," the chancellor said. "You may be able to send me news from time to time of what is passing around the duke. Before you start, you shall be supplied with an ample amount of money to pay messengers to bring your reports to me. Wallenstein hardly appears to see the danger of his situation; but you will be more clear sighted. It is a strange drama which is being played, and may well terminate in a tragedy. At any rate the next month will decide what is to come of these strange combinations."

The horse on which Malcolm had ridden was knocked up from the speed at which he had travelled, and, ordering it to be carefully tended till his return, he obtained a fresh horse and again set out. He made the journey at the same speed at which he had before passed over the ground, and paused for a few hours only at Amberg, where he found Thekla well and comfortable, and quite recovered from the effects of her journeys and anxiety. She received him with delight; but her joy was dashed when she found that, instead of returning to remain with his regiment, as she had hoped, he was only passing through on another mission.

At Amberg he again laid aside his uniform and donned his costume as a craftsman. Colonel Munro gave him an escort of twenty troopers; with these he crossed the river at nightfall, and, making a detour to avoid the Imperialist outposts, rode some fifteen miles on his way. He then dismounted and handed over his horse to his escort, who at once started on their way back to Amberg, while he pursued his journey on foot towards Pilsen. It was late the next evening before he reached the town; and on arriving he learned that Wallenstein was still there.

The Imperialist general, immediately upon obtaining the signature of his officers, had sent to urge Altringer and Gallas, who had been absent from the meeting, to come to him with all speed. Altringer, on pretence of sickness, did not comply with the invitation. Gallas made his appearance, but merely with the intention of finding out all Wallenstein's plans and of keeping the emperor informed of them. Piccolomini had, immediately the meeting broke up, sent full details of its proceedings to the court, and Gallas was furnished with a secret commission containing the emperor's orders to the colonels and officers, granting an amnesty for their adhesion to Wallenstein at Pilsen, and ordering them to make known to the army that it was released from its obedience to Wallenstein, and was placed under the command of Gallas himself, who received orders, if possible, to arrest Wallenstein.

Gallas on his arrival perceived the impossibility of executing his commission, for Wallenstein's troops and officers were devoted to him, and not even the crime of high treason could overcome their veneration and respect for him. Finding that he could do nothing, and fearful that Wallenstein should discover the commission with which he was charged, Gallas sought for a pretence to escape from Pilsen, and offered to go to Altringer and to persuade him to return with him.

Wallenstein had no doubts of the fidelity of the general, and allowed him to depart. As he did not return at once Piccolomini, who was also most anxious to get out of the grasp of Wallenstein, offered to go and fetch both Gallas and Altringer. Wallenstein consented, and conveyed Piccolomini in his own carriage to Lintz. No sooner had Piccolomini left him than he hurried to his own command, denounced Wallenstein as a traitor, and prepared to surprise the duke in Pilsen. Gallas at the same time sent round copies of his commission to all the Imperial camps.

Upon his arrival Malcolm at once proceeded to the castle, and, finding the steward, requested him to inform the duke that he had returned. In a few minutes he was ushered into his presence, and handed to him the letter from Oxenstiern. Wallenstein tore it open without a word and gave an exclamation of satisfaction as he glanced it through.

"This is opportune indeed," he said, "and I thank you for bringing me the news so rapidly. Well did the astrologer say that my destiny to some extent depended on you; this is a proof that he was right. The chancellor tells me that the Duke of Saxe-Lauenberg will march instantly with four thousand men to join me, and that Duke Bernhard will move down at once with six thousand of the best Swedish troops. I may yet be even with the traitors."

Although the defection of Gallas and Piccolomini and the news of the issue of the Imperial proclamation had fallen with stunning force upon Wallenstein, he had still faith in the fidelity of the army at large, and he had already despatched Marshal Terzky to Prague, where all the troops faithful to him were to assemble, intending to follow himself with the regiments at Pilsen as soon as carriage could be obtained from the country round. His astrologer still assured him that the stars were favourable, and Wallenstein's faith in his own destiny was unshaken.

Upon finding that Malcolm had orders to remain with him until he was joined by Duke Bernhard, he ordered handsome apartments to be prepared for him, and as there was no longer any reason why the fact that a Swedish officer was in the castle should be concealed, he commanded that Malcolm should be furnished with handsome raiment of all sorts and a suit of superb armour. Upon the following morning Wallenstein sent for him.

"I have bad news," he said. "General Suys with an army arrived at Prague before Terzky got there, and I fear that the influence of Piccolomini, Gallas, and Altringer have withdrawn from me the corps which they command. Terzky will return tomorrow morning, and I shall then march with him and the troops here to Egra. There I shall effect a junction with Duke Bernhard, who is instructed to march upon that town."

The duke, though anxious, still appeared confident; but the outlook seemed to Malcolm extremely gloomy. The whole army save the regiments around Pilsen had fallen away from Wallenstein. His princely generosity to the generals and officers and his popularity among the troops had failed to attach them to him now that he had declared against the emperor, and it appeared to Malcolm that he would be able to bring over to the Swedish cause only the corps which he immediately commanded.

Still his defection could not but cause a vast gap in the Imperial defences, and the loss of the services of the greatest of their leaders would in itself be a heavy blow to the Imperialist cause, which had been almost solely supported by his commanding talents and his vast private income. Terzky arrived on the following morning, and the same afternoon Wallenstein with the whole of the troops at Pilsen marched towards Egra.

Among the officers attached to Wallenstein's person was a Scotchman named Leslie, to whom and a few other confidants Wallenstein had confided his designs. Wallenstein had at once introduced Malcolm to him, and the two rode in company during the march to Egra. Malcolm did not find him a cheerful companion. They chatted at times of the engagements in which both had taken part although on opposite sides; but Malcolm saw that his companion was absent and preoccupied, and that he avoided any conversation as to the turn which events had taken.

At the end of the first day's ride Malcolm came to the decided conclusion that he did not like his companion, and, moreover, that his heart was far from being in the enterprise on which they were engaged. The following day he avoided joining him, and rode with some of the other officers. Upon their arrival at Egra the gates were opened at their approach, and Colonel Butler, an Irishman who commanded the garrison, met Wallenstein as he entered, and saluted him with all honour. Wallenstein was pleased to find that the disaffection which had spread so rapidly through the army had not reached Egra.

A few hours after he had entered the town Wallenstein received the news that an Imperial edict had been issued proclaiming him a traitor and an outlaw; he also learned that the corps under the Duke of Saxe-Lauenburg was within a day's march of Egra. As soon as the duke retired to his apartments Leslie sought out Colonel Butler, and revealed to him the purposes of Wallenstein, and informed him of the Imperial order absolving the army from their allegiance to him. The two men, with Lieutenant Colonel Gordon, another Imperialist officer, at once determined to capture Wallenstein and to hand him over as a prisoner to the emperor.

In the afternoon Leslie had an interview with Wallenstein, who told him of the near approach of the Dukes of Saxe-Lauenburg and Saxe-Weimar, and informed him of his plans for advancing from Egra direct into the heart of Bohemia.

The treacherous officer at once hurried away with the news to his two associates, and it was agreed that the near approach of the Saxons rendered it impossible for them to carry out their first plan, but that instant and more urgent steps must be taken. That evening a banquet was given by Butler to Wallenstein and his officers. The duke, however, was too anxious to appear at it, and remained in his own apartment, the rest of the officers, among them Wallenstein's chief confidants, Illo, Terzky, and Kinsky, together with Captain Neumann, an intimate adviser of Terzky, were among the guests. Malcolm was also present.

The banquet passed off gaily, Wallenstein's health was drunk in full bumpers, and his friends boasted freely that in a few days he would find himself at the head of as powerful an army as he had ever before commanded. Malcolm had naturally been placed at the table near his compatriots, and it seemed to him that their gaiety was forced and unnatural, and a sense of danger came over him.

The danger indeed was great, although he knew it not. The drawbridge of the castle had been drawn up, the avenues leading to it guarded, and twenty infantry soldiers and six of Butler's dragoons were in hiding in the apartment next to the banqueting hall.

Dessert was placed on the table; Leslie gave the signal, and in an instant the hall was filled with armed men, who placed themselves behind the chairs of Wallenstein's trusted officers with shouts of "Long live Ferdinand!" The three officers instantly sprang to their feet, but Terzky and Kinsky were slain before they had time to draw their swords.

Neumann in the confusion escaped into the court, where he too was cut down. Illo burst through his assailants, and placing his back against a window stood on his defence. As he kept his assailants at bay he poured the bitterest reproaches upon Gordon for his treachery, and challenged him to fight him fairly and honourably. After a gallant resistance, in which he slew two of his assailants, he fell to the ground overpowered by numbers, and pierced with ten wounds.

Malcolm had sprung to his feet at the commencement of the tumult, but was pressed down again into his chair by two soldiers, while Leslie exclaimed, "Keep yourself quiet, sir, I would fain save you as a fellow countryman, and as one who is simply here in the execution of his duty; but if you draw sword to defend these traitors, you must share their fate."

No sooner had the murder of the four officers been accomplished than Leslie, Butler, and Gordon issued into the town. Butler's cavalry paraded the streets, and that officer quieted the garrison by telling them that Wallenstein had been proclaimed a traitor and an outlaw, and that all who were faithful to the emperor must obey their orders. The regiments most attached to Wallenstein had not entered the city, and the garrison listened to the voice of their commander.

Wallenstein knew nothing of what had taken place in the castle, and had just retired to bed when a band of Butler's soldiers, led by Captain Devereux, an Irishman, burst into his apartment. The duke leaped from his bed, but before he could snatch up a sword he was pierced through and through by the murderers' halberts.

So fell one of the greatest men of his age. Even to the present day there are differences of opinion as to the extent of his guilt, but none as to the treachery with which he was murdered by his most trusted officers. That Wallenstein owed much gratitude to the emperor is unquestionable, but upon the other hand he had even a greater title to the gratitude of Ferdinand, whose crown and empire he had repeatedly saved. Wallenstein was no bigot, his views were broad and enlightened, and he was therefore viewed with the greatest hostility by the violent Catholics around the king, by Maximilian of Bavaria, by the Spaniards, and by the Jesuits, who were all powerful at court. These had once before brought about his dismissal from the command, after he had rendered supreme services, and their intrigues against him were again at the point of success when Wallenstein determined to defy and dethrone the emperor. The coldness with which he was treated at court, the marked inattention to all his requests, the consciousness that while he was winning victories in the field his enemies were successfully plotting at court, angered the proud and haughty spirit of Wallenstein almost to madness, and it may truly be said that he was goaded into rebellion. The verdict of posterity has certainly been favourable to him, and the dastardly murder which requited a lifetime of brilliant services has been held to more than counterbalance the faults which he committed.



Chapter XXIV Malcolm's Escape


After the fall of Wallenstein's colonels Malcolm was led away a prisoner, and was conducted to a dungeon in the castle. It was not until the door closed behind him that he could fairly realize what had taken place, so sudden and unexpected had been the scene in the banqueting hall. Five minutes before he had been feasting and drinking the health of Wallenstein, now he was a prisoner of the Imperialists. Wallenstein's adherents had been murdered, and it was but too probable that a like fate would befall the general himself. The alliance from which so much had been hoped, which seemed to offer a prospect of a termination of the long and bloody struggle, was cut short at a blow.

As to his own fate it seemed dark enough, and his captivity might last for years, for the Imperialists' treatment of their prisoners was harsh in the extreme. The system of exchange, which was usual then as now, was in abeyance during the religious war in Germany. There was an almost personal hatred between the combatants, and, as Malcolm knew, many of his compatriots who had fallen into the hands of the Imperialists had been treated with such harshness in prison that they had died there. Some, indeed, were more than suspected of having been deliberately starved to death.

However, Malcolm had gone through so many adventures that even the scene which he had witnessed and his own captivity and uncertain fate were insufficient to banish sleep from his eyes, and he reposed as soundly on the heap of straw in the corner of his cell as he would have done in the carved and gilded bed in the apartment which had been assigned to him in the castle.

The sun was shining through the loophole of his dungeon when he awoke. For an hour he occupied himself in polishing carefully the magnificently inlaid armour which Wallenstein had presented him, and which, with the exception of his helmet, he had not laid aside when he sat down to the banquet, for it was very light and in no way hampered his movements, and except when quartered in towns far removed from an enemy officers seldom laid aside their arms. He still retained his sword and dagger, for his captors, in their haste to finish the first act of the tragedy, and to resist any rising which might take place among the soldiery, had omitted to take them from him when they hurried him away.

On examination he found that with his dagger he could shove back the lock of the door, but this was firmly held by bolts without. Thinking that on some future occasion the blade might be useful to him, he pushed the dagger well into the lock, and with a sharp jerk snapped it off at the hilt. Then he concealed the steel within his long boot and cast the hilt through the loophole.

Presently a soldier brought him his breakfast -- a manchet of bread and a stoup of wine. He was visited again at dinner and supper. Before the soldier came in the first time Malcolm concealed his sword in the straw, thinking that the soldier would be sure to remove it if he noticed it. The man who brought his breakfast and dinner was taciturn, and made no reply to his questions, but another man brought his supper, and he turned out of a more communicative disposition.

"What has happened?" he repeated in reply to Malcolm's question. "Well, I don't know much about it myself, but I do know that Wallenstein is dead, for the trooper who rides next to me helped to kill him. Everyone is content that the traitor has been punished, and as the troops have all pronounced for the emperor every thing is quiet. We had a good laugh this afternoon. The colonel sent out one of our men dressed up in Wallenstein's livery to meet the Duke of Saxe-Lauenburg and invite him to come on at once and join him here. The duke suspected no danger, and rode on ahead of his troops, with a few attendants, and you should have seen his face, when, after passing through the gates, he suddenly found himself surrounded by our men and a prisoner. Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar will be here tomorrow, as they say, and we shall catch him in the same way. It's a rare trap this, I can tell you."

The news heightened Malcolm's uneasiness. The capture of Duke Bernhard, the most brilliant of the German generals on the Protestant side, would be a heavy blow indeed to the cause, and leaving his supper untasted Malcolm walked up and down his cell in a fever of rage at his impotence to prevent so serious a disaster.

At last he ate his supper, and then threw himself upon the straw, but he was unable to sleep. The death of Wallenstein had made a deep impression upon him. The Imperialist general was greatly respected by his foes. Not only was he admired for his immense military talents, but he carried on the war with a chivalry and humanity which contrasted strongly with the ferocity of Tilly, Pappenheim, and Piccolomini. Prisoners who fell into his hands were always treated with courtesy, and although, from motives of policy, he placed but little check upon the excesses of his soldiery, no massacres, such as those which had caused the names of Tilly and Pappenheim to be held in abhorrence by the Protestants of Germany, were associated with that of Wallenstein. Then, too, the princely dignity and noble presence of the duke had greatly impressed the young soldier, and the courtesy with which he had treated him personally had attracted his liking as well as respect. To think that this great general, this princely noble, the man who alone had baffled the Lion of the North, had been foully murdered by those he had trusted and favoured, filled him with grief and indignation, the more so since two of the principal assassins were Scotchmen.

The thought that on the morrow Duke Bernhard of Weimar -- a leader in importance second only to the Chancellor of Sweden -- would fall unsuspiciously into the trap set for him goaded him almost to madness, and he tossed restlessly on the straw through the long hours of the night. Towards morning he heard a faint creaking of bolts, then there was a sound of the locks of the door being turned. He grasped his sword and sprang to his feet. He heard the door close again, and then a man produced a lantern from beneath a long cloak, and he saw Wallenstein's steward before him. The old man's eyes were bloodshot with weeping, and his face betokened the anguish which the death of his master had caused him.

"You have heard the news?" he asked.

"Alas!" Malcolm replied, "I have heard it indeed."

"I am determined," the old man said, "to thwart the projects of these murderers and to have vengeance upon them. None have thought of me. I was an old man, too insignificant for notice, and I have passed the day in my chamber lamenting the kindest of lords, the best of masters. Last evening I heard the soldiers boasting that today they would capture the Duke of Saxe-Weimar, and I determined to foil them. They have been feasting and drinking all night, and it is but now that the troopers have fallen into a drunken slumber and I was able to possess myself of the key of your dungeon.

"Here is your helmet. I will lead you to the stable, where I have saddled the best and fastest of my master's horses. You must remain there quietly until you deem that the gates are open, then leap upon the horse, and ride for your life. Few will know you, and you will probably pass out of the gate unquestioned. If not, you have your sword to cut your way. Once beyond the town ride to meet the duke. Tell him my master has been murdered, that Egra is in the hands of the Imperialists, and that Saxe-Lauenburg is a prisoner. Bid him march on this place with his force, take it by assault, and leave not one of the assassins of my lord living within its walls."

"You will run no risk, I hope, for your share in this adventure," Malcolm said.

"It matters little to me," the old man replied. "My life is worthless, and I would gladly die in the thought that I have brought retribution on the head of the murderers of my master. But they will not suspect me. I shall lock the door behind us, and place the key again in the girdle of the drunken guard, and then return to my own chamber."

Quietly Malcolm and his conductor made their way through the castle and out into the courtyard. Then they entered the stables.

"This is the horse," the steward said, again uncovering his lantern. "Is he not a splendid animal? He was my master's favourite, and sooner than that his murderers should ride him I would cut the throat of the noble beast with my dagger; but he has a better mission in carrying the avenger of his master's blood. And now farewell. The rest is in your own hands. May Heaven give you good fortune." So saying, the old man set down his lantern and left Malcolm alone.

The latter, after examining the saddle and bridle, and seeing that every buckle was firm and in its place, extinguished the light, and waited patiently for morning. In two hours a faint light began to show itself. Stronger and stronger it grew until it was broad day. Still there were but few sounds of life and movement in the castle. Presently, however, the noise of footsteps and voices was heard in the courtyard.

Although apprehensive that at any moment the stable door might open, Malcolm still delayed his start, as it would be fatal were he to set out before the opening of the gates. At last he felt sure that they must be opened to admit the country people coming in with supplies for the market. He had donned his helmet before leaving his cell, and he now quietly opened the stable door, sprang into the saddle, and rode boldly out.

Several soldiers were loitering about the courtyard. Some were washing at the trough and bathing their heads beneath the fountain to get rid of the fumes of the wine they had indulged in overnight. Others were cleaning their arms.

The sudden appearance of a mounted officer armed from head to foot caused a general pause in their occupation, although none had any suspicion that the splendidly attired officer was a fugitive; but, believing that he was one of Leslie's friends who was setting out on some mission, they paid no further heed to him, as quietly and without any sign of haste he rode through the gateway of the castle into the town. The inhabitants were already in the streets, country women with baskets were vending their produce, and the market was full of people. Malcolm rode on at a foot pace until he was within sight of the open gate of the town. When within fifty yards of the gate he suddenly came upon Colonel Leslie, who had thus early been making a tour of the walls to see that the sentries were upon the alert, for Duke Bernhard's force was within a few miles. He instantly recognized Malcolm.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "Captain Graheme -- treachery! treachery! shut the gate there," and drawing his sword, threw himself in Malcolm's way.

Malcolm touched the horse with his spur and it bounded forward; he parried the blow which Leslie struck at him, and, with a sweeping cut full on the traitor's helmet, struck him to the ground and then dashed onward. A sentry was beginning to shut the gate, and his comrades were running out from the guardhouse as Malcolm galloped up.

The steward had fastened the holsters on to the saddle, and Malcolm, before starting, had seen to the priming of the pistols in them. Drawing one he shot the man who was closing the gate, and before his comrades could run up he dashed through it and over the drawbridge.

Several bullets whizzed around him, but he was soon out of range, and galloping at full speed in the direction in which the steward had told him that Duke Bernhard was encamped. In half an hour he reached the Swedish lines, and rode at once to the tent of the duke who was upon the point of mounting; beside him stood a man in the livery of Wallenstein. As he rode up Malcolm drew his pistol, and said to the man:

"If you move a foot I will send a bullet through your head."

"What is this?" exclaimed the duke in astonishment, "and who are you, sir, who with such scant courtesy ride into my camp?"

Malcolm raised his vizor. "I am Captain Graheme of Munro's regiment," he said, "and I have ridden here to warn your excellency of treachery. Wallenstein has been foully murdered. Egra is in the hands of the Imperialists, the Duke of Saxe-Lauenburg has been beguiled into a trap and taken prisoner, and this fellow, who is one of Butler's troopers, has been sent here to lead you into a like snare."

"Wallenstein murdered!" the duke exclaimed in tones of horror. "Murdered, say you? Impossible!"

"It is but too true, sir," Malcolm replied; "I myself saw his friends Illo, Terzky, and Kinsky assassinated before my eyes at a banquet. Wallenstein was murdered by his favourites Leslie and Gordon and the Irishman Butler. I was seized and thrown into a dungeon, but have escaped by a miracle to warn you of your danger."

"This is a blow indeed," the duke said mournfully. Turning to his attendants he ordered them to hang the false messenger to the nearest tree, and then begged Malcolm to follow him into his tent and give him full details of this terrible transaction.

"This upsets all our schemes indeed," the duke said when he had concluded. "What is the strength of the garrison at Egra?"

"There were Butler's dragoons and an infantry regiment in garrison there when we arrived; six regiments accompanied us on the march, and I fear that all these must now be considered as having gone over to the Imperialists."

"Then their force is superior to my own," the duke said, "for I have but six thousand men with me, and have no artillery heavy enough to make any impression upon the walls of the town. Much as I should like to meet these traitors and to deal out to them the punishment they deserve, I cannot adventure on the siege of Egra until I have communicated this terrible news to the Swedish chancellor. Egra was all important to us as affording an entrance into Bohemia so long as Wallenstein was with us, but now that he has been murdered and our schemes thus suddenly destroyed I cannot risk the destruction of my force by an assault upon the city, which is no longer of use to us."

Much as Malcolm would have liked to have seen the punishment of Wallenstein's treacherous followers, he could not but feel that the duke's view was, under the circumstances, the correct one. The tents were speedily struck, and the force fell back with all speed towards Bavaria, and after accompanying them for a march or two, Malcolm left them and rode to join his regiment, the duke having already sent off a messenger to Oxenstiern with a full account of the murder of Wallenstein.

As none could say what events were likely to follow the changed position of things, Malcolm determined at once to carry out the original intention of placing Thekla under the care of his friends at Nuremberg, in which direction it was not probable that the tide of war would for the present flow. After staying therefore a day or two with his regiment, where his relation of the events he had witnessed caused the greatest excitement and interest, Malcolm obtained leave from his colonel to escort Thekla to Nuremberg.

In order that they might pass in perfect safety across the intervening country Munro gave him an escort of twelve troopers, and with these he journeyed by easy stages to Nuremberg, where the worthy syndic of the clockmakers and his wife gladly received Thekla, and promised to treat her as one of their own daughters.

Here Malcolm took possession of his arms and valises, which he had sent, upon starting for Prague, to the care of Jans Boerhoff; not indeed that he needed the armour, for the suit which Wallenstein had given him was the admiration and envy of his comrades, and Munro had laughingly said that since Hepburn had left them no such gallantly attired cavalier had ridden in the ranks of the Scottish brigade.

There were many tears on Thekla's part as her young protector bade her adieu, for there was no saying how long a time might elapse before she might again see him, and Malcolm was sorely tempted to tell her that he had her father's consent to wooing her as his wife. He thought it, however, better to abstain from speaking, for should he fall in the campaign her grief would be all the greater had she come to think of him as her destined husband, for her hearty affection for him already assured him that she would make no objection to carrying out her father's wishes.

Shortly after rejoining his regiment Malcolm received a communication from the Swedish chancellor expressing in high terms his approbation of the manner in which he had carried out his instructions with regard to Wallenstein, and especially for the great service he had rendered the cause by warning the Duke of Saxe-Weimar of the trap which the Imperialists had set for him.

The death of Wallenstein was followed by a short pause in the war. It had entirely frustrated all the plans and hopes of the Protestants, and it caused a delay in the movement of the Imperialists. The emperor, when he heard of Wallenstein's death, heaped favours and honours upon the three men who had plotted and carried out his murder, and then appointed his son Ferdinand, King of Hungary, to the chief command of the army, with General Gallas as his principal adviser.

The Duke of Lorraine marched with an army to join the Imperialists, who were also strengthened by the arrival of 10,000 Spanish veterans, and early in May the new Imperial general entered the Palatinate and marched to lay siege to Ratisbon. To oppose the Imperial army, which numbered 35,000 men, Duke Bernhard, after having drawn together all the troops scattered in the neighbourhood, could only put 15,000 in the field. With so great a disparity of force he could not offer battle, but in every way he harassed and interrupted the advance of the Imperialists, while he sent pressing messages to Oxenstiern for men and money, and to Marshal Horn, who commanded in Alsace, to beg him march with all haste to his assistance.

Unfortunately Horn and Duke Bernhard were men of extremely different temperaments. The latter was vivacious, enterprising, and daring even to rashness, ready to undertake any enterprise which offered the smallest hope of success. Marshal Horn, on the other hand, although a good general, was slow, over cautious and hesitating, and would never move until his plans appeared to promise almost a certainty of success. Besides this, Horn, a Swede, was a little jealous that Duke Bernhard, a German, should be placed in the position of general-in-chief, and this feeling no doubt tended to increase his caution and to delay his action.

Consequently he was so long a time before he obeyed the pressing messages sent by the duke, that Ratisbon, after a valiant defence, surrendered on the 29th of July, before he had effected a junction with the duke's army. The Imperialists then marched upon Donauworth, and this place, after a feeble defence, also capitulated. The duke, heartbroken at seeing the conquests, which had been effected at so great a loss of life and treasure, wrested from his hands while he was unable to strike a blow to save them, in despair marched away to Swabia to meet the slowly advancing army of Marshal Horn.

No sooner was the junction effected than he turned quickly back and reached the vicinity of Nordlingen, only to find the enemy already there before him, and posted on the more advanced of the two heights which dominate the plain. By a skillful manoeuvre, however, he was enabled to throw within its walls a reinforcement to the garrison of eight hundred men.

Nordlingen, an important free town, stands on the south bank of the Ries, some 18 miles to the northeast of Donauworth. It was surrounded by a wall, interspersed with numerous towers, sufficiently strong to guard it against any surprise, but not to defend it against a regular siege by a numerous army. The vast plain on which the town stands is broken near its centre by two heights rising at a distance of three thousand yards from each other.

The height nearest to the town, which is very steep and craggy, is known as the Weinberg, the other is called Allersheim; a village stands some three hundred yards in advance of the valley between the heights, and is nearer to the town than either of the two eminences.

The Scotch brigade formed part of Duke Bernhard's command. It was now nearly two years since a pitched battle had been fought, for although there had been many skirmishes and assaults in the preceding year no great encounter had taken place between the armies since Gustavus fell at Lutzen, in October, 1632, and the Scotch brigade had not been present at that battle. In the time which had elapsed many recruits had arrived from Scotland, and Munro's regiment had been again raised to the strength at which it had landed at Rugen four years before. Not half a dozen of the officers who had then, full of life and spirit, marched in its ranks were now present. Death had indeed been busy among them. On the evening of their arrival in sight of the Imperialist army the two Grahemes supped with their colonel. Munro had but just arrived from the duke's quarters.

"I suppose we shall fight tomorrow, Munro," Major Graheme said.

"It is not settled," the colonel replied; "between ourselves the duke and Horn are not of one mind. The duke wants to fight; he urges that were we to allow Nordlingen to fall, as we have allowed Ratisbon and Donauworth, without striking a blow to save it, it would be an evidence of caution and even cowardice which would have the worst possible effect through Germany. Nordlingen has ever been staunch to the cause, and the Protestants would everywhere fall away from us did they find that we had so little care for their safety as to stand by and see them fall into the hands of the Imperialists without an effort. It is better, in the duke's opinion, to fight and to be beaten than to tamely yield Nordlingen to the Imperialists. In the one case honour would be satisfied and the reformers throughout Germany would feel that we had done our utmost to save their co-religionists, on the other hand there would be shame and disgrace."

"There is much in what the duke says," Nigel Graheme remarked.

"There is much," Munro rejoined; "but there is much also in the arguments of Horn. He reasons that we are outnumbered, the enemy is superior to us by at least a third, and to save the town we must attack them in an immensely strong position, which it will cost us great numbers to capture.

"The chances against our winning a victory are fully five to one. Granted the fall of Nordlingen will injure us in the eyes of the princes and people of Germany; but with good management on our part the feeling thus aroused will be but temporary, for we should soon wipe out the reverse. Of the 35,000 men of which the Imperial army is composed, 8000 at least are Spaniards who are on their way to Flanders, and who will very shortly leave it.

"On the other hand the Rhinegrave Otto Ludwig is with 7000 men within a few marches of us; in a short time therefore we shall actually outnumber the enemy, and shall be able to recover our prestige, just as we recovered it at Leipzig after suffering Magdeburg to fall. We shall recapture the towns which he has taken, and if the enemy should dare to accept battle we shall beat him, and shall be in a position to march upon Vienna."

"Horn's arguments are the strongest," Nigel Graheme said gravely; "the course he advises is the most prudent one."

"Undoubtedly," Munro replied; "but I think that it will not be followed. The duke is of a fiery spirit, and he would feel it, as most of us would feel it, a disgrace to fall back without striking a blow for Nordlingen. He has, too, been goaded nearly to madness during the last few days by messengers and letters which have reached him from the reformed princes and the free towns in all parts of Germany, reproaching him bitterly for having suffered Ratisbon and Donauworth to fall into the hands of the enemy without a blow, and he feels that his honour is concerned. I have little doubt that we shall fight a great battle to save Nordlingen."



Chapter XXV Nordlingen


While Colonel Munro and his companions were discussing the matter a council of war was being held, and Duke Bernhard's view was adopted by all his generals, who felt with him that their honour was involved in the question, and that it would be disgraceful to march away without striking a blow to save the besieged city. Horn, therefore, being outvoted, was forced to give way. Up to nightfall the Imperialists had showed no signs of an intention to occupy the Weinberg, their forces being massed on and around the Allersheim Hill. It was determined therefore to seize the Weinberg at once, and the execution of this step was committed to Horn.

The choice was most unfortunate. The service was one upon the prompt carrying out of which victory depended, and Horn, though a brave and capable commander, was slow and cautious, and particularly unfitted for executing a service which had to be performed in a dark night across a country with which he was not familiar. Taking with him four thousand chosen musketeers and pikemen and twelve guns he set out at nine o'clock, but the rough road, the dikes, and ditches which intercepted the country impeded him, and the fact that he was unacquainted with the general position of the country made him doubly cautious, and it was not until midnight that he reached the foot of the hill.

Here, unfortunately, he came to the conclusion that since he had encountered such difficulties in crossing the flat country he should meet with even greater obstacles and delays in ascending the hill in the dark; he therefore took the fatal resolution of remaining where he was until daylight, and accordingly ordered the column to halt. Had he continued his march he would have reached the summit of the Weinberg unopposed, and the fate of the battle on the following day would have been changed. But the Imperialist leaders, Gallas and Cardinal Infanta Don Fernando, had not been unmindful of the commanding position of the hill upon which Horn was marching, and had given orders that it should be occupied before daylight by four hundred Spaniards.

The commander of this force was as over prompt in the execution of his orders as Horn was over cautious. He reached the top of the Weinberg before midnight, and at once set his men to work to intrench themselves strongly. As soon as daybreak enabled Horn to see the fatal consequences which had arisen from his delay he ordered his men to advance. With their usual gallantry the Swedes mounted the hill and rushed at the intrenchment. It was defended with the greatest obstinacy and courage by the Spaniards; but after desperate fighting the Swedes forced their way into the work at two points, and were upon the point of capturing the position when an ammunition wagon accidentally exploded in their midst, killing great numbers and throwing the rest into a temporary disorder, which enabled the Spaniards to drive them out and again occupy the intrenchments.

Before the Swedes had fully recovered themselves the Spanish cavalry, which at the first sound of the conflict the cardinal had ordered to the spot, charged them in flank and forced them to a precipitate retreat down the hillside. Bitterly regretting his delay at midnight, Horn brought up fresh troops, and after addressing encouraging words to those who had been already repulsed, led the united body to the assault.

But the Weinberg, which had been occupied in the early morning by only four hundred men, was now defended by the whole of the Spanish infantry. Vain now was the energy of Horn, and ineffectual the valour of his troops. Time after time did the Swedes climb the hill and strive to obtain a footing on its crest, each assault was repulsed with prodigious slaughter. Duke Bernhard was now fully engaged with the Imperialists on the Allersheim, and was gradually gaining ground. Seeing, however, how fruitless were the efforts of Horn to capture the Weinberg, he despatched as many of his infantry as he could spare to reinforce the marshal. Among these was Munro's regiment.

"Now, my brave lads," Colonel Munro shouted, as he led his regiment against the hill, "show them what Scottish hearts can do." With a cheer the regiment advanced. Pressing forward unflinchingly under a hail of bullets they won their way up the hill, and then gathering, hurled themselves with a shout upon the heavy masses of Spanish veterans. For a moment the latter recoiled before the onset; then they closed in around the Scotch, who had already lost a third of their number in ascending the hill.

Never did the famous regiment fight with greater courage and fury; but they were outnumbered ten to one, and their opponents were soldiers of European reputation. In vain the Scotchmen strove to break through the serried line of pikes which surrounded them. Here and there a knot of desperate men would win a way through; but ere others could follow them the Spanish line closed in again and cut them off from their comrades, and they died fighting to the last.

Fighting desperately in the front rank Munro and his officers encouraged their men with shouts and example; but it was all in vain, and he at last shouted to the remains of his followers to form in a solid body and cut their way back through the enemy who surrounded them. Hemmed in as they were by enemies the Scottish spearmen obeyed, and, headed by their colonel, flung themselves with a sudden rush upon the enemy. Before the weight and fury of the charge the veterans of Spain gave way, and the Scots found themselves on the crest of the hill which they had lately ascended. No sooner were they free from the Spanish ranks than the musketeers of the latter opened fire upon them, and numbers fell in the retreat. When they reached the foot of the fatal hill, and bleeding and breathless gathered round their commander, Munro burst into tears on finding that of the noble regiment he had led up the hill scarce enough remained to form a single company. Seven times now had Horn striven to carry the hill, seven times had he been repulsed with terrible slaughter, and he now began to fall back to join the force of Duke Bernhard. The latter, recognizing that the battle was lost, and that Horn, if not speedily succoured, was doomed, for the Imperialists, flushed with victory, were striving to cut him off, made a desperate attack upon the enemy hoping to draw their whole forces upon himself, and so enable Horn to retire. For the moment he succeeded, but he was too weak in numbers to bear the assault he had thus provoked. John of Werth, who commanded the Imperial cavalry, charged down upon the Swedish horsemen and overthrew them so completely that these, forced back upon their infantry, threw them also into complete disorder.

The instant Horn had given the orders to retreat, Colonel Munro, seeing the danger of the force being surrounded, formed up the little remnant of his regiment and set off at the double to rejoin the force of the duke. It was well that he did so, for just when he had passed over the intervening ground the Imperialist cavalry, fresh from the defeat of the Swedes, swept across the ground, completely cutting off Horn's division from that of the duke. A few minutes later Marshal Horn, surrounded on all sides by the enemy, and feeling the impossibility of further resistance with his weakened and diminished force, was forced to surrender with all his command.

Duke Bernhard narrowly escaped the same fate; but in the end he managed to rally some nine thousand men and retreated towards the Maine. The defeat was a terrible one; ten thousand men were killed and wounded, and four thousand under Horn taken prisoners; all the guns, equipage, and baggage fell into the hands of the enemy.

Nordlingen was the most decisive battle of the war; its effect was to change a war which had hitherto been really only a civil war -- a war of religion -- into one with a foreign enemy. Hitherto France had contented herself with subsidizing Sweden, who had played the principal part. Henceforward Sweden was to occupy but a secondary position. Cardinal Richelieu saw the danger of allowing Austria to aggrandize itself at the expense of all Germany, and now took the field in earnest.

Upon the other hand Nordlingen dissolved the confederacy of the Protestant German princes against Ferdinand the Second. The Elector of Saxony, who had ever been vacillating and irresolute in his policy, was the first to set the example by making peace with the emperor. The Elector of Brandenburg, Duke William of Weimar, the Prince of Anhalt, the Duke of Brunswick-Luneburg, the Duke of Mecklenburg, Pomerania, and the cities of Augsburg, Wurzburg, and Coburg, and many others hastened to follow the example of all the leading members of the Protestant Union.

Dukes Bernhard of Weimar and William of Cassel were almost alone in supporting the cause to maintain which Gustavus Adolphus had invaded Germany. The Swedish army, whose exploits had made the court of Vienna tremble, seemed annihilated, and well might the emperor deem that his final triumph over Protestantism was complete when he heard of the battle of Nordlingen, for as yet he dreamed not that its result would bring France into the field against him.

Malcolm Graheme was one of the few officers of Munro's regiment who burst his way through the Spanish lines on the top of the Weinberg. He was bleeding from several wounds, but none of them were serious. Nigel was beside him as they began to descend the hill; but scarcely had he gone a step when he fell headlong, struck by a ball from an arquebus. Malcolm and one of the sergeants raised him, and between them carried him to the foot of the hill; then, when the remains of the regiments started to rejoin Duke Bernhard, they were forced to leave him. Although Malcolm kept up with his regiment in the retreat he was so utterly exhausted by loss of blood that he could no longer accompany them. By the death of so many of his seniors he was now one of the majors of the regiment, if that could be called a regiment which was scarce a company in strength. A few days after the battle Colonel Munro received orders to march with his shattered remnant, scarce one of whom but was from wounds unfit for present service, by easy stages to North Germany, there to await the arrival of reinforcements from Scotland, which might raise the regiment to a strength which would enable it again to take the field.

Malcolm remained behind until his strength slowly returned. The colonel, before leaving, had bade him take his time before rejoining, as months would probably elapse before the regiment would again be fit for service. As soon as he was able to travel he journeyed to Nuremberg. On arriving at the abode of Jans Boerhoff he learned that Thekla was no longer an inmate of the family. The Count of Mansfeld had died in prison, and the countess had arrived at Nuremberg and had taken up her abode there. Malcolm made his way to the house she occupied. The meeting was an affecting one. Malcolm was greatly grieved over the death of his staunch friend, and joined in the sorrow of the countess and her daughter. A few days after his arrival the countess said to him:

"I am of course aware, Malcolm, of the conversation which the count had with you concerning Thekla, and my wishes fully agreed with his on the subject. In other times one would not speak of marriage when Thekla's father had been but two months dead; but it is no time for conventionalities now. All Southern Germany is falling away from the Protestant cause, and ere long we may see the Imperialists at the gate of Nuremberg, and it may be that in a few months the whole of Germany will be in their power. Therefore, I would that there should be no delay. Thekla is nearly seventeen; you are twenty-one -- over young both to enter upon the path of matrimony; but the events of the last few months have made a woman of her, while you have long since proved yourself both in thoughtfulness and in valour to be a man. Thekla is no longer a great heiress. Since Nordlingen we may consider that her father's estates have gone for ever, mine may follow in a few months. Therefore I must ask you, are you ready to take her without dowry?"

"I am," Malcolm said earnestly, "and that right gladly, for I love her with all my heart."

"It needs no questioning on my part," the countess said, "to know that she loves you as truly, and that her happiness depends wholly on you. I saw her anguish when the news came of the terrible defeat at Nordlingen and of the annihilation of some of the Scottish regiments. My heart was wrung by her silent despair, her white and rigid face, until the news came that you were among the few who had survived the battle, and, in the outburst of joy and thankfulness at the news, she owned to me that she loved you, her only fear being that you cared for her only as a sister, since no word of love had ever passed your lips. I reassured her on that score by telling her of your conversation with her father, and that a feeling of duty alone had kept you silent while she remained under your protection.

"However, Malcolm, she will not come to you penniless, for, seeing that it was possible that the war would terminate adversely, and determined to quit the country should he be forbidden to worship according to his own religion here, the count has from time to time despatched considerable sums to the care of a banker at Hamburg, and there are now 10,000 gold crowns in his hands.

"There are, moreover, my estates at Silesia, but these I have for sometime foreseen would follow those of my husband and fall into the hands of the emperor. Before the death of the count I talked over the whole matter with him, and he urged me in any case, even should you fall before becoming the husband of Thekla, to leave this unhappy country and to take refuge abroad.

"Before his death I had an interview with my nearest kinsman, who has taken sides with the Imperialists, and to him I offered to resign Thekla's rights as heiress to the estate for the sum of 10,000 crowns. As this was but three years revenue of the estates, and it secured their possession to him whether the Imperialists or Swedes were victorious in the struggle, he consented, after having obtained the emperor's consent to the step, and I have this morning received a letter from him saying that the money has been lodged in the hands of the banker at Hamburg, and Thekla and I have this morning signed a deed renouncing in his favour all claim to the estate. Thus Thekla has a dowry of 20,000 gold crowns -- a sum not unworthy of a dowry even for the daughter of a Count of Mansfeld; but with it you must take me also, for I would fain leave the country and end my days with her."

"Do you keep the dowry so long as you live, countess," Malcolm said earnestly. "It is more than the richest noble in Scotland could give with his daughter. My own estate, though small, is sufficient to keep Thekla and myself in ease, and my pleasure in having you with us will be equal to hers. You would wish, of course, that I should quit the army and return home, and, indeed, I am ready to do so. I have had more than enough of wars and fighting. I have been preserved well nigh by a miracle, when my comrades have fallen around me like grass. I cannot hope that such fortune would always attend me. The cause for which I have fought seems lost, and since the Protestant princes of Germany are hastening to desert it, neither honour nor common sense demand that I, a soldier of fortune and a foreigner, should struggle any longer for it; therefore I am ready at once to resign my commission and to return to Scotland."

"So be it," the countess said; "but regarding Thekla's dowry I shall insist on having my way. I should wish to see her in a position similar to that in which she was born, and with this sum you can largely increase your estates and take rank among the nobles of your country. Now I will call Thekla in and leave you to ask her to agree to the arrangements we have made.

"My child," she went on, as Thekla in obedience to her summons entered the apartment, "Malcolm Graheme has asked your hand of me. He tells me that he loves you truly, and is willing to take you as a penniless bride, and to carry you and me away with him far from these terrible wars to his native Scotland -- what say you, my love?"

Thekla affected neither shyness or confusion, her colour hardly heightened as in her sombre mourning she advanced to Malcolm, and laying her hand in his, said:

"He cannot doubt my answer, mother; he must know that I love him with my whole heart."

"Then, my daughter," the countess said, "I will leave you to yourselves; there is much to arrange, for time presses, and your betrothal must be quickly followed by marriage."

It was but a few days later that Malcolm led Thekla to the altar in St. Sebald's Church, Nuremberg. The marriage was a quiet one, seeing that the bride had been so lately orphaned, and only Jans Boerhoff and his family, and two or three Scottish comrades of Malcolm's, who were recovering from their wounds at Nuremberg, were present at the quiet ceremony. The following day the little party started for the north. Malcolm had already received a letter from Oxenstiern accepting his resignation, thanking him heartily for the good services he had rendered, and congratulating him on his approaching wedding.

Without adventure they reached Hamburg, and there, arranging with the banker for the transmission of the sum in his hands to Edinburgh, they took ship and crossed to Scotland.

Three months later Malcolm was delighted by the appearance of his uncle Nigel. The latter was indeed in dilapidated condition, having lost an arm, and suffering from other wounds. He had been retained a prisoner by the Imperialists only until he was cured, when they had freed him in exchange for an Imperial officer who had been captured by the Swedes.

Thekla's dowry enabled her husband largely to increase his estates. A new and handsome mansion was erected at a short distance from the old castle, and here Malcolm Graheme lived quietly for very many years with his beautiful wife, and saw a numerous progeny rise around them.

To the gratification of both, five years after her coming to Scotland, the Countess of Mansfeld married Nigel Graheme and the pair took up their abode in the old castle, which was thoroughly repaired and set in order by Malcolm for their use, while he and Thekla insisted that the fortune he had received as a dowry with his wife should be shared by the countess and Nigel.

<eob>

The Go Ahead Boys And The Mysterious Old House

By

Ross Kay



Chapter I -- The Old Meeker House


"Do you see that house?"

"You mean that low, old house on the corner of the road?"

"Yes."

"What of it?"

"Well, that's one of the oldest houses in this part of the country."

"It looks the part. How old is it?"

"It's at least one hundred and seventy-five years old."

"It's old enough to look better, then. Is that one of the houses that Washington slept in?"

"I guess so."

"It must be, from the stories you have told me since I have been here. How old was Washington, anyway, when he died?"

"He was in his sixty-eighth year."

"I think there's some mistake about that."

"No, sir. Those are the correct figures. He was born in 1732 and he died in 1799."

"I'm not going to dispute you, George. I'll take your word for it, but it always seemed to me that Washington's age must have been a good deal greater than the histories say it was."

"Why?"

"Because he slept in so many houses. I have figured it up and if he had spent about a quarter of an hour in every one of the houses that you say he slept in, it will figure out that he was a good deal more than sixty-seven years old. Indeed, I have begun to think that Methuselah was an infant-in-arms compared with George Washington, if ten per cent of the stories you have been telling us are true. By the way, how old was Methuselah, anyway?"

"'And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred and sixty and nine years and he died.'"

"Well, poor old man, I should have thought he would have been ready to die. Just think of it, having to live in this world almost a thousand years! I wonder how his hearing was and if he could see straight. I have always thought that no matter how long I might live I should want people to feel when I came to die that I had a little more of a record than born in 1899 and died some time in the future."

"That's the best thing some men ever did."

"What?"

"Why, to die. They'd give up their places to others who could fill them better."

"What's all that got to do with that old house?"

"Nothing. I didn't start to talk about Methuselah."

"That's all right, but what about this house?"

"It's haunted."

A hearty laugh went up from the three boys who were the companions of George Sanders in his automobile.

The conversation which has been recorded had been carried on by George Sanders and his friend Fred Button. These two boys, together with John Clemens and Grant Jones, were close friends and schoolmates. Although they were nearly of the same age they were markedly different in their appearance. Fred, who was the pygmy of the party, was a little, round-faced, bright-eyed fellow, who was able to say quick and keen things and who was the inspiration of most of the pranks of which the band was guilty.

John Clemens was perhaps Fred's closest friend. He was six feet three inches tall, but he did not weigh very much more than the shorter Fred, who made up in breadth what he lacked in length.

Grant Jones, the most quiet and thoughtful member of the party, seldom entered into the wordy contests, although he took special delight in the pranks of his comrades.

George Washington Sanders was the owner of the automobile in which the four boys were riding.

The day was one of the most beautiful of early summer. In Northern New Jersey, not far from the border of New York State, George's father had an extensive farm. To this place from their early childhood the four friends had been accustomed to come from the great city and the many good times they had enjoyed there seemed to increase in number and quality with every succeeding summer.

Not all their summers had been passed on the farm, however. There had been frequent trips, which the boys had taken to different parts of their own land and others. A few years before this time they had been accompanied by the father or uncle of one of the boys, who had acted as guardian and guide. On these various trips they had not only had many enjoyable times, but also many stirring experiences. Some of these adventures have already been told in other stories of this series.

Among themselves the boys frequently referred to the quartet as the Go Ahead boys. They had selected this name as one that was most expressive of their purposes. They had found it in the famous motto of Davy Crockett, who, years ago, was himself familiarly known as "Go Ahead" Crockett.

On the day when this story opens they were on their way to George's farm. They had approached within a mile of their destination when their host had called their attention to the low building which commonly was referred to as the Meeker House. It was an unpretentious structure, containing a story and a half, with a lean-to or addition, that looked much as if it had been built as an afterthought, or as a postscript is added to a letter.

The sides of the building were weather-beaten and it was manifest that it had been long since any one had dwelt in the house.

"It seems to me, George," spoke up Fred, "that you're finding new historical places around the farm every summer. Let me see, what was it last summer?"

"You are doing better, Fred," laughed George. "You remember now that there was a last summer. I have sometimes been afraid you wouldn't remember even that much, but for your sake I'll tell you that last summer I told you the story of the young fellow who was captured in Ramapo Pass. He was Washington's messenger, you will remember, although he did not know it at the time."

"I do recall now," said Fred pompously, "some information you were kind enough to dole out to us. It seems to me that you told me that this young fellow was sent purposely by Washington down through the Ramapo Valley so that he would be captured by the British and taken to New York. If I'm correct he had a letter sewed inside the lining of his coat and this letter contained instructions for General Heath, who was at Morristown, to join him, that is Washington and not the boy, in taking New York."

"That's right. It all comes back to me, too," joined in Grant. "This fellow was taken to New York and he felt pretty mad at Washington. He could have found his way across the country all right, he thought, and would have given the message to General Heath without any trouble, but Washington insisted upon his going through to Ramapo Valley and of course he was caught. Poor chap, he didn't know that that was the very thing Washington was planning to do. He wanted him caught so that his letter would be found and Clinton wouldn't dare leave New York."

"What did Clinton want to leave New York for?" broke in John. "I can't understand why anybody would want to leave little, old New York. That's the best town on the globe."

"He wanted to take his army south to help Cornwallis, who was bottled up on the Yorktown peninsula. That was the trick that Washington played on him. He kept Clinton here, and when at last Clinton got his eyes opened, he found out that Washington's army was already down across the Delaware and headed for Chesapeake Bay."

"Did he arrive in time?" inquired Fred innocently.

"For further and detailed information I refer you to any primary history of the United States," said Grant laughingly. "That's one of the things no American boy ought to have to learn. He ought to know it before he begins."

"What about this house back here?" said Fred. "You seem to point it out as if you thought there was something peculiar about it."

"I told you that it's haunted."

Again the boys laughed heartily as Grant said, "Anybody would think to hear you talk, George, that you belonged back in the days when they hanged witches."

"You mean burned," spoke up Fred promptly.

"No, I don't mean 'burned' the witches, I mean 'hanged,'" retorted Grant. "There are some ignorant people who sometimes talk about the people of the Salem Colony burning witches, but they didn't burn them -- they hanged them."

"Pardon me," said Fred demurely. "I stand corrected."

"But there really is something queer about this house," said George. "I know, for I've been there."

The boys all looked back at the little building, which now was far behind them. The quiet that rested upon it seemed like that of a cemetery. It plainly belonged to another generation.

"What do you mean by its being haunted!" demanded Fred, at last breaking in upon the silence.

"I'm telling you what the common report is," said George, somewhat testily. "Everybody says it is haunted."

"But you said you yourself knew it was."

"No, I didn't. I said there was something peculiar about it."

"Go on with your story, George," called John. "Don't keep us in this burning suspense. What was it?"

"Why, I went over there one day," explained George, somewhat reluctantly. "It was just at sunset and a terrible thunder shower had come up and I ran to the old Meeker House to get in out of the rain."

"When did you learn to do that?" broke in Fred.

"I didn't have to learn," declared George. "At all events I got inside the house and waited for the storm to pass. But it didn't pass. When it struck the hills over yonder it was turned back by colder currents of air, so I got the storm coming and going. The first thing I knew the old place was dark and then -- "

"And then what?" demanded Grant.

"And then, -- things began to happen."

"What happened?" inquired Grant. "Don't keep us in this terrible suspense."

"Well, there wasn't a breath of air stirring," explained George, "but the window shutters began to slam a half a dozen times and I heard groans that seemed to come up from the cellar and I was almost sure that once I heard something or somebody call my name."

"That's a good one," laughed John, who in spite of his flippant manner was strongly moved by the story of his friend. "You're always expecting somebody to call you by name whether they know you or not."

"Oh, but they know of him," suggested Fred. "I know of a good many people that I don't know by sight; for example, there's the President."

"Keep still, fellows," ordered Grant, "and let George tell his story. He was as far as the slamming of the shutters and the groans that came from the cellar and the call which some of the evil spirits made on him by name. Go on, George," he added, turning to his friend, "tell us what happened next."




Chapter II -- Cowboys And Skinners


"I don't know just what happened next," laughed George. "There were two peals of thunder so near together that you could hardly clap your hands between them. When the first one came and I heard that call, I didn't stand on the order of my departure. When the next clap sounded I was away down the road under that old oak tree."

All the four boys laughed heartily, even George apparently not being crestfallen by his lack of courage on the night he was describing.

"What is it you call the house?" inquired John.

"The Meeker House."

"You think it's haunted?"

"I didn't say so," responded George somewhat warmly. "I merely said it is a common report that it is a haunted house. I'm just telling you what happened one night when I ran in there to get out of a storm."

"Poor old house," said George thoughtfully, as he looked back at the old building, which still could be seen in the distance. "It makes me think of Uncle Sim. He's the last leaf on the tree and I guess this is the oldest house in this part of the country."

Uncle Sim was an aged negro, who for many years had been in the employ of George's father. His labor was no longer efficient, but his faithful services in the years that were gone had caused Mr. Sanders to provide for the wants of the gray-haired negro. Uncle Sim's form was bowed with the weight of years which he carried and his trembling limbs showed how much he had suffered from the "mis'ry." Indeed, the boys had become convinced that there was no topic concerning which the old man loved to talk as he did concerning his various aches and pains.

In spite of his afflictions, however, Uncle Sim was a warm friend of the boys. When they got into mischief Uncle Sim's face was lifted heavenward so that he was unable to see any of the pranks they committed and therefore was unable to impart any information when he was asked as to his knowledge of their deeds. He was a great favorite of the boys and many of his stories had been familiar to them from their earliest childhood. He knew why the red squirrel and the black hated each other so intensely. He was well informed concerning the perpetual warfare that existed between the dogs and cats on the farm. The call of the bluejays was in a language which Uncle Sim claimed to understand. And although he did not talk back to the chattering jays, nevertheless he strongly believed that they were much more guarded in their conversations when he was nearby.

"You go ask Uncle Sim if the house is haunted," repeated George. "He'll tell you what he thinks and you won't have to wait very long for him to do it, either."

"Has he never been there?" asked Fred.

"You'd better ask him," declared George.

"What do you honestly think about it yourself, George?" said Grant more seriously.

"I don't know just what to think. I haven't been there since -- "

"Since when?" spoke up John encouragingly.

"Since the last time I was there."

"When was that?"

"That time I was telling you about when I ran in there to get out of the rain."

"Will you go back there now if we'll go?" challenged Fred.

"I don't mind going," said George, "but I don't believe we'll have time this afternoon." His three companions laughed derisively and so aroused his spirit that he said brusquely, "That's all right, fellows. I'll go back there as soon as any one of you will go."

"All right, sir," called John. "Stop your car, and we'll all of us go back to the old Meeker House and find out if what you have been telling us is true."

"Who ever heard," broke in Grant, "of ghosts walking around in the daytime? The time for us to go there is when the ghosts are showing up well."

"You didn't tell us, George, what the ghosts were?"

"No, I didn't see them," replied George.

"What do they say they are?"

"Why, the common report is, that ever since the days of the Revolution the ghosts of the Cowboys and Skinners have made their headquarters in the old Meeker House and whenever there's a night that is especially dark or there is a particularly heavy storm, then they come there and join in the racket."

"Cowboys?" demanded John. "What do you mean? Those fellows that drive the cattle out on the plains?"

"No, sir, I mean the men who lived in this part of the country when Washington was fighting for the independence of the United States. But even if they did live here they wouldn't help him. They said they didn't belong to either side, but the Cowboys usually took advantage of both sides. When the men were away from home they would go into a house, if they thought there was any money hidden in some old stocking, and they would take the women and hold their feet out over the fire until they told where the money was."

"What were the Skinners?" inquired John.

"Why, they were about the same kind of men, the only difference being that the Cowboys took the families of the patriots, while the Skinners paid their first attention to the Tory families. I guess it didn't make much difference to either party as long as they found some money or could get any valuables."

"What did they put up with such things for?"

"They had to put up with more or less of it," answered George. "You see most of the men were away from home, fighting in the army. That gave the Cowboys and Skinners their chance and they took it. When the men came back the Cowboys and Skinners were gone."

"They were something like Georgie Porgie, weren't they?" laughed Grant. "I don't know who he was, but when a certain part of the population of which he was afraid began to get busy, Georgie Porgie ran away, -- likewise the Cowboys and Skinners."

"It's all very interesting," spoke up Fred, "but I don't believe there's such a thing in all the world as a ghost."

"All right, sir," said George warmly. "All I want you to do is to talk to Uncle Sim and if he doesn't convince you that the Meeker House is the special place where all the people that walk around in the night have their headquarters, then I'm mistaken."

"I'll ask him just as soon as we get back," said Fred promptly.

Not long afterward the automobile entered the beautiful grounds of the farm where the four boys were spending a part of the summer. The place was attractive because of its quietness and the deep shade in the front yard. A collie dog, lying on the ground, arose and stretched itself and then bounded toward George as soon as the boys alighted. Around the corner of the garage at that moment came Uncle Sim, his broad-brimmed hat carried in his hand and his face shining with perspiration and good nature.

"Well, Uncle Sim," called Fred. "You can't guess where we've been."

"No, suh, no, suh," replied the negro, "I reckon I can't. Mos' gen'lly I finds out right soon whar yo' boys has been. Sometimes I can tell the d'rection in which yo' all is goin', even when I can't see none o' yo'all."

"How's that?" demanded John.

"Why, from the d'rection in which all the dogs and cats and birds and cows and I reckon everything that's able to get away, is movin'."

The boys laughed heartily at Uncle Sim's statement and Grant said, "But, Uncle Sim, you know we are the Go Ahead boys."

"Yas, suh. Yas, suh, I reckon I's somewhat familar with dat ar fac'."

"Uncle Sim, have you ever been in the Meeker House?" spoke up Grant abruptly.

For a moment the old negro was silent as he stared blankly at the boys. Shaking his head he said, "What fo' yo' ask me that question?"

"Because I want to know," said Grant.

"No, suh. I ain't never been inside the Meeker House, but I's been so close dat I could hear what was er goin' on."

"Why, what is going on there?" inquired Fred. "The house seemed to me to be deserted. Does any one live there?"

"No, suh. No, suh, no one lives dar. Leastwise, no one live dar in the daytime."

"Who lives there at night?" inquired Fred.

Once more the negro was silent and it was evident that the boy's question had aroused certain feelings in the heart of Uncle Sim.

"Yo' all better take my advice," said the old negro, shaking his head in a still more solemn manner. "Yo' better keep away from de Meeker House."

"Why?" inquired John.

"No good comes to anybody dat goes to the Meeker House in the night time."

"But how do you know, Uncle Sim? You say you have never been there?"

"Yo' all keep away from dar. Min' what I tell you. Don't none o' you' boys go near dat old Meeker House after sundown."

"But you make us want to go all the more," said Grant.

Uncle Sim merely shook his head and made no further comment. It was plain, however, that he was seriously troubled by the statement of Grant and that he was sincere in his warning.

"I say, fellows," called Fred quickly, "why don't we go over to the Meeker House to-night? It looks as if it is going to be cloudy," he added as he glanced up at the sky. "This will be just the ideal night. If there's anything uncanny around the place we'll be likely to find it out. Oh, you needn't go if you don't want to," he added quickly upon George's unspoken protest. "You and Uncle Sim will be excused, if you don't want to go."

"If you fellows go I'm not going to be left behind," spoke up George promptly.

"Then it's all fixed," declared Fred gleefully. "We'll go to the Meeker House to-night."




Chapter III -- Into The Haunted House


The Go Ahead boys were excited when they entered the house of their friend and that night when they gathered about the supper table their one theme of conversation was the proposed visit to the old Meeker House.

Occasionally throughout the conversation there was an expression on the face of George different from that of his companions. However, none of them was aware of the occasional smile, or of the keen look with which George occasionally glanced about the table. At other times the expression of his face was serious and his interest in the suggested visit apparently was as keen as that of any of his friends.

The boys decided to wait until darkness had fallen before they started on their expedition.

"It's just eight o'clock," said Grant, as they left the house and prepared to take their places in the automobile which was awaiting their coming.

"Eight o'clock and all's not well, I'm afraid," suggested Fred.

"Are you afraid?" demanded John with a laugh.

"No, I'm not afraid, but somehow when I think of this business," replied Fred, "I find I have some shivers."

"You had better not go, my lad," said John solemnly. "This is no place for infants or those afflicted with chills."

"I'm not chilly enough to stay home if all of you are going," retorted Fred.

"It's just the kind of a night we want," spoke up George. "There isn't any moon and it's going to be dark."

"Those clouds look as if it might rain," suggested Grant.

"That will be all the better," said George. "The darker the night the better the spooks behave. They say it's almost impossible to find any there on a moonlight night."

"I hope we'll find some to-night," laughed John, but his voice somehow seemed to belie his confidence.

At all events there was not much conversation in the automobile as it sped swiftly down the road.

George, who was driving, occasionally referred to the various stories he had heard of the deeds in the Meeker House, but his efforts did not meet with any marked response until he said, "I have heard that Claudius Smith sometimes shows up in the old house."

"Who's he?"

"He was a Cowboy. He lived more than one hundred and twenty-five years ago. You have got to speak of him as one who 'was' and not 'is'."

"What makes him come back to the old house?"

"It was one of his favorite places, I'm told."

"What was he?"

"I told you he was a Cowboy. He got to acting so badly that at last all the farmers and their boys that could be spared from the army got together and chased him clear down on Long Island."

"Did they get him?" inquired Fred.

"They did. They brought him back and took him to Goshen, where they hanged him in the old courtyard."

"I shouldn't think he would come back here to the Meeker House," suggested Grant. "I should think his ghost would 'hang' around the court house up at Goshen."

"I can't tell you about that," said George, "but it may be that he follows the road he used to travel. That may be the reason why part of the time he's here at the old Meeker House."

"He must have been a great boy," suggested Fred.

"He certainly was, and he wasn't the only one. I have heard my father tell about a man here in Jersey named Fagan. He was one of the Cowboys that they used to call the Pine Robbers."

"Who were they?" inquired John.

"Why there were a dozen or more bands of these Pine Robbers. They used to make their headquarters in the Pines back of Lakewood. They would dig a hole in the sand and hide in it the stuff they had stolen, and then, when they had enough to make up a cargo they would take it to Toms River and ship it to New York, where William Franklin helped them dispose of it."

"Who was William Franklin?" demanded Grant.

"Why, every educated man knows that William Franklin was the last royal governor of New Jersey. He was the son of old Ben Franklin. He inherited his father's brains, but not his father's disposition. He was one of the bitterest of all the Tories, and when the war of the Revolution broke out he went to New York to be with his friends."

"What happened to this man Fagan?" asked Fred. "Is his ghost around here, too?"

"I can't tell you," replied George, "whether it is here or not. I know Fagan got to be such a bad man stealing, shooting, tormenting the women and children that finally a big gang of men took after him and caught him down here between Trenton and Freehold."

"Did they do anything to him after they caught him?" inquired Grant.

"Not very much. They just hanged him from the limb of a big tree by the side of the road and left the body swinging there in the air for two or three days. Finally they left the head in the noose, stuck a long pipe between the jaws and my grandfather used to tell me that the head was there until the crows had picked out the eyes and left nothing but the grinning skull."

"That's a nice story to tell just before we make our bows at a spook party," said Fred.

The boy was striving to speak lightly, but his voice sounded strange even in his own ears. Indeed, by this time, after the gruesome stories of the Cowboys had been told, the nerves of all the boys were on edge.

The dim outlines of the Meeker House were now plainly visible. The silence that rested over the place was unbroken except for the sighing of the wind as it swept through the ancient pine trees that grew in the front yard.

"This is a ghost story up to date, isn't it?" said Grant. "I don't suppose many of those Cowboys or Skinners ever traveled around in automobiles."

"Probably not," said John dryly, and conversation abruptly ceased.

"George, don't you think you had better leave your automobile up here on the road and not take it clear down to the house?" inquired Fred in a whisper, when they drew near the place they were seeking.

"What for?" inquired George.

"Oh, nothing, only I thought it would be more out of the way there. You see the house is on the corner and if some one makes a sharp turn there they might run into it without seeing it."

"Just as you say," replied George good-naturedly.

Acting upon the suggestion, the automobile was stopped about a hundred yards from the house and the boys at once prepared to walk across the yard toward the front door.

No one spoke until Fred whispered sharply, "What's that?"

"What's what?" retorted George, also speaking in a whisper.

"Nothing but a branch creaking up in the tree," suggested Grant.

"I guess that's what it was," assented Fred, and the four boys at once resumed their advance upon the ancient house.

"Come on, fellows," whispered George. "We'll try the front door first."

The attempts of the boys, however, to open the door were unavailing. The door was massive and although it creaked and groaned it was strong and all the attempts to open it proved failures.

"You stay here, fellows," whispered George. "I'll go around to the back of the house and see if I can get in there."

"I'll go with you," suggested Fred.

"No, you won't, you'll stay right here and defend these fellows who are a good deal more scared than they are willing to own," retorted George.

The trio remained in silence before the front door, waiting for some word from their friend, who at once had carried out his suggested plan and had gone to the rear of the house.

Suddenly and without any word being spoken the heavy door in front of the waiting boys slowly opened. It creaked noisily but there was no question that George succeeded and the door was being opened from within.

Grant was the first to enter, but instantly he stepped back and in a voice that trembled said quickly, "What's that? What's that?"

There was a noise of flying wings in the room before them, but not one of the boys was able to see any of the winged creatures. Back and forth they flew, the unseen birds, their wings noisily flapping and their cries steadily increasing in volume.

Startled as all the boys were by the unexpected sound they withdrew to the porch in front of the door and in whispers talked over the best plan for them to follow.

"I say we go ahead," said Grant at last. "We don't want to be scared out by a little thing like this."

"That's all right," agreed Fred. "You're so bold, I'll let you go ahead. I shall be satisfied to-night to be one of the go behind boys. I'm not afraid," he hastily added when Grant laughed derisively. "I'll follow you wherever you dare lead. Now then start if you want to."

No more was said and slowly and silently the boys once more entered the room into which the door directly opened.

This time again when only a few steps had been taken, by a common impulse they stopped and Fred whispered, "Where is George?"

"He's somewhere around here," whispered Grant in reply.

"But I don't see him or hear him," declared Fred. "We ought to find out what has happened."

"Oh, he's all right," said John confidently. "Come on, let's go ahead."

"We haven't any light," suggested Fred.

"We'll have one pretty soon. That's probably what George has gone for," whispered John. "He'll be back in a minute."

"I don't believe we had better try to go any farther. A good many of these old houses have steps from one room to another. I don't want Fred to fall and break his neck."

"Don't you worry about my --  -- " began Fred, but he stopped abruptly when suddenly the shutters in the room directly over their head banged noisily against the side of the house. At the same time the sound of the flying creatures in the room was heard again and as if to make matters worse a sound very like a groan came from the stairway. The weird interruption was followed by a wild laugh that came from the same stairway and a moment later the confusion was increased by a sound more unexpected than any which as yet had been heard by the Go Ahead boys in the old Meeker House.




Chapter IV -- Flight


There had been a moment of intense silence which was sharply broken by a long whistling sound, that seemed to come from some place directly behind the spot where the boys were standing. This sound was followed by a prolonged sigh and this in turn was abruptly ended when out of the darkness there came a call, "F-r-e-d! Fred Button!" The call was in a low tone but coming as it did after the startling events which had occurred was almost more than Fred was able to bear. His nerves were unstrung and without a word he turned and swiftly made for the door, which fortunately had been left open.

Nor had Fred been long out of the house before he was joined by his companions. George, who previously had gone around to the rear door, came as quickly as John and Grant.

For a brief time the boys assembled under the branches of a huge cherry tree that was growing in one corner of the yard.

"What do you make of that?" demanded George. "I told you you might hear something about Fagan and the Cowboys if you went into that old Meeker House."

"It wasn't what I heard about them that troubled me," retorted Fred. "It was when I heard my own name called."

"Honest?" demanded George.

"Yes, sir. You ask the other fellows. Somebody right behind me called 'Fred.' 'Fred Button.' I was standing where I could see straight through the window and I am perfectly sure there wasn't anybody there. If you'll tell me how the thing was done I'll be much obliged to you."

"It wasn't done at all," laughed George. "You were just dreaming. It's one of those attacks of nightmare that you have some times. Don't you remember when we were at Mackinac,[1] how one night we had to throw some cold water in your face to make you wake up?"

"I guess that was the same night," retorted Fred, "when I had to administer condign and physical chastisement to you, you were kicking so in the bed."

"Yes, I have a very vivid recollection of that part of that night."

"Almost as vivid as you have of to-night," laughed George.

"I don't see anything to laugh at," said Fred sharply. "You ask the other fellows if somebody didn't call my name."

"It did sound like it," said John, "but then we were ready to believe almost anything and when Fred said there was somebody calling him we all heard 'Fred' on every side of us. What are we doing out here, anyway? Why don't we go back there and look into it?"

"I'm going to look into it," said Fred quickly, "but I'm not going to look when I can't see. It's so dark to-night that you can't find anything."

"You seem to have found some things that made you leave the room faster than George goes when he runs the hundred in ten flat."

"Maybe I did," admitted Fred, "but if I did I want to tell you I never ran a race in which I was so hard pushed as I was to-night. There wasn't room to put a sheet of paper between Grant and me."

"That's all right," spoke up Grant. "I didn't take any part in your foolish conversation, but what I want to know is how you can account for these things."

"If you ask me," said George, "I'm not accounting for them."

"But there's some way to find out what these things mean. There isn't one of us a big enough fool to believe that there is such a thing as a ghost and yet we got into the old Meeker House, -- "

"If there isn't any ghost," spoke up George, "then I don't see where the trouble is. You can't be afraid of something that isn't, can you?"

"I don't suppose you can," admitted Grant, "but sometimes you can be afraid of things you think are when they are not."

"You're getting too deep for me," said Fred. "What I want to know is about those wings. That room seemed to be just full of something that was flying all around."

"I'll tell you what it was," spoke up John.

"What was it?" inquired Fred quickly.

"Cherubs."

"What?"

"Cherubs. Don't you know what cherubs are? They are just heads with wings. You can find them on old tomb-stones and in the pictures of some of the old books. I have always thought that a cherub must be almost as happy as the people said he used to be. He didn't have to bother about any clothes except neckties and a hat. It doesn't take him very long to get from one place to another. In fact I think if Fred here was a cherub he would have had less trouble getting out of that house to-night than he did."

"You seem to be greatly troubled about my leaving that house," spoke up Fred testily. "I noticed that I wasn't alone."

"Except when you started," suggested Grant. "We thought you were in trouble and came out to see if we could help."

"You did?" laughed Fred derisively. "I'll tell you what I'll do, Grant, if you'll go back into that house with me right now I'll go too."

"I'm going back there," said Grant slowly, "but as has been said I am going back when I can see something."

"That's what I thought," retorted Fred tauntingly.

"It's all right, fellows," spoke up George. "I guess we have had enough for one night. I don't suppose there really is anything in the things we have heard to-night, and we'll find out pretty soon just what it is, but until we do I think it's great fun to go into the old house and stir up the spooks."

"Do you know, I have an idea what those flying creatures were?" suggested John.

"What were they?" inquired George.

"Bats probably."

"Bats?" exclaimed Fred scornfully. "Bats? Why those things had wings at least two feet long. You could hear them flapping over your head."

"That's about on the scale that you heard and saw everything to-night, Fred. That is, everything except the length of the steps you took when you were leaving. I would like to understand how a fellow who is only five feet four can take steps that are ten feet long."

"There's only one answer to that," said George, "and that is, he didn't."

"You don't know what you're talking about," retorted Grant. "You didn't see him. I did."

"See me?" exclaimed Fred. "See me! Why his hands were right on my shoulder all the while. I couldn't shake him off. He almost had me there two or three times. I'm not sure that I wouldn't rather have Fagan's spook get hold of me than Grant's hands when he is as scared as he was to-night."

"Well, fellows, what shall we do?" inquired George. "Do you want to give it up or go back?"

"Both," said Fred quickly. "We're not going back again to-night and we're not going to give it up. We're going ahead and find out what there is in that tomfoolery."

"Well, I see you have a little piece of nerve left yet," laughed George. "I told you what was coming but you wouldn't believe me."

"Was that the reason why you went outside, George?" demanded John. "You remember, fellows," he added, turning to his companions, "George went around to the back of the old house. He was outside where he could get a fine running start if he had to."

"That may all be," said George slowly, "but my running start wasn't much compared with the one you fellows had. If you didn't get a running start I am wondering what time you would make if you had one. My, what a thing it would be at the track meet to have one of these ghosts to start the fellows off. I think the next time I see Grant on the track I'll yell Fagan at him. I think he will break the record if I do. Especially if Fred is just ahead of him. If you're not going back into the house," he continued, "I think we had better go back to the machine and start for home."

The boys all agreed and soon were seated in the car, riding swiftly back toward the farm.

Their confidence returned in proportion to the distance that intervened between them and the house which they had just visited. Indeed, when at last they arrived at the farmhouse every one was loud in his declaration that he had not been frightened by what had occurred and was strong in his determination to go back and investigate the things which had seemed so mysterious.

Nevertheless, in spite of their boasting, it was plain that Fred was somewhat chagrined by the quickness and rapidity of his departure from the old Meeker House. Several times that evening a sly allusion to his speed brought a quick retort.

The following morning, however, the courage and good spirits of the boys had returned in full measure. Even Fred was not afraid to acknowledge his fear of the night before and laughed as heartily as any of his friends when they described his antics in his flight from the house.

"That doesn't make any difference," he asserted strongly. "I'm still one of the Go Ahead boys and I haven't given up the plan I spoke about."

"What's your plan, Freddie?" laughed John.

"I'm going to look into the old house by daylight."

"I wouldn't do that yet," suggested George soberly. "It seems to me the best plan will be for us to go down there again to-night and find out whether or not there really is anything in what we thought we heard and saw last night."

"We might take a gun," suggested Grant.

"What would you shoot?" said Fred scornfully. "Suppose you did find a spook and shot it, what good would it do? I suppose they aren't like other people."

After a long consultation it finally was agreed that another visit to the mysterious house should be made that evening and then if anything strange occurred the boys would make further investigation the following day.

 --  -- - [1] See "The Go Ahead Boys on Smugglers' Island."




Chapter V -- A Surprise


Meanwhile Fred had decided that he would make some investigations of his own. His apparent lack of courage had reacted now and he was determined to do something which would enable him to redeem himself in the eyes of his companions.

Accordingly when his friends decided early in the afternoon that they would take the automobile and go to the country club for a game of tennis he excused himself on the plea that there were some other and very important matters to which he must attend.

It was a matter of self-denial for Fred to decline to join his companions in a visit to the country club. This place throughout the summer afternoons was one that was marked in the region. Crowds of young people assembled there and the tennis courts and golf links were occupied by people who were finding their vacation days passing all too rapidly in the beautiful region.

To the protests of his friends Fred refused to listen. Even the fact that his absence might prevent a game of tennis from being played did not appeal to him. He quietly and steadfastly adhered to his purpose.

Soon after luncheon he saw his friends depart, although the last words he heard were their calls for him to reconsider and join them.

Previous to their departure George called Fred into the library and in a low voice said to him, "Take my advice, lad, and don't try it."

"Don't try what?" Fred inquired.

"You know what I mean."

"I haven't the least idea."

"Well, then I tell you again that my advice to you is not to do it."

"But I don't know what you mean."

"If you'll think it over for two or three hours I'm sure you'll find out," declared George and he withdrew from the room.

George's warning was still fresh in Fred's mind when the boys no longer could be seen. He was still mystified by the strange warning. He was positive that he had not spoken to any of his friends concerning the project in his mind and therefore it was impossible that George could have heard any word of his plans.

Assured that his companions had departed, Fred soon afterward set forth on his solitary expedition. He had, however, not entered the road before he saw the automobile returning.

"What's wrong?" he called as the car stopped in front of the long, winding driveway that led to the farmhouse, which was located back on the hillside.

"I went off without my tennis racquet," explained George. "You have decided to come with us, haven't you, Fred?

"No, I'm not going," replied Fred.

"But you're going somewhere," said George. "What are you doing down here in the road if you're not? I thought you had some very important matters which you had to attend to this afternoon?"

"I have," and Fred refused to listen to the renewed pleadings of his friend, although he did not start on his way to the old Meeker House until once more the automobile had passed out of sight. He was suspicious as he walked on that George's return for the racquet had been a pretense on his part. He was somewhat suspicious now that George believed he was about to go back to the old house, although what had given him that impression it was impossible for him to say.

On his journey Fred had taken with him the collie dog which belonged to George. The animal was unusually beautiful and its owner was exceedingly proud of it, as it had won a prize whenever he had exhibited it.

Delighted to be permitted to accompany Fred the intelligent animal expressed his pleasure in his own noisy and active manner.

It was not until Fred at last had arrived at the road in front of the old house that the collie displayed any uneasiness. When Fred turned in at the open gateway the dog, looking up into his face whined, and then apparently convinced that protests on his part were unavailing, turned and ran from the place.

Startled by the unexpected action Fred returned to the road and watched the dog as it fled swiftly homeward. A feeling of uneasiness crept over him despite his attempt to laugh. It was impossible for spooks to be found, he assured himself, on such a day. The afternoon sun, warm, and yet not unduly warm, was flooding the beautiful region with its beams. The fertile land, the attractive houses, even the woods back upon the hillside all seemed to be sharing in the absolute quiet that prevailed. Not a sound was to be heard save the noisy flights of the winged grasshoppers or the occasional unmusical sound which proclaimed the presence of locusts.

Determined to ignore the momentary impression which the unwillingness of the dog to accompany him into the old house had aroused, Fred once more turned toward the rear of the old building. A fallen grape-arbor on his right and the tangled mass of vines that grew along the ground showed how long it had been since the place had received any attention. There was an air of neglect and decay manifest wherever he looked. The passing boys had thrown stones or snowballs at the windows until only a few panes were left. The chimneys had crumbled in part, so that not one was standing in its original form. The grass was high and tangled and the shrubs in the yard were rank and overgrown. The place which manifestly at one time had been the abode of people who had given it every care and affection had now been forgotten.

And yet, was it really forgotten? Fred vividly recalled the experience of the preceding evening as he advanced toward the kitchen door. The door still was hanging upon its hinges and was only partly closed. Doubtless it had been left ajar by George in his exit the night before.

Fred stepped cautiously inside the building. The silence that followed for a time was unbroken. The very stillness itself produced its effect upon the boy and when he stopped and looked intently all about him, his heart was beating rapidly, although he assured himself there was no cause for fear.

Suddenly from the front room came a sound that was unusual and somewhat startling in the prevailing stillness. It was a sound not unlike that produced by a noisy rattler in the hands of a small boy. The noise, however, was forgotten, when, to Fred's intense amazement, which included perhaps an element of alarm, he was startled by the sound of footsteps on the stairway.

Once more he assured himself that it was broad daylight. Again he recalled the statement which he had heard many a time that in such houses there was nothing to be feared except after the shades of night had fallen. He could plainly see the rays of the afternoon sun as they entered through the open window and fell across the floor of the room in which he was standing.

But the footsteps could not be denied. The sound became plainer. For an instant Fred glanced timidly toward the door and was strongly tempted to run from the place.

Before he started, however, the footsteps ceased, the old door at the foot of the stairway creaked upon its hinges and a moment later Fred saw standing before him a man, whose appearance proclaimed him to be a tramp.

The surprise was mutual, and for a moment the man and the boy stared blankly at each other. Fred suspected that the stranger doubtless had been sleeping in the upper room. Indeed the boy laughed in his relief as he was confident now that he had discovered the source of the strange sounds that had been heard the preceding evening.

"Hello, young man," called the tramp in a low, guttural voice. "Did you come in here to wake me up? I told me valet not to call me until five o'clock."

"No, I didn't come in here to wake you up," said Fred quietly.

"Maybe you come from the hospital?"

"No," said Fred simply.

"I'm expecting somebody from the hospital."

"What's the matter? Are you sick?"

"Yes, I be. Leastwise, I've got some symptoms I don't like."

"Tell me what the trouble is," suggested Fred good-naturedly. "Perhaps I can help you."

"From the best I can find out I think I am threatened with hydrostatic internal spontaneous combustion."

"It's more likely your conscience," laughed Fred.

"No, it isn't my conscience. I can stick a pin in that and not flinch. No, it's something else that's the matter with me. I feel as if I were burning up inside."

"You're not going to get anything out of me," laughed Fred, "to put out the fire."

"That's a pity," said the tramp, who now seated himself quietly on the foot of the stairs. "That's a pity. All I need is a nickel to stop that roaring flame. I'm suffering from another trouble too," added the tramp.

"What's that?"

"Overweariness of the flesh. I've had that for considerable time. It's a great source of suffering. Still, I don't know that either of those is quite as bad as something else."

"What, have you got more troubles still?"

"Yes, I have."

"What are they?"

"Well, the chief one is that I'm an orphan. There isn't any home waiting for little Willie." The man shook his head in mock pathos and Fred laughed heartily. "I have consulted specialists," began the tramp once more, "but I don't find any one to relieve me. The last man I went to said he thought the best thing he could prescribe would be for me to go out in the country where I could breathe fresh air and not have to endure hard labor."

"What were you doing, breaking stone?" laughed Fred.

For a moment the tramp glared upon the lad, but a moment later he said good-naturedly, "If I thought you knew what that meant I would give you something to make you remember this visit a long time. No, my great trouble is that I'm too ardent an American. I insist upon seeing my own country. I have been going to and fro, wandering up and down the land -- "

"You're not the only one," broke in Fred. "It seems to me I've heard about another individual who is going about like a roaring lion."

"Why don't you come in and sit down," suggested the tramp, apparently ignoring Fred's last suggestion. "Ever been in this old house before?"

"Once."

"When was that?"

"Last night."

"How long did you stay?"

"I don't remember. We left in such a hurry," said Fred somewhat ruefully.

"Oh, you found the spooks, did you?"

"We heard some strange noises. The strangest of all was that some one called my name."

"Oh, that's not strange," declared the tramp lightly. "I've been in this house hundreds of times. I have heard my name called and never flinched once. Sometimes the constable calls it and sometimes somebody else, but it doesn't make any difference; I never answer. If you'd like to look through the old house I'll show you around."




Chapter VI -- A Prisoner


"That's just what I should like to do," exclaimed Fred eagerly.

The knowledge that he was not to make the investigation entirely alone doubtless strengthened the courage of the boy. All his friends were aware that he was not cowardly and yet somehow his strange experience of the preceding evening in the old Meeker House had deeply affected him. Convinced as he was that there was an explanation to be found for every mysterious happening, nevertheless he was somewhat nervous at the thought of being alone in the neglected building.

"I have spent some time in here," said the tramp, "as I told you. It is a queer old house. For example, right here in this room," he added as he led the way into the front room, "there is a concealed closet. I don't think any one would ever find it unless he was told of it."

As he spoke the strange man turned a button, which was apparently a part of the molding of the stairway.

In response to his quick and energetic pull a door was opened and as Fred peered within he saw there was a small room perhaps six or seven feet square. It was directly under the stairway and when he looked into the adjoining room he saw that it extended within that room also.

"What was that for?" he said as he turned to his companion.

"I don't know," replied the tramp. "I suspect, though, that that is where they used to put the boys when they were naughty."

The tone of the man's voice, the language which he used; indeed the very bearing of the stranger, increased Fred's curiosity concerning him. Was this man no more than he appeared to be? Was he really a tramp, as he said he was? His clothing was old and worn, the care of his person had been neglected and at first glance any observer might think that he was an ordinary vagabond. Perhaps he was, Fred thought, and yet somehow he was convinced that there were other things to be explained in connection with the stranger.

"Come up stairs," said the tramp, leading the way up the stairway.

Fred followed obediently and soon found himself in the hallway from which opened several rooms. Some of these were large, though all were low. For a moment, as he stopped to look about him, it seemed to Fred that he almost saw the sights that the house had witnessed one hundred years before this time. What stories of life and death, of suffering and joy these old rooms might have told had they been endowed with the power of speech.

Somehow, although Fred was unable to account for his feeling, it seemed that unseen witnesses were about him and that the presence of himself and the tramp in these rooms was very like an intrusion. He did not speak concerning his feelings, however, and after a hasty inspection the two returned to the room below.

"What's that?" demanded Fred suddenly as from the chimney there came sounds like those which he had heard the preceding evening.

"I cannot see," replied the tramp, his eyes twinkling as he spoke.

"I cannot see, either," said Fred, "but I can hear. Don't you know what that noise is?" As he spoke the strange sound was repeated. It was a broken note, sharp and yet long-drawn out. It was clearly heard, too, and yet Fred was convinced now that it was no ghostly voice from which the chatter came. But what was it? His companion did not explain to him and he himself had no conception of the source of the strange sound.

They proceeded through the various rooms on the first floor, but nothing was discovered that in any way explained the mysterious events which Fred had come to investigate.

Conversation had almost ceased, the tramp seldom speaking except to call to Fred to follow him, and Fred only occasionally asking such questions as occurred to him.

"The cellar is the strangest part of all," said the tramp. "You don't want to leave until you have seen that part of the old house."

"All right," declared Fred lightly. "I came over to see what I could find, and if there's anything in the cellar worth finding I want to see it."

The stairs to the cellar were low and broad, but the wood in places had decayed and fallen away. As a consequence when the tramp descended upon the third step the rotten timbers in part gave way and he was compelled to leap to the ground below him. Fred too jumped, but the mishap did not cause any inconvenience, though neither of them spoke when both arose.

The light was dim, entering the place from two open windows which were just above the ground. In silence the investigators moved about the place until at last Fred said, "It seems to me like a dungeon down here. I don't know what they could have kept here."

"Probably they used to come down here with a candle. I have an idea that if you boys thought you saw and heard strange things here last night you were not unlike the boys of one hundred years ago who came down here after apples and potatoes."

"That's right," laughed Fred, although his laughter was not hearty. "No man could crawl through either of those two windows. There isn't much more than room enough to put your arm through either of them."

"Wait a minute," said the tramp abruptly. "I'll be back here with a light. I want to show you something."

"What is it?" demanded Fred.

"Why, there's a well here in one corner. I don't know whether it was made in case the Meekers were attacked by the Indians and they wanted to be sure of having what water they needed, or whether the house was built over the old well, which they perhaps filled in and since then it has fallen away."

"Never mind," called Fred. "I'll go upstairs with you. I don't care anything about the old well."

"But I want to show it to you," declared the tramp. "You wait here and I'll be back in a minute."

Hastily the strange man retraced his way to the room above, but no sooner had he gained the place he was seeking than the massive door was dropped into place and left Fred in almost complete darkness.

The first feeling of the boy was that some accident had befallen his recent companion. He listened intently, but he did not hear any sound that indicated any trouble in the room above.

Following this feeling of fear came the sensation of intense loneliness. Although the room was only dimly lighted, by this time Fred's eyes had become somewhat accustomed to the semi-darkness and he was able to see all about him. A pile of boards in one corner of the cellar were the only objects he distinguished.

At first Fred had no feeling of fear. He expected the door to be opened at once and he waited confidently for a hail from the man who had just left him. However, when several minutes elapsed and he heard no call nor was any attempt made to open the door, a feeling of alarm swept over him. Again he glanced hastily about the cellar and keenly watched the light of the setting sun as its beams were cast through the little windows.

Convinced that night was near at hand and somewhat alarmed now at his predicament, Fred rushed to the heavy door and did his utmost to lift it. Whether or not the door was fastened he did not know, but his efforts were unavailing. The massive door was unmoved and when a few minutes had elapsed Fred was convinced that he was helpless to lift it.

Astonished by what he had already learned, he remained standing at the foot of the stairway and in his loudest tones called to the man who had recently left him. "Open the door! Open the door!" he shouted. "I can't get out. The door is fast."

His tones increased in loudness as he discovered that no attention was paid his hail.

Repeatedly the anxious lad pounded upon the cellar-door and repeated his calls. The silence that rested over the old house was unbroken. Apparently no one was within hailing distance. What had become of the tramp was not clear, but apparently he had departed from the old Meeker House.

Almost desperate now, Fred dragged the boards from the corner in which he had discovered them and piling them up on the floor beneath the little window that opened upon the road he soon was able to look out upon the scene. No one was within sight. To call for help now would be useless, if the tramp really had departed from the house.

He carefully examined the windows to see if it would be possible for him to lift the sash and thus make an opening that would be large enough to enable him to crawl through. He was unable, however, to accomplish his task and soon concluded that his sole reliance now was to wait until some one passed in the road and call to him for help.

Not many minutes had passed before a farm-wagon, drawn by two horses, was seen approaching. The farmer who was driving the team was apparently unaware of any call upon him, for his rattling wagon soon passed on and in spite of Fred's loudest calls for help he did not stop.

"I don't believe I am making enough noise," Fred sturdily declared to himself. "The next one that passes I'll make him hear me whether he wants to or not."

A brief time afterward he discovered a boy driving a cow not far away on the road. He was approaching the corner on which the old Meeker House stood and in a brief time would be within hailing distance.

Convinced that his call before had not been heard because he had not used tones sufficiently loud, Fred increased his efforts. He shouted in tones that were unnatural, they were so high keyed. He then whistled and gave his school yell as being likely to be heeded when his own call might be unheard.

Nor were his efforts in vain. Fred saw the boy when he approached the corner stop abruptly and give one startled look toward the old house. A moment later Fred saw a picture which he never was able to forget. The cow, with tail elevated, was running swiftly from the place, while close behind her followed the boy, who at frequent intervals stopped and looked behind him at the old Meeker House. It was evident to Fred what thoughts were in the mind of the lad, for his frequent glances, as well as his manner, betrayed his terror. Evidently he had heard stories of the old place that had not induced him to enter the building when such strange and unearthly sounds issued from the cellar.

A moment later the horn of an automobile was heard and soon afterward a car turned the corner. Fred was nearly hopeless by this time, but in desperation once more he did his utmost to make his voice heard. The automobile, however, passed on and apparently his calls for aid were unheard.

Darkness would be settling over the land within a few minutes. Fred thought of his friends, who doubtless by this time had returned from the country-club and were puzzled to account for the absence of their friend.

Convinced that he was the only one except the tramp who knew where he was at that time, Fred resolutely prepared to endure the wait that must elapse before relief could be had. As he turned away from the window he was startled by sounds that came from the room directly above him. The boy, alarmed now and thoroughly distressed, stopped abruptly and waited for a repetition of the noise which had aroused him.




Chapter VII -- An Escape


There was no question about the repetition of the strange sound in the upper room. To the excited boy there were evidences that people were walking over the board floors. Indeed, he was positive he could hear the slow, measured footfalls of some one who was walking back and forth in the room directly above him. A moment later he was equally convinced that the sound of the whistling creatures which had been heard when the four boys first visited the house was now repeated.

A moment later there came a rushing sound of many wings. For a moment Fred's courage almost deserted him, his flesh seemed to creep. He stopped abruptly in the darkness and spoke aloud to himself, "This will never do. It is all foolishness. There isn't any such thing as a spook anyway, so why should you be afraid of one?"

At that moment, however, the sound of the rushing wings was heard again and all Fred's efforts to strengthen his heart proved unavailing. The flying creatures were in the cellar, there was no question about that now. Fred almost cried aloud as he heard the wings coming closer to the place he was standing.

A moment later the flying creatures seemed to be circling the cellar and in the midst of it all the sharp twitter which had so strangely impressed him the preceding evening was now heard again and within a few feet of him. Then, too, there was the sound of some one walking again in the room above him. Had Fred been in a less nervous condition he would have been aware that it was no ghostly walk which he heard, for the footfalls were heavy and plainly those of some one whose weight was not slight. Fred, however, was in no condition calmly to consider these things. The darkness was almost appalling now and surrounded as he was by unseen winged creatures his fears redoubled.

He looked again at the cellar windows, but escape through them was impossible. Almost in a frenzy the frightened boy decided that help must be found from some source. In his desperation he ran to the cellar door and pushed against it with all his strength. To his amazement the door readily yielded to his onslaught. He pushed up the heavy door and in a moment he was in the yard.

He was in the kitchen when the door once more fell back into its place. The loud report startled the unseen creatures and even after he had gained the ground outside the building he heard the strange twittering that seemed now to come from the chimney. The noise made by the wings of the flying creatures also was plainly heard. Whatever the explanation might be the whole place and experience seemed so uncanny to the nervous boy that he instantly fled toward the road not far away.

Even when he gained the highway his one supreme thought still was of flight. Instantly beginning to run he steadily increased the pace at which he was fleeing until his breathing became labored and perspiration was pouring down his face. Occasionally he glanced behind him in his mad flight and on one occasion as he did so his foot was caught in some obstruction and he was thrown heavily upon the ground.

Falling, however, was not uncommon in the experience of Fred. Indeed, his friends declared that he was like a rubber ball, he bounced up after every fall as if the contact with the ground had only afforded him additional power.

The road was dusty and as Fred's flight continued his appearance became steadily worse. Fortunately, however, in the dim light not one of the few people who met him recognized him, or discovered his plight. The one great purpose in his mind was still to run. The greatest possible distance between himself and the old Meeker House must be made and in his determination this distance steadily and rapidly increased. Occasionally he glanced behind the trees, the dim outlines of which were plainly to be seen. Somehow there was a fear in his mind that some enemy might be loitering behind these shelters. Once when he ran past an old and deserted barn that stood near the roadway he was confident that he heard sounds of weird laughter issuing from the tumbling structure. Indeed, in whichever direction the boy looked, it seemed to him he discovered evidences of the very enemies whom he had left behind him in his flight.

Somehow at last Fred found himself in the long, shaded lane or driveway that led from the road up to the house of his friend. The trees were tall poplars and stood like sentinels guarding each side of the road. Even now Fred's fears had not disappeared, although he saw the lights gleam from the windows of the old farmhouse before him.

So weary was he by his long flight and worn by his excitement that when at last he swiftly mounted the steps of the piazza his foot slipped and once more the unfortunate boy fell upon the floor.

Aroused by the sound his three friends instantly rushed from the room in which they were seated and a moment later discovered their friend in his predicament.

"What in the world is the matter with you?" demanded George as the three boys gazed in astonishment at Fred.

"N-n-o-t-h-in'. N-n-o-t-h-in'," gasped Fred.

"You look as if there was nothing doing," said Grant, repressing a smile as the plight of Fred became manifest in the light. "Actually you look as if you belonged in a lunatic asylum."

"I guess I do," responded Fred.

"Well, what's the matter?" demanded John. "You haven't told us where you have been nor what you have been doing."

"I can't. I can't now," said Fred. "Give me a chance to rest up."

"You need a bath more than you need a rest," declared George laughingly, as he became convinced that nothing serious had happened to his friend. "Come upstairs and I'll see that you get what you deserve."

"It's lucky everybody doesn't get what he deserves. If he did -- "

"Never mind that," directed George. "Come on upstairs and take your bath and get a change of clothes and you'll feel in your right mind once more."

Acting promptly upon the suggestion Fred withdrew from his friends for a time and a half-hour later, when he returned to the piazza, he was not able entirely to conceal his feeling of chagrin. It was true that he had had some strange experiences, but it was difficult now to believe that they were all real. Certainly his companions were very much in evidence and as they seated themselves, George said promptly, "Now my lad, tell us what happened to you."

"Well, I don't mind telling you," said Fred, "that I went over to the old Meeker House."

"That's just what I thought," laughed George, "and you stayed there until it was so dark that you heard those strange noises again, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir, I did that, and a good deal more."

"What else? Tell us about it. Why don't you talk?" demanded John impatiently.

"It isn't anything I want to talk much about," said Fred positively in a low voice. "I tell you there's something strange about that house. I went over there late this afternoon and found a tramp."

"Where?" broke in George. "In the house?"

"Yes, it was in the house and he at once offered to become my guide, counselor and friend."

"What do you mean?" inquired Grant.

"Just what I say," said Fred. "He showed me through the old building. Finally he took me into the cellar and left me there, though he took pains not to close the old cellar-door. For a while I didn't mind it, but when I found I couldn't get out of the place, for the windows were too small for me to crawl through, and I couldn't lift the big door, I didn't know just what to do."

"Well, what did you do?" demanded John.

"Why, I called, shouted and whistled through the window, but I couldn't get anybody to pay any attention to me. Yes, there was one who heard me," he added. "He was a small boy driving a cow and when he heard the calls from the old Meeker House he lost no time in withdrawing from that part of the country. Even the cow he was driving seemed to feel just as he did, for her tail went up and her head down and she joined in the race in that graceful, polite way that cows have when they run."

"It's plain you saw something besides the spooks then," said George, laughing heartily. "Look yonder," he added quickly, pointing as he spoke toward the end of the piazza.

In the dim light Uncle Sim was seen standing there, his eye-balls shining and his intense interest in the conversation of the boys manifest in the expression of his face.

"Yas, suh. Yas, suh," he said when the boys first became aware of his presence, "I don' tol' yo' not to go near dat ol' Meeker House."

"Don't you ever go there?" asked Fred.

"Me go dar? No, suh. No, suh. It would take fo' yoke ob oxen to make me go inside dat ol' house in de daytime and in de night I reckon Caleb's Army couldn't drive me in dar'."

"What became of your tramp friend?" inquired George when the boys arose to enter the room.

"That's what I should like to know," said Fred somewhat ruefully.

"Well, come on in, we'll all feel better after dinner," said George cheerfully, as he led the way into the dining room.

The strange experience which had befallen Fred was the chief topic of conversation. Even their interest, however, was broken when a half-hour had passed and word was brought that Uncle Sim was desirous of speaking at once to Mr. George.

Excusing himself George withdrew from the dining room and a few minutes later when he returned he said, "What do you think has happened, fellows?"

"We don't know. How should we know?" retorted John. "If you've got something to say why don't you say it?"

"That's just what I am going to do," said George, but he had scarcely begun his statement before his three friends leaped from their seats at the table and quickly followed him as he led the way out of the house.




Chapter VIII -- The Lost Car


"What's the trouble? What's the trouble?" demanded George excitedly when the boys had run out through the kitchen door.

"Uncle Sim says that my car is gone," replied George.

"Gone? Gone where?" demanded Grant.

"He doesn't know and that's what he wanted to find out from us."

"Yas, suh. Yas, suh," broke in the old colored man who now approached the place where the boys were standing. "Dat car sho' am gone. I jes' came to fin' out if any ob yo' young gen'lemen disremembered who might hab tuk de car."

"Why, there hasn't anybody taken it," said John. "Have you looked in the garage, George?"

In spite of his perplexity George laughed slightly as he said, "I certainly have. You don't think I would solemnly state to you that the car was gone if I had seen it in the garage, do you?"

The boys by this time had advanced to the open door of the garage and a hasty examination confirmed the statement of the old colored man that the automobile was not there.

"What do you suppose it means?" inquired Fred.

"It means somebody has taken it," replied George.

"You mean stolen it?"

"That's what I don't know. I'm trying to explain to you fellows that the car isn't here and if it isn't here it must be somewhere else. Now, if it is somewhere else how did it get there and who took it there? Do you see? Can I make any impression on any of you?"

"Why don't you say in plain English just what you mean?" retorted John. "Do you think your car has been stolen?"

"I know it's gone and that's all I know."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to take you fellows and Uncle Sim in the old car and find out what has happened to the new one, if I can."

"That's all right, we'll be with you in a minute," declared George.

Speedily the boys entered the house and securing their caps at once prepared to accompany George, who soon started down the lane toward the road beyond. There was no plan clearly defined in his mind nor had any one in the party any suggestions to make as to whom the thief might be or what had become of the missing automobile.

In response to George's queries Uncle Sim related his own experiences. He had been coming in from the barn and noticed that the door of the garage was still open. As he had strict orders to see that this was closed every night, he turned aside to carry out the directions. To his surprise he found that the new automobile was not in its accustomed place. His first thought naturally was that the boys had taken it for another drive and yet at that very moment he heard the sound of their laughter issuing from the dining-room.

Puzzled by the fact he at once entered the house and soon made his presence and his errand known.

His statement, startling as it was, at first had not alarmed George, but as soon as he had made a hasty investigation he too was as troubled as his dusky friend. The car was gone and there was no accounting for its departure.

"Did any of you fellows hear the automobile when it went down the driveway?" George inquired of his friends as they sped along the dusty road.

"Not one of us," said John, positively.

"That's the trouble in having such a good car," said George dryly. "You see it makes so little noise that it couldn't be heard a few feet away."

"I don't think that was it," spoke up Grant. "I think it's because certain members of our party were making so much noise that an earthquake or thunder would have been drowned."

"That's all right, then," said George dryly. "You wait until we find that car and then we'll talk a little more about it."

"What was the number of your car?" asked Fred.

"27155."

"I think a man has got more nerve to steal an automobile than anything else. Of course he knows he will be taken," declared Fred.

"Not always," answered George. "Down on the sea shore there was a certain firm last summer that did a regular business in stolen automobiles. They painted them different colors and did a few little things that altered the appearance so that a man wouldn't recognize his own car."

"Is that so? Is that true?" demanded Grant.

"It certainly is. I know a man who lost a car down there. Those men work all through the towns and cities in the northern part of the state and run down to the seashore with the stolen cars in the night when nobody is around and the next day the cars wouldn't be recognized by the very men who were looking for them."

"Well, I hope we shan't find your car down there," said Fred warmly.

"I hope we shan't," replied George, "though the main thing I want just now is to find the car anyway. Some of the good times I promised you fellows this summer will go begging, I'm afraid, if we have lost our automobile."

"We'll find it, George," said John, patting his friend on the shoulder.

Meanwhile Uncle Sim, who was still a member of the party, had taken no share in the conversation. At that moment, however, he uttered an exclamation of surprise and directed the attention of the Go Ahead boys to the old Meeker House which now was not far ahead of them.

"Yas, suh. Yas, suh," said Uncle Sim, his voice trembling in his excitement. "I sho' do see some lights in dat cellar ob de ol' house. 'Pears like dere's always somethin' wrong in de ole Meeker House."

"How it is, Fred? Do you agree with Uncle Sim?" laughed George.

"I never saw any lights in it," replied Fred glumly.

"No, but that's what you wanted to see, I guess, more than anything else," laughed Grant. "But there's a light there now," he added suddenly, "I saw it myself. It shines for a minute and then it is gone. There it is again!" he exclaimed a moment later. "You can see it shining through the cellar windows. What do you suppose it is?"

"Spooks," said George solemnly. "They usually have a supper there once a year and I think to-night is the regular time for their meeting."

"Do you want to stop?" demanded Fred quickly.

"I don't mind," replied George. There was no enthusiasm, however, manifest among the boys, although every one jokingly declared that he was not afraid. The excuse was commonly given that the necessity of hasty investigation into the loss of the automobile demanded action in other directions. Consequently no stop was made and although every boy was frequently glancing behind him at the old Meeker House no light was seen nor did any additional or unusual sounds come from that direction.

When the boys had gone beyond the corner their thoughts once more returned to the problem which was confronting them. The mystery of the lost car must be solved. Although there were many suggestions offered there was not one of the boys that had any clearly outlined plan as to what must be done in order to find the lost car or obtain information concerning those who had taken it.

"I have a suggestion," broke in Grant at last.

"What's that?" demanded Fred.

"Why, it's your friend, the tramp. Probably he's the man who has been hanging around the place for several days and when his opportunity came he took it."

"Which do you mean, the opportunity, or the car?" laughed Fred.

"Both. His opportunity was to take the car."

"That tramp," declared Fred solemnly, "didn't have strength enough about him to push the button to turn on the power."

"That's something you don't know," retorted his friend. "I think when you are through with it you'll find that the car disappeared at the same time the tramp did. No one has seen him since," added Grant, positively.

"And from all I can learn," retorted Fred, "nobody saw him before except myself, so you haven't run down your problem yet."

When the boys arrived at the Corners, as the little nearby hamlet was called, they made many inquiries of the people they met, but no word concerning the missing car was heard. There were several suggestions from the country people that other cars had been lost within the past few weeks, but none of them was able to add to the information which the boys already possessed.

Disappointed by their failures, George at last said, "I think the best thing for us to do will be to go back home. I'll call up my father on the 'phone and if he isn't coming out pretty soon he will tell me what to do."

In response to George's suggestion the boys once more clambered into the car and in a brief time were noisily speeding over the road on their way back to their friend's house.

"We've got two mysteries now," suggested George.

"Three you mean," spoke up Fred quickly.

"We've got the mystery of the lost car and the mystery of the old Meeker House. That makes two. I don't see where your third comes in."

"The third is our mysterious friend, the tramp, that I saw in the old Meeker House."

"What's the mystery about him?" laughed George. "I don't find anything very mysterious about an unwashed tramp you found in the old house. Very likely he had crawled in there to sleep and you waked him up."

"He was awake all right," declared Fred promptly. "There isn't any question about that. He wasn't moving around as fast as I have seen some, but he didn't take it all out in motions, either."

"It seems to me," laughed Grant, "that you find in that tramp whatever you want to find, Fred. First you say he's one kind of man and then you tell us he's another."

"Wait until you see him," said Fred sagely. "Maybe he's in the old house now. It can't be far ahead."

"Not more than a quarter of a mile," suggested Grant.

For some reason the boys became silent as the car speeded forward in the dim light. The eyes of every one were turned toward the old house which had perplexed them in so many ways.

As they came near the corner John said in a low voice, "There's not only a ghost of a man in that house, but there's the ghost of the automobile. Do you hear that horn?"

All the boys listened intently and to their consternation the faint sound of a horn was heard, issuing from the old house.

"What do you suppose that means?" demanded Fred in a whisper.

"I told you there was the ghost of an automobile in that house, didn't I?" demanded John.

"Look yonder," called Grant quickly. "There's that light again in the cellar. Don't you think we had better stop and find out what all this means?"

At that moment the faint sound of the horn was heard again from the house and for an instant lights flashed from every window.

These, however, quickly disappeared and although the boys waited several minutes, the sound was not repeated nor were the lights again seen.




Chapter IX -- Another Flight


"What do you suppose that means?" demanded Fred in a whisper.

"Things are seldom what they seem," said Grant.

"What do you mean?" again demanded Fred, turning sharply upon his friend. "Don't you think there are lights there? Didn't you hear the sound of the automobile horn?"

"I certainly did," acknowledged Grant, "but that isn't all there is to it. There are some things we don't see in connection with these things."

"Come on," urged George, "let's all get out and go in there and see if we cannot see those other things that Grant is telling about."

For a moment there was silence in the little party, but at last, as no one was desirous of being looked upon as cowardly by his friends, all four boys stepped down upon the ground.

"Come on, Uncle Sim," called George. "You aren't going to be left behind."

"We don' lose one car," remarked the aged negro, his teeth chattering as he spoke.

"And we don't want to lose another, do we, Uncle Sim?" said George. "I don't think anybody can take it without our knowing it, so you can come along, Uncle Sim, if you want to."

"Yas, suh. Yas, suh," responded the negro. "D'rec'ly, d'rec'ly."

George laughed, as the old man slowly and with manifest reluctance climbed down upon the ground. His "mis'ry" plainly was unusually troublesome, for he walked with a great effort and very slowly. Indeed, he groaned with every step that he took, as he followed the boys on their way to the old house.

Silence fell upon the party when they drew near the building. No lights now were to be seen in any of its windows. Silence rested over the quaint old structure and apparently there was nothing to explain the strange sights and sounds which recently had issued from the venerable building.

"You boys stay here and go into the house by the front door and I'll go around to the kitchen," said George.

"What for?" demanded Fred.

"Why, we'll be more certain," explained George, "to find out if there is anything wrong here if we come at the old house from two sides."

"I think I'll go with you," spoke up Grant quickly.

"There's no need of that," protested George sharply. Indeed the lad spoke too sharply, for the suspicions of Grant were instantly aroused by the evident desire of his friend not to have him accompany him. Knowledge of that fact, however, was sufficient of itself to increase Grant's determination.

"We had better divide up the party evenly," he suggested. "John and Fred can stay here and watch this side and I'll go with you around to the kitchen door."

With manifest reluctance, though he made no further protest, George accepted the suggestion of his friend and together the two boys soon disappeared from the sight of their companions.

"Who's that?" whispered Fred as he grasped the arm of John, who was standing beside him, and pointing to an approaching figure of a man.

"That's Uncle Sim," replied John after a hasty glance at the approaching form.

John's words were verified when a few moments later Uncle Sim, his voice trembling and his terror manifest in his entire bearing, approached the spot where the two boys were standing. Indeed, had it not been for the presence of John and Fred, Uncle Sim with all his "mis'ry" would not have been induced to approach the uncanny place.

"Come on," said John a moment later. "We're going into the house to find out about those lights."

No protest was made and together the two boys, followed by Uncle Sim, whose reluctance manifestly increased with every passing moment, pushed open the sagging front door and entered the front room.

For a moment they were unable to distinguish any objects in the darkness. From the small windows the faint light entered, but it was not sufficient to enable the boys to see about them. Suddenly the strange whirring of winds was heard again. Now the sound came from the ceiling and then again it seemed to the startled boys that it was close to the place where they were standing. Back and forth and up and down the strange sounds continued, occasionally broken by a plaintive note as if the creature that was darting about the room was in terror or pain.

Uncle Sim, unable longer to control his feelings, began to pray, but even his prayer did not prevent him from speedily fleeing from the room.

Fred glanced through the open door and saw the old negro making most excellent time as he ran across the field toward the waiting automobile. Under other circumstances he would have laughed heartily, but just now there was excitement sufficient to prevent the boys from following the retreating old negro.

In the midst of the sounds of the wings suddenly a prolonged groan was heard. It seemed to both Fred and John that it issued from some place close to them. Several times the startling noise was repeated and then was followed by a strange whistling.

For some reason, which neither of the two boys explained to the other, they had not advanced farther into the room. Both glanced behind them to make certain that the door was still open and their way of escape was unimpeded.

"Where are the other fellows?" whispered Fred.

"I don't know. Shall I call them?"

"Yes," said Fred eagerly,

"Hello, there is George. Where are you, Grant?" called John, striving to speak boldly, though in spite of his efforts his voice trembled as he spoke.

Instead of a response from their companion a faint sound of an auto horn was heard in the old building. It was mournful beyond the power of either boy to describe. Instead of the sharp, short "honk," it was prolonged and weird.

"This is too much for me," said Fred sharply. "I have seen all I want to see. The other fellows aren't here and I'm not going into this old house any further unless I can see my way."

"What's that? What's that?" whispered John excitedly.

As he spoke the sound of some one running around the corner of the house was heard by both boys. In a moment John and Fred were outside the old building and as they became aware that the fugitives were George and Grant they lost no time in following them.

In the distance Uncle Sim could be seen climbing into the automobile. It was marvelous too what excellent time all four boys were making. Swiftly as George and Grant were running they were soon overtaken by their companions and together all four arrived at the place in the road where their automobile had been left.

At that moment there came a sound from the old Meeker House very like a wild burst of laughter. This was repeated and the terror of Uncle Sim became still more pronounced.

"There goes that auto horn again," said George, as he grasped the wheel and looked behind to see if his friends were ready to start. "Uncle Sim," called George just before he started, "I wish you would see if that back tire on the left is all right. We don't want to start out on a flat tire."

"Yas, suh. Yas, suh," answered Uncle Sim quickly, as he obediently climbed out of the car and inspected the tire. "It's all right, suh," he repeated. "It's all right."

In his eagerness to be gone George at once started, unaware that the aged negro had not yet returned to his seat.

His ignorance was speedily dispelled when from the darkness behind them came several agonizing calls for help, "Hi dar, don't leave me! Don't leave me! Wait! Wait dar!"

As the boys glanced behind them they saw the old man running swiftly toward them and making even better time than when he had departed from the old Meeker House.

Obediently George stopped the automobile and in a moment Uncle Sim, breathless and excited, climbed into the seat.

"There's one thing I don't understand, Uncle Sim," said George, laughing as he spoke.

"Yas, suh. Yas, suh," responded the negro. "Dat's jes' de way I feel."

"What I can't understand," said George, "is why it is so hard for you to walk when you are working around the place and it's so easy for you to run when you have been left behind."

"Dat's so. Yas, suh," answered the negro. "I jes' cain't explain dat mahself."

Apparently George was the only member of the party that was willing to talk and even he soon lost his desire as few responses were made to his various suggestions.

Uncle Sim, however, with chattering teeth and trembling voice, frequently expressed his displeasure over the attempt of the boys to belittle the sounds which had come from the old Meeker House.

At last Uncle Sim declared solemnly, "I jes' made up my mind how dat ar automobile was taken."

"How was that?" demanded George.

"It's de spooks back in de ole Meeker House. Dey make all de trouble."

The four boys were now far enough from the scene of their recent adventure to permit of their looking more calmly at their surroundings. Their former fear had departed as the distance between them and the old house had increased. When Uncle Sim made this solemn declaration as to the cause of the loss of the automobile they all laughed heartily, although the aged negro strongly maintained his repeated declarations.

"Yas, suh. Yas, suh," he declared, "Dar's somethin' strange 'bout all dis rumpus. Yo' hear de spirits in de ole house and you see de lights from de windows, and den you hear de autermobile ho'n. Dat's de way it is, yas, suh. Yo' couldn't find that automobile if yo' was to search dat old house from de cellar up to de garret and yet de ho'n kept er blowin' and er blowin' all de time."

"I think you're mistaken, Uncle Sim," laughed George.

"No, suh. No, suh. Dat's jes' de way it is. I feel shore you'll neber see dat autermobile agin."

"You think it is in the old house?" demanded Fred.

"No, suh. No, suh. I didn't say as how it is exac'ly in de ole house, but what I says is dat de persons what's in de ole house can tell yo' what become of dat ar autermobile, an' it was our autermobile ho'n what was er blowin' dar. Yas, suh, I'd know dat ho'n if I heard it er hundred miles from here."

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said George suddenly.

"Tell ahead," said Fred. "What is it you'll do?"

"I'll dare the crowd to go back to the old Meeker House."

"We'll take your dare," responded Fred promptly.




Chapter X -- The Capture In The Pass


There was no enthusiasm manifest among the four boys when again they walked across the field on their way to the old Meeker House. As they came near the building, suddenly lights were seen in the windows once more and a faint sound of the automobile horn again was heard.

"Shall we go in?" inquired Fred, his voice trembling in spite of his attempt to control it.

"It's getting late," suggested George. There was a note of laughter in his voice, but his companions were so excited that they were scarcely aware of it. "Perhaps we had better put it off until some other time."

"That's the way I feel about it," joined in John.

"All right," said George, "and we must look after our car too. My father wouldn't want me to lose the old car as well as the new one."

Like the famous soldiers who marched up the hill and then marched down again, the Go Ahead boys without protest on the part of any member of the party retraced their way to the road and silently took their places in the car.

Conversation lagged and when at last they arrived at George's home they left the car in the garage and then quickly entered the house.

When they came into the room where the lights were shining they stared blankly at one another for a moment and then laughed loudly.

"What a pack of brave fellows we are, aren't we?" said George.

"We are going to find out about that old house," declared John quietly.

To the surprise of the boys George's father had arrived during their absence. He was an interested listener to the story which the boys had to relate, although none of them detected the sly glance which passed between him and George. Evidently there was something understood by them which was unknown to the others.

"Yes," said Mr. Sanders when the boys were seated in the room. "There have been some strange occurrences in this part of the country from the days when it was first settled."

"I guess that's so," said Grant. "We were hearing about the young fellow who was captured up here in the Ramapo Pass in the Revolution."

"Do you mean young Montagnie?"

"We don't know his name," replied Grant, "but it was the one who was used by Washington as a messenger without his understanding it."

"That's the fellow," said Mr. Sanders. "I have always been greatly interested in him. I do not think people ever have appreciated the part he took in the plan which Washington wanted to try. He was a fine young chap, about twenty years of age, and was a licensed preacher. Washington had heard such good reports of him that when he came to try his plan he sent for young Montagnie one morning up on the Hudson at Dobbs Ferry. It was there the Continental army was encamped at the time. The general told Montagnie that he had heard good reports of him and the young soldier was so embarrassed that he could only stammer his thanks. Then Washington went on to tell him that he wanted him to go across the country and through the Ramapo Pass and carry a message to General Heath, who was then at Morristown. He explained carefully how the papers were to be sewed inside the lining of his coat. Young Montagnie agreed, but suggested that he knew a better way across the country. There was danger of his being taken if he should go down through the Ramapo Valley. It is said that Washington drew himself up to his full height and looked sternly at the young soldier as he thundered at him, 'It is your business to obey.' And of course there was nothing more to be said."

"He must have had a strange feeling when he went down through the Pass," suggested John. "He knew what the danger was and at the same time he knew that he could find his way safely across the country without going into the Pass. It seems strange that he did not suspect the trick Washington was trying to play."

"Apparently he didn't suspect anything," said Mr. Sanders. "It was early in the morning when he entered the narrow defile. The only weapon he had was a stout club and he was swinging along at a good rate, confident that if he once safely got through the Pass many of his perils would be over. He had just entered one end of the Pass when he saw five men coming in at the other end.

"He instantly recognized the leader as young Richard Smith, whose father he had seen hanged up in Goshen a few days before this time. You see his father was one of the worst of the cowboys. At least many of his dastardly deeds were committed against the colonists, but he didn't stop for that and he was willing to have dealings with either side, provided he made by the transaction."

"What was he hanged for?" inquired John.

"Why, the people became so indignant at last that about two hundred of the boys and men started after him one day. Of course he ran then, but they chased him clear down to Long Island."

"Did they catch him?" inquired John.

"They most certainly did, and they brought him back to Goshen and he was hanged there in the courtyard. Then his son, Richard, declared he would revenge his father's death and it was this young man whom Montagnie saw when he came into the Ramapo Pass just at sunrise that morning away back in 1781.

"The young messenger felt of the letter inside the lining of his coat to make sure that it was safe and grasping his club more firmly and doing his utmost to appear indifferent he at once turned and approached the men. Very likely he would have run if he thought he could escape in that manner, but he had no weapon except his club while the others were armed. He well knew that if he should try to escape they would at once start after him.

"He quietly saluted the men when he passed them and received a grunt from Richard in response. However, he was not critical, as now he was hoping that his peril had been passed. He was not to get away so easily, however, for before he came out into the open road he was hailed by the men behind him and ordered to stop. Once more the young preacher was tempted to run, but he was aware that his effort would be useless. Accordingly he waited for the men to come back to him, and when Richard Smith gruffly demanded who he was and where he was going he answered in a general way saying that he was simply going across the country, 'That won't do,' said Richard loudly, 'that may mean to New York or it may mean to Morristown. Who are you anyway?'

"By this time Montagnie was convinced that he was in deadly peril and he quickly decided to sell his life as dearly as possible. Swinging his club he knocked down one of them and leaping over his prostrate body started up the steep side of the Pass. For some reason he was not fired upon but before he gained the top he was astonished to see two of the party whom he had left in the valley now approaching from above him, almost as if they had dropped out of the clouds."

"How did they do it?" inquired Grant.

"Very likely they knew of a short cut. At all events the young messenger was caught between the two parties. They took him to a little shanty in the woods and then began to search him. They cut his hat into shreds, and of course found nothing valuable. Then they made him take off his coat and as soon as they had cut the lining they discovered the letters which were hidden there.

"Young Montagnie expected every moment that he would be shot or hanged. One of the common methods of hanging employed by the cowboys in those days was to put a noose around the prisoner's neck, tie the rope to the limb of a tree after they had put the man on horseback, and then, when they struck the horse and it started quickly, the wretched victim was left hanging in the air. But for some unexplained reason young Montagnie was simply kept in the house three days. Then when he still confidently believed that he was being led to his death he was taken down the Hudson and carried across to New York, where he was shut up in the old Van Cortlandt Sugar House, which stood near the corner of what is now Broadway and Cortlandt Street. You see there were so many American prisoners in New York that the British had to make use of some of the big buildings besides the jails."

"Yes," suggested John, "I have heard that they used some of the churches as jails."

"They did," responded Mr. Sanders.

"Well, what happened to young Montagnie?"

"I was just about to tell you," said Sanders, smiling as he spoke. "Naturally he felt very bitter when he found himself a prisoner in the old sugar-house. He was so thoroughly convinced that his capture was useless and that he might have made his way successfully across the country to Morristown, that he was angry at Washington for his arbitrary command.

"However, three days later his keeper showed him a copy of Rivington's Gazette. Rivington was a printer in New York and was a very bitter Tory. Montagnie was not especially interested when he first took the paper, but in a moment he was keenly excited when his eye fell upon an announcement that one of Washington's messengers had been captured and that valuable information had been found concealed in his coat. The statement further announced that in this paper was a letter from General Washington to General Heath in which the commander explained that he was about to attack the British in New York and expected to find General Clinton entirely unprepared for such action.

"And at that very time," resumed Mr. Sanders, "Washington with his little army had crossed the Delaware River and was on his way toward Yorktown to help Greene and Lafayette. It was impossible now for Clinton to leave New York, believing as he did that it was about to be attacked, and even after he had found out the trick which Washington had played upon him it was too late for him to try to transport his army by sea because Washington would arrive at Yorktown before the red coats possibly could come to the aid of Cornwallis. The battle of Yorktown followed, as you know, and Cornwallis and his army were made prisoners. Indeed it was at Yorktown that really the final independence of the Colonies was won. But I have always felt that the part which young Montagnie took in winning the victory at Yorktown has never been known as it ought to be."

"What became of him?" inquired Fred.

"I don't know. I have often tried to find out," replied Mr. Sanders. "You see the men in those days were so busy making history that they had little time in which to write it. As a consequence there are many things which we would like to know, but do not."

"Now," continued Mr. Sanders as he arose from his seat, "I understand that you boys have lost an automobile."

"We didn't lose it," exclaimed George; "it was stolen."

"It seems to me," said Mr. Sanders, "that if you had an automobile and haven't one now you must have lost it, whatever the way in which it disappeared."




Chapter XI -- The Search For The Missing Car


"What are you going to do?" inquired Mr. Sanders.

"We don't know what to do," explained Fred. "We thought when you came out here you would tell us."

"I think I shall leave it for you boys to settle among yourselves."

"But don't you want to get your car back?" demanded Grant in surprise.

"Indeed I do," said Mr. Sanders.

"Then," exclaimed Grant, "I should think you would want to help us find it."

"It's possible that I may try some plans of my own," explained Mr. Sanders, "but meanwhile I am willing for the Go Ahead boys to see what they can do in the way of restoring the car."

"It's a strange thing," said George, "how that car ever could have been taken out of our yard without some of us hearing it. I explained to the boys," he added laughingly, "that it was such a good car that they couldn't hear the engine."

"That may be true," spoke up Fred, "but we had another explanation."

"What was that?" inquired Mr. Sanders.

"Why, we said some of the fellows were making so much noise that they might have taken a threshing machine out of the garage and not one of us would have heard it."

"I don't mind explaining to you," said Mr. Sanders, "that I have sent a brief description of the car to several of the nearby cities. My impression is that the automobile hasn't gone very far from home, but one cannot tell about that. Perhaps we shall get some word from Newark or New York pretty soon."

"Do you think they would take that car to New York?" demanded Fred. "I thought George said that they had had trouble a year or two ago when a lot of automobiles were stolen and taken down to Lakewood or somewhere along the Jersey shore."

"That may be true," said Mr. Sanders. "I have taken a few steps in the matter, but I am going to leave the most of it to the Go Ahead boys. I shall expect you to get some trace of the car before I come out for the week-end. I am compelled to go back to the city to-morrow morning, so I must leave you boys to your own devices."

"Well," said George just before the boys sought their rooms, "to-morrow morning we'll start out and begin our search for that missing automobile."

The following morning, after the departure of Mr. Sanders, the boys were soon ready for their expedition. That is, all were ready except John, who, for reasons which he did not fully explain, said that he would wait until the following day before he joined in the search for the missing car.

Before the three boys and Uncle Sim took their seats in the automobile Fred drew his elongated friend to one side and pulling his head down until it was on a level with his own whispered to him.

The conversation between the two friends was brief, but when Fred responded to the hail of his comrades and ran to take his seat in the automobile, there was an expression upon his face which indicated that the cause of the failure of John to accompany them was not altogether unknown to him.

In a brief time the car with its inmates disappeared around the bend in the road and John was no longer to be seen.

"I think I'll go first to Paterson," explained George, to the two boys, "and then I'll stop at every garage along the road between there and Newark."

When they arrived at Paterson they sought the quarters of the chief of police and all three boys entered the room.

George was the spokesman for the party and he briefly explained the loss which had befallen them.

The chief of police listened attentively, made notes of several statements which George made and then said, "We shall do our best for you. The trouble is that stolen cars frequently are mutilated or repainted or something is done to them which prevents an owner from recognizing his own property."

"My father too is sending out word about the car," suggested George.

"That's right, that's the only thing to do. It's one of the things you never can tell about. You may find the car in a country garage, or in a big city, or you may not find it at all."

"Don't you think we'll find it?" demanded George.

"I cannot say. Have you offered a reward for its recovery?"

"I don't know," admitted George. "My father has charge of that. If he has offered a reward he hasn't told me about it."

"Yes, I see," said the chief slowly, looking sternly at George as he spoke. "There may be reasons why he doesn't want to tell you about it."

"What reasons?" demanded George.

"If you don't know I shan't tell you."

"Do you think we took the car?" demanded George hotly.

"I'm not saying anything about that part of it. I don't know. I'm going to take your directions and do my best to locate the car and the thief too, if I can. It won't make any difference to me where I hit or who it is. When we find the party that stole the car shall we report?"

George was too angry to continue the conversation and turning abruptly from the room he joined his companions, and together they hastily reentered the car.

"Never mind, George," said Fred cheerfully; "don't forget that we're the Go Ahead boys, and if the car is anywhere in Jersey we'll try to find it."

"But we haven't any plan," suggested Grant. "What do you intend to do, George?"

"Find the car. That's as far as I have got now. I think I will stop at every garage along the road and find out if any one has seen or heard anything about our lost car."

"You'll stand about as good a chance of finding it as you will of finding a needle in a haystack," laughed Grant. "However, if that's what you want, I'm perfectly willing to go along with you."

"That's very kind and considerate on your part," remarked George dryly, as the car started swiftly along the country road into which they now had turned.

"I don't see anything," suggested Grant, who was the first to break in upon the silence. "I don't see anything to prevent the thief taking the car into New York City or going to Philadelphia with it."

"There isn't anything," said George quietly.

"And even after he has gone into New York or Pennsylvania he can come back again and double on his tracks. I don't see much hope of your ever finding your car."

"Perhaps we shan't find it," admitted George, "but I belong to a crowd that's known as the Go Ahead boys and we aren't beaten before we start, anyway. If we have to give up it will be after we have done our best."

"That's the way to talk!" broke in Fred. "We're going ahead anyway and we're going to get where we started for, too."

"What will you do if you find your car?" inquired Grant.

"Take it, of course," said George.

"But suppose somebody has bought it from the thief? He won't give the car back to you without your proving that it belongs to you."

"Then we'll prove it," said George quietly.

"What will you do with your thief if you find him?"

"I'll wait until I find him," said George.

"You know," broke in Fred, "I sometimes think it wasn't any thief that stole that car anyway."

"What do you mean, pygmy?" demanded both boys together as they looked keenly at their diminutive friend.

"You know just as well as I do," said Fred sturdily.

"I haven't the remotest idea what you mean," said Grant. "You'll have to try to make the point plain."

"You mean," retorted Fred, "that you have to be helped to see a point once in your life."

"Go ahead, Fred," called George sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Why you heard the tooting of that horn in the old Meeker House the same as I did," said Fred.

"You think the car is in that old house?" demanded Grant.

"I didn't say so," said Fred, "but I do say that the horn that belongs to George's car is in that old house, or else the horn that is there is so like it that you couldn't tell them apart."

George laughed quietly and said, "Next thing, Fred, you'll be telling us that the spooks stole the car."

"I'm not so sure that they didn't," said Fred.

"If they did, then what we'll find in the old Meeker House will be only the ghost of the car, I'm afraid."

Conversation ceased and at every garage along the road George stopped and made inquiries concerning the missing automobile.

It was late in the afternoon when the Go Ahead boys turned homeward. Not an inkling had they received of the stolen car. Several times they had been informed that "A good many cars of late have been stolen," but the knowledge brought neither comfort nor light.

"George," suggested Fred, "suppose we go home by the road where the old Meeker House is."

George smiled dryly as he replied, "All right. The way is as short if I turn in there as in any other way. What are you looking for, the ghost of the lost automobile?"

Fred shook his head and did not reply, but when at last in the dusk they drew near the place where the mysterious old house was standing, all were convinced that they heard a faint sound of an automobile horn coming from the place.




Chapter XII -- A Hasty Departure


As the speed of the automobile was instantly decreased, Fred said excitedly, "Stop, George! I say it is time for us to find out about this thing and quit all our foolishness."

"What do you want to do?" demanded George.

"I want to go into that old house and find out just what all this mystery means."

"I don't dare leave the car," said George.

"Then you stay here and look after it," retorted Fred. "Grant and I will make our own inspections, won't we?" he added as he turned to his companion.

Grant did not speak, but as he quickly leaped out of the car his example was at once followed by Fred and together the two boys started toward the house, the dim outline of which could be seen before them.

It was an ideal summer night. There was no moon, but as there were not many clouds in the sky the two boys were able to see about them in every direction. Crickets noisily were proclaiming their presence and the not unmusical notes of the tree toads joined in a chorus that arose from every side.

In silence the boys approached the front door of the house and just as they were about to enter there came again that mocking sound of an automobile horn.

In spite of his declaration of his courage Fred instantly gripped his companion's arm. Neither of the boys spoke as they halted for a moment on the stone door-step.

The startling noise of the horn was followed by sounds even more unexpected. There were shouts and calls and cries issuing from within the building. In the midst of this strange confusion there was also heard the sound of laughter.

The combination at first appeared to be almost too strong for the nerves of the two Go Ahead boys. For an instant they turned and were looking back at the road where George was waiting for them in his automobile.

"Come on," said Fred, his voice trembling in spite of his courageous attitude. "Come on in, Grant. We must find out about this thing."

Before Grant could reply, suddenly around the corner of the house two men were seen. Both were running swiftly and apparently were unmindful of the presence of the boys.

The two ghostly forms moved swiftly across the intervening field and were apparently running directly toward the automobile in the road.

The sight was more than either Grant or Fred was able to endure. Without another word both leaped from the stone steps and in their swiftest paces ran down the old pathway eager to gain the shelter of the waiting automobile.

"What's the trouble?" demanded George as his companions joined him. "What's happened? Is there anything wrong?"

"Don't talk about it now," said Fred. "Put on all the speed you have got and we'll tell you later what happened."

"I don't believe there's any such great need of haste," said George dryly. "Why not go back and find out what the cause of all the trouble is?"

"You may go if you want to," retorted Fred, "but I'm not going to try it again to-night."

"The Go Ahead boys apparently are in motion, but not in the right direction," suggested George demurely.

"The right direction," declared Fred, "is straight toward your house." As he spoke he glanced again at the Meeker place and as he did so discovered the two ghostly forms that were still moving across the field.

"Both of them came out of the house," he said in a loud whisper, "while we were on the front door-step."

"Oh, I guess not," said George tantalizingly. "It's probably two men that took a short cut. They were coming from the other road."

"Don't you believe it!" maintained Fred stoutly. "They came out of that old Meeker House. Didn't they, Grant?" he added, turning to his friend for confirmation.

"Yes, they came out of the house," said Grant brusquely. It was plain the boy was not enjoying the recollection of the swift flight which he and Fred had made to rejoin George.

"Get your car under motion," said Fred sharply. "We don't want to stay here any longer. We'll tell you what happened when you get out on the main road."

"Just as you say," laughed George.

A moment later the automobile was moving swiftly down the road. As it came near the place where the two forms had been seen it was evident that both were seeking to gain the road in advance of the automobile.

"Maybe the spooks will try to get this car, too," suggested George in a low voice.

At that moment there came a hail from the two men in advance and at the sound George laughed loudly.

"Do you know who that is?" he demanded, turning to his companions.

"Who is it?" inquired Fred.

"Why it's John and Uncle Sim. They want to ride home. I guess I'll pretend not to know who they are and put on a little more speed."

As he spoke the car began to move more swiftly, a sight which at once called forth louder shouts of protest from the two men who now were near the fence along the roadside.

"Let them in. Let them in," said Grant.

"All right, just as you say," replied George, and as he spoke he brought the automobile to a standstill.

"What do you want?" he called to the two men who now were climbing the fence.

"We want you to take us home," replied one of the two.

"Is that you, John?"

"It certainly is."

"Well, I couldn't tell," laughed George. "You look more like a string than ever. Is that Uncle Sim with you?"

"Yas, suh. Yas, suh," spoke up the negro promptly.

"Then you have been over to the old Meeker House, have you?" inquired George as John and the colored man took their seats in the car.

"Yes, we have been there," abruptly replied John.

"You didn't seem to stay very long," suggested George. "Were there any special reasons why you didn't want to tarry any longer?"

"Dere sho' was," spoke up Uncle Sim, his teeth chattering as he spoke. "Yas, suh. Yas, suh, dere sho' was." Lifting his face toward the sky the old colored man muttered some incantations or prayers which in a measure indicated the terror which possessed him. He was trembling in every limb and when he tried to speak his lower jaw, over which he apparently had lost control, resounded as it repeatedly struck the teeth on his upper jaw.

"Never mind, Uncle Sim," said George, noticing the abject terror of the old man. "We'll soon be out of this. I don't see why you went back there when you're so afraid of the old place."

"Yas, suh. Yas, suh," stammered Uncle Sim. "I don' went jes' because dis young man 'sist on my goin' wif him."

"Was he afraid to go alone?"

"Yas, suh. Yas, suh."

"Did he think he would be less scared if there were two than he would be if he was there alone?" laughed George.

"That's all right, George," broke in John, "you don't know what you're talking about. If you had heard what we did you would have made better time than either of us when we were trying to head you off."

"What did you hear?"

"Why, we heard the same old sound and a lot more. Just as true as I am sitting here there was a voice that sounded all through the house and it was calling, 'John, John'."

"Did you answer it?"

"Did I answer it? No, sir, I didn't answer it. I was out of that house before you could count ten."

"I didn't know that it affected you that way," laughed George, "to have anybody speak to you."

"It doesn't to have any live body, but that name was sounded all through the house. It wasn't loud either, it was just that whispered, 'John, John,' that I don't think I shall ever forget as long as I live."

"It seems to have affected Uncle Sim even worse than it did you," suggested George, as Uncle Sim clasped his hands and lifted them far above his head and offered various incantations, as if he were doing his utmost to ward off the evil spirits.

"Well, all I have got to say," explained George at last, "is that the Go Ahead boys ought to change their name."

"Why?" demanded Fred sharply.

"Because it seems to me that they can leave any place and make better time than anybody I have ever seen. Even Uncle Sim forgets his rheumatism and 'mis'ry' and keeps up with John when he races across the field. To-morrow morning I will give John one dollar if he will make as good time from the old Meeker House out to the road as he made to-night when it was dark."

"Never you mind about that!" retorted John. "You didn't see all that I saw."

"But you haven't told us what you saw."

"I told you something I heard. If you had heard your own name coming down the chimney and through the windows and up from the cellar, out of the attic, in the hallway, down the stairs and everywhere at the same time you wouldn't have stayed there any longer either."

"Perhaps I wouldn't," admitted George, "but my feeling is that you didn't hear half as much as you thought you did."

"No, sir," responded John. "I have told you only half what I did hear."

"Well go ahead with your story."

"I'm not going to talk until we get home."




Chapter XIII -- Word Concerning The Lost Car


Conversation ceased during the remainder of the ride. The silence was broken two or three times by George, who was driving the car as he looked behind him at his companions and laughed aloud. No response was given to his implied invitations to describe their feelings and as they came nearer the end of their journey the chagrin under which all three boys were suffering became still more marked.

At last when they were once more in the house, Fred, unable longer to remain silent, said abruptly, "I know there isn't anything in the racket at the old Meeker House, but in spite of it all I confess I'm scared when I hear those strange sounds."

"What are you afraid of?" laughed George.

"I don't know what I'm afraid of," said Fred, "but it scares me half out of my wits."

"There's something very strange about it," broke in John. "I don't believe in spooks and such things, but no one has told us yet what the sound of those flying wings means and they haven't explained how a fellow can get in there and hear his name called from seven different parts of the house at the same time."

"What about that horn?" inquired Grant. "That's the strangest part of it all to me."

"Do you know," said Fred, "I'm sure that horn that blows in the old house is the one that used to be on George's car."

"No, it can't be," said George. "There's nothing but ghosts in the Meeker House and so it could be only the ghost of that horn if there really is anything there."

"Well, it isn't the ghost of a sound," declared John positively. "It's a real noise let me tell you and when you hear it as I did to-night, first right close to your ear, and then, a second or two later, sounding as if it came from the attic or the cellar you're ready to believe almost anything."

"Too ready, I'm afraid," laughed George.

"The next time we go there," spoke up Fred, "I move that George Sanders be selected to go into the house by the front door. If you remember, fellows, he has always slipped out every time we went there and gone around to the kitchen door."

"I believe he knows more about it than he has told us yet," declared John.

"All I know," said George solemnly, "is that some of the Go Ahead boys have reversed their name. Whenever they pluck up courage enough to go to the old house they always go there with fear and trembling. They walk as if they were traveling to their own funeral, but when they leave they make better time than I ever saw any of them make on the cinder path. I think that we ought to change the name. They aren't Go Ahead boys any more, they are the Go Backward or the Get Away boys."

"I notice," spoke up Grant, "that you didn't stand very long in the way of your own departure. At least I haven't noticed yet that you have been very far behind any of us when we ran from the place."

"Of course you haven't," said George. "I have to look after my guests, don't I? And if they are in such a hurry to leave, it wouldn't be very polite for me to stay."

"Don't leave on our account," said Fred dryly.

"I guess there isn't much danger that you wouldn't any other time," laughed George. "Perhaps you don't need any help after all. I was just trying to be polite."

"It's too great an effort," said Fred. "Don't try it again, but what are you going to do about that stolen car?"

"I'm going ahead," replied George.

"You certainly have a strange way of doing it then," retorted Fred. "It seems to me you were going all around it."

"Never you mind," said George. "We'll have that car back in our garage in less than a week, you mark my words and see if we don't."

"If we do," declared Grant, "it won't be any fault of ours. I guess your father will be the one that will find it."

"He will help," laughed George.

"Help," repeated Fred. "If we keep up the idiotic kind of a search we made to-day I guess he will have to do the whole thing."

"Perhaps he will," admitted George. "I'm not jealous. If we can only get that car back, that's about all I want."

"Well, I'm going to bed," declared John. "This has been my busy day."

"And you haven't told us yet what you were doing," suggested Grant.

"I guess I don't have to tell you," said John. "All three of you seem to know more about Uncle Sim and me and what we have been doing to-day than we do ourselves."

In a brief time the boys had withdrawn from the room and sought their beds.

The following morning when three of the Go Ahead boys went down stairs they discovered George talking over the telephone.

"Yes," he was saying. "That's all right. We'll start right after breakfast. Thank you very much. Good-by."

As he hung up the receiver George turned to his friends and said, "What would you fellows say if I told you that I had some word about the car?"

"We would all say that it was a good word, anyway," said Fred promptly.

"I was just talking to my father who told me that he had received a telegram this morning from Newburgh."

"That's in New York State," spoke up Fred.

"Correct," answered George. "I'm glad that for once in your life you are correctly informed."

"You want to be thankful," retorted Fred, "that once in your life you were able to appreciate the information I possess. I haven't a stingy thing about me, and I have been trying to be generous and give you some of the knowledge I have acquired, after long and painful effort, but you do not seem to appreciate my kind heart."

"My father says that the best thing for us to do will be to take the old car and go straight to Newburgh. We may have to stay all night, so you had better go prepared."

"We aren't going before breakfast, are we?" demanded Grant.

"No, my lean and hungry friend, we'll wait until the wants of the inner man are satisfied."

"Not that," said Fred. "Not that. You mean you will wait long enough for him to eat all he needs, but not all he wants. We aren't going to start from here before sunset, if you don't mean that."

Conversation was not as brisk after the boys entered the dining room, but when their breakfast had been eaten and they followed George as he led the way to the garage they were all as talkative as before.

"Going to take Uncle Sim with you?" inquired Grant.

"No," answered George. "I'll have to leave him to look after the place!"

"How long before we start?" inquired John.

"About three minutes. Are you going with us to-day?"

"You're right I am," declared John. "I stayed home yesterday to make my own investigations in the old Meeker House."

"And you have finished them all?" inquired George with a laugh.

"I can't say that the investigations are all finished, but I am. Yes, sir, I'm done. You don't catch me alone in that old house again."

"But I thought Uncle Sim went with you," suggested Fred.

"Uncle Sim? Uncle Sim? I would rather have an infant in arms with me. Uncle Sim was scared before we were inside the house and after that everything he saw or heard all helped to scare him still more."

"He surely was scared last night," laughed Fred as he recalled the plight of the aged negro.

"He was that," said John solemnly, "but the worst of it is he scared me too. You know they say that a man doesn't run because he's scared, he's scared because he runs. I don't know much about that, but I guess it worked both ways with me. I know I was scared before I ran and I know I was scared a good deal worse after I began to run."

"Never mind, John," said George, "We'll have a fine ride to-day. We're going up through Ramapo Valley, through that place my father was telling you about where young Montagnie was taken prisoner so many years ago by the cowboys."

"I hope there won't be anybody there to make prisoners of us," declared Grant solemnly. "Do you ever have any hold-ups there now?"

"Not every day," explained George.

"What do you mean by that?" demanded Grant as he turned sharply upon George.

"Just what I say," repeated George.

"You don't really think we'll have any trouble, do you?" inquired Fred anxiously.

"I cannot say," said George slowly. "There comes a gentleman now who belongs to the fraternity. Perhaps he can tell you more about it than I." As he spoke the three boys glanced quickly toward the kitchen door. Approaching it was a man who bore every indication of being a tramp.

"Hold on, fellows," whispered Fred, excitedly, "that's the very same tramp I met over in the old Meeker House."

"Sure about that?" asked George quickly.

"Yes, it's the same man."

"Come on, then," said George, "We'll go up and interview him."

The tramp now was seated on the stone step and hungrily was devouring the breakfast which had been given him.

"How long since you have been in the old Meeker House?" inquired Fred as he approached the stranger.

As the man looked up he recognized his companion of the former night and a smile spread over his countenance. "I just came from there," he said.

"Were you in the house all night?" demanded Fred quickly.

"Yes. Why?"

"Did you hear any strange sounds?"

"Not one."

"Didn't you see anything that scared you?"

"No, sir, nothing scared me."

"And you say you were there all night?"

"That's what I say. I crawled in there right after sunset and went to sleep. I told you the other night that I sometimes sleep there in my travels."

"I don't understand why you didn't hear anything," said John, "if you really were in the house. I was there and I heard some things."

"What?" The tramp paused in his occupation and stared blankly at John as he spoke.

"The same things that happen there every night. There were some creatures flying all around the room -- "

"Ostriches," said the tramp soberly.

"And there must have been a good many people there too because they called me by my name and at the same time from every part of the house."

"A part of Washington's army," said the tramp.

"I don't know who they were, but the thing that scared me most of all was the tooting of an automobile horn. First it sounded right close to my ear and then it seemed to come from all parts of the house at once."

"Nothing but the wind whistling around the eaves," said the tramp. "I don't mind telling you though that there have been times when I have heard sounds over there that made me think of the horn of an auto -- "

"Didn't you hear it last night?" demanded John.

"No. Where are you boys going?" the tramp abruptly added.

"We're going to look for a lost automobile," said Fred. "You haven't seen one lately, have you?"

"Did you lose a car?" inquired the tramp, ignoring the question.

"We certainly have lost it," said George, "or rather somebody has taken it."

"And you know where it is now?"

"We've got word where it may be and we're going to find out."

Fred had been watching the tramp closely throughout the conversation and when George abruptly turned back to the garage he instantly followed him.




Chapter XIV -- Disappointed


"I tell you," exclaimed Fred in a low voice as soon as he had overtaken his friend, "that tramp knows more about the lost automobile than he told us."

George turned abruptly and for a moment stared blankly at his friend and then laughed aloud. "I think you surely have got it," he said. "A fellow who can find spooks and ghosts of automobiles ought to be able to find out a man who will steal them. That tramp to me doesn't look as if he had ever seen the inside of a car."

"It doesn't make any difference," said Fred persistently. "I tell you he knows more about that car than you think."

"What makes you think so?"

"The way he looked and acted when we were talking about the auto having been stolen."

"Did he look guilty?"

"I don't know whether he did or not. He looked up right away and the expression on his face was different from what it was before. He knows something about it anyway, whether he took it or not."

"Keep it up, Fred," laughed George. "Pretty soon you'll be able to run down every man who has seen our car, to say nothing of those who took it."

"What do you advise me to do?" he continued.

"I don't know."

"That's just it," laughed George. "There are lots of people that can tell you what ought to be done, but there are mighty few that can tell you how to do it. Do you want me to have him arrested?"

"I didn't say that," said Fred. "All I said to you was that he knows more about it than you think he does. It seems to me it would be a good thing to have some one watch him or to leave word with the constable."

"What will the constable do? He can't invite him to his house."

"No, but he can tell him he mustn't leave town, can't he?"

"I don't think he could without a warrant or something. You can't arrest a man merely on suspicion."

"All the same," said Fred, "I think you'll find that he knows more about that lost car than any one else."

"Well," said George, "he doesn't seem to be leaving the country very rapidly and if we hear of him riding around in a brand new automobile we'll begin to ask some questions. Now, the thing for us to do is to start on our trip and see if there's anything in the report my father has received about the lost car having been found in Newburgh."

A few minutes later the four boys were on their way toward the beautiful little city on the Hudson.

A ride of between forty and fifty miles was before them and they had not gone far on their journey before they were more deeply interested in the sights and scenes they were passing than in the pursuit of the car which had been lost.

While they were riding through the Ramapo Valley they tried to discover the place where young Montagnie had had his troubles with the cowboys who had stopped him. Other stories of heroic deeds by the colonists in the struggle for independence were told by George and Grant and the time passed so rapidly that when the car stopped at Suffern, where the boys were to have their luncheon, with one accord they declared that the ride had been the most enjoyable in all their experience.

Early in the afternoon the ride was resumed and such excellent time was made that by half past three o'clock they had arrived at the end of their journey.

Their car was placed in a garage and then the boys at once went to a hotel where they were to remain that night, for it had been decided that they would not return until the following morning, whether their lost car was found or not.

"Come on, fellows," said George a half-hour afterward, "we'll go down to the garage and see if our car is there."

Down the hillside on the steep street that led to the bank of the Hudson the boys made their way, frequently commenting on the experiences people of Newburgh must have in winter-time, when ice and snow were to be found on the streets.

George explained that at that time ropes were stretched along the sidewalk to protect the people who tried to pass up or down the slippery way.

"Here we are," explained George a little later as they stopped in front of a large garage. "Come on in. We'll know what out fate is in a few minutes."

Entering the garage George inquired for the manager and soon was in conversation with a young man, who at once became deeply interested in the boys and in the story they were telling him. At last he said, "The car you are talking about is back here in the corner. Come with me and I'll show it to you."

Eagerly following the manager the boys soon stopped in front of the car which he indicated. "You see," explained the young man, "this car has recently been painted. It has a Pennsylvania license, but that could be very easily obtained for they could run over across the Pennsylvania line and then come up into New York State. There are some other changes that have been made, but I want you to look at it and tell me whether or not you think it is the car you have lost."

"I don't think it is," said George promptly.

"Better look at it more closely," said the manager. "Sometimes these cars are created the way they used to tell me the gypsies did when I was a boy. You know they used to scare us by telling us that the gypsies stole children and then they fixed them up so that their own mothers wouldn't recognize them."

"How did they do that?" inquired John.

"Oh, I don't know. I suppose they cut their hair, painted their faces and dressed them up in some outlandish clothes. Well, that's the way these men that steal automobiles sometimes do. They fix them up so that their owners wouldn't recognize the cars as theirs."

A further and careful investigation of the car was made but it was not long before George said positively, "That isn't our car."

"You're sure, are you?" again inquired the manager.

"Yes, sir. I'm sure. The engine isn't like ours. There are more spokes in the wheels and the hood is different. No, I'm sure it's not our car."

George's disappointment was manifest in the tones of his voice and his friends naturally shared in his feelings.

"Was that car stolen?" inquired Fred.

"We suspect that it was," replied the manager. "We have had half a dozen inquiries recently about stolen cars and though I cannot tell you more we have reason to believe that this is one of them. My advice to you is to stop on your way back home at a garage managed by Egge and Hatch."

"What are their names?" demanded Grant blankly.

"Egge and Hatch," repeated the manager. "I know another automobile concern which is run by Waite and Barrett."

"Wait and Bear-it," laughed Fred. "That's a good name. That would do for a lot of other concerns besides garages, wouldn't it?"

"It would be a better name for the men who leave their automobiles there to be repaired," suggested Grant.

The boys were now convinced that the car they had inspected was not the one they had lost. There was nothing more to be done unless they visited every garage in the city.

"And I don't think there will be much use even in that, just now," suggested the manager.

"Come on then, fellows, we'll go back to the hotel," said George.

"But I don't want to go back to the hotel," said Grant. "I want to go somewhere else."

"Do you know where it is?" demanded John. "I've known you when you started for some place that you didn't know, nor did any one else."

"I know exactly where I want to go," said Grant pompously. "If you fellows want to come with me it will do you good, but if you don't you can do what you please. I have never been in Newburgh before and while I am here I am going to take advantage of the opportunity."

"All right, we'll go with you," said Fred glibly. "If you can find anything that is going to improve you we want to come along and see the show."




Chapter XV -- A Famous Spot


Unknown to his friends Grant had made some inquiries concerning a spot in Newburgh which he long had been desirous of seeing. Without explaining to his companions what he had in mind he quickly led the way up another hill until they arrived at a large enclosed yard. In the midst of it stood a low old stone house. In front of the house, on the extensive lawn, were several piles of cannon balls, and cannon were looking out over the peaceful waters of the Hudson. The flag of the United States was floating from the high flagpole and added much to the beauty of the scene.

"What's all this?" demanded John.

"Every young American is supposed to know that this is Washington's headquarters. Didn't you ever hear of it?"

"He had so many," laughed John, "I can't keep track of them. It is something like the beds he slept in that we were talking about the other day."

"Well, this is where he had his headquarters," said Grant, "when his army was in this part of the country. This is a beautiful spot, isn't it?"

"It's wonderful!" said Fred in a low voice. The impulsive lad was deeply impressed by the associations connected with the place where they then were standing as well as by the marvelous scene of the Hudson winding its way in and out through the midst of the towering hills.

"Over yonder," said Grant, pointing across the river as he spoke, "is Beacon and right across the river is Fishkill."

"Good name," said John in a low voice.

"Of course it is," said Grant. "We're in the Empire State. That's the State I live in and there isn't another one like it in the Union."

"That's right," said George, who felt that he was now called upon to defend his own State. "New York has a choice collection. I don't say that there aren't some good people here, but you don't have to go very far to come to Ossining. Do you know who lives there?"

"Yes, some undesirable citizens," said Grant.

"Yes, and you go on a little farther up the river and you come to Albany. If you want to know what New York State is like you want to find out how much the capitol building there cost."

"Never mind about those things," broke in John. "What I want to know is about this part of the country where we are now. I have read a good many stories about the American army when it was in camp at Peekskill."

"Of course you have," said Grant; "there were a lot of things doing there. I have a book at home that my great-grandfather used to read when he was a boy. It tells about a young fellow only seventeen years of age who was one of Washington's couriers. He used to ride between Morristown and Lake Champlain. At least he did in the year when Burgoyne was trying to bring his Hessians and redcoats from Montreal to New York."

"He didn't bring them, though," spoke up Fred quickly.

"Only as far as Saratoga," laughed Grant. "If it hadn't been for certain obstacles I guess he would have brought them all the way down the river."

"I guess he would too," laughed Fred scornfully, "but his 'obstacles,' as you call them, were General Gates, Philip Schuyler, Benedict Arnold and a few other continental soldiers that did not seem to be enthusiastic over allowing Johnnie Burgoyne to come any farther."

"I was reading the other day," said Grant, "that the Baroness de Reidesel was with her husband when the Hessians were captured. She had her children with her and to show them due honor Mrs. General Schuyler took the Baroness and her children into her own home. The Hessian lady did not know that Mrs. Schuyler understood German and she rudely carried on some conversation with her children in that language when Mrs. Schuyler was present. One time one of the children piped up and asked his mother, 'Isn't this the place that we are to have when our father is made a duke after he has whipped the Yankees?' As the Baroness glanced up she was aware that Mrs. Schuyler had understood what the boy was saying. She tried to apologize but Mrs. Schuyler was a perfect lady and at once smoothed things out. They say she was a brave woman. There's one story about her though that I never believed."

"What was that?" asked John.

"Why they say that thirteen was a magical number for the Americans. The British reported that Martha Washington had a big cat with thirteen stripes around its tail and that she wouldn't have any other kind. There were just thirteen of the colonies, you know, and that made it worse. And it was reported that General Phil. Schuyler had just thirteen hairs left in his bald pate and that Mrs. Catherine Schuyler very carefully oiled and brushed them every night for fear that the magic number might be changed."

"She had better brush his hair than pull it," suggested George.

"I can remember the time," said John, "when my mother used to brush and pull my hair at the same time."

"So can I," said every one of the boys together.

"Well, the main thing is," said Fred philosophically, "that George Washington had some headquarters and that it's a good thing for the United States of America that he did. I wish we had some men now as great as he was."

"We have," said John quickly.

"We have?" retorted Fred scornfully. "Where are they?"

"Eight here," said John solemnly. "Here are four of them. They haven't all arrived yet, but they are on their way."

"Fine lot too," broke in Grant. "Scared so that they run like deer when they hear sounds in the old Meeker House and there isn't one of them that has shown that he has the nerve to stay there long enough to find out just what those strange sounds mean."

"We're not afraid of anything we can see, but it is the things that you can't see that scare us," explained Fred.

"Never mind the Meeker House," said Grant, "I want to take in what this place means. The old cannon balls, the old guns, and the relics we saw inside the house," for the boys had entered the old building and inspected the various relics of revolutionary times that were on exhibition, "to say nothing about the old Hudson River itself, and the hills, ought to satisfy every one of us for a while, anyway."

"It's a great sight," said George. "I'm glad you brought us up here. I knew Washington's headquarters were here, but it had slipped my mind when we first came. I'm getting hungry. Come on back to the hotel and we'll have our dinner."

The following morning was unusually warm. The boys were early awake, but even then the heat was oppressive.

"Whew," said Fred when they left the dining room, "if it's as hot as this before we start what will it be afterward?"

"That's just like some people," declared John. "They aren't satisfied with the good or the bad they have, but they are always looking ahead for more. There's one thing we don't have to do."

"What's that?" inquired Fred.

"We don't have to swelter before the sun beats down upon us. It will be plenty of time to see what we have to do if we find it so warm on the road that we don't want to go on."

Soon after breakfast the boys started on their homeward ride.

True to its promise the heat steadily increased and a glare that was exceedingly trying to the eyes beat down upon the roadway.

George increased the speed at which he was driving, but the air which fanned their faces was almost like that which comes from a heated oven.

Already the cattle in the nearby fields had sought the shade of the trees in the pastures. The hens in the farmyards also were lying in the shade, their wings partly extended as if they were trying to cool their heated bodies.

"Hens in hot weather," said George, "always make me think they are laughing at us."

"What do you mean?" demanded John. "Who ever heard a hen laugh."

"I didn't say I had heard them laugh, but they have their mouths open."

"Hens don't have mouths, my friend."

"They don't?" demanded George. "Then how do they eat?"

"They have throats and bills and beaks, but they don't have mouths."

"What is a mouth anyway?" said George scornfully. "Isn't it the opening in the head through which one takes food into his stomach?"

"I suppose it is."

"Well, doesn't a hen swallow corn?"

"She does."

"Then she has a mouth, hasn't she?"

"Wait a minute and I'll tell you. It's this way, you see -- "

At that moment there was a loud report directly beneath the car which at that time was passing under a stone bridge.

George instantly stopped the car, but another driver directly in front of him was so startled by the unexpected sound that he lost control of his automobile and swung into the ditch, nearly overturning his car as he did so. Instantly rising from his seat he turned and glared at the Go Ahead boys as if he was tempted to visit some merited punishment upon them.

The boys, however, were so busy with their own troubles that they ignored the anger of the driver before them. Instantly leaping from their seats they began their investigations.

Only a brief time, however, was required to disclose the cause of the trouble. "A blowout," said George disgustedly. "It's torn that tube all into shreds."

"You blew it up too tight," suggested Grant.

"Thank you," said George as he took off his coat, "you're so well informed about these matters that I think I'll let you help me put a new tire on."




Chapter XVI -- Another Loss


The angry stranger, who by this time had recovered from his surprise, speedily departed. Indeed, the fact that the boys had had only a slight conversation with him perhaps increased his anger and as soon as his car had been pulled from the ditch, a task in which all joined to help, he soon afterward disappeared from sight.

The intense heat soon caused the faces of the boys to be shining with perspiration. The dust from the road also did its part until in the streaked countenances of the Go Ahead boys even their own mothers would have had difficulty in recognizing members of their families.

The difficult task and the heat of the day also united in increasing the irritation of the boys. There were several remarks made which happily were soon forgotten or ignored.

In the midst of the task the jack broke and the wheel dropped upon the ground.

"There you have it!" exclaimed George irritably. "A broken jack! No tube! Seventeen miles from nowhere and not a crumb to eat!"

"Never mind, George," said John good-naturedly. "Somebody will be coming along pretty soon and will lend us a hand."

"He will have to lend us a jack, I guess if we ever get anywhere. I don't know what is the matter with this thing," he added as again he examined the broken implement.

"There's nothing for us to do except wait," suggested Grant. "Come up here in the shade, fellows. We'll have to join that man who is sitting there."

As Grant spoke he pointed toward a bank or knoll near the roadside where a man was seen reclining on the ground beneath the shade of some huge maple trees.

"That's a good suggestion," declared Fred, and in a brief time the boys were seated on the ground, enjoying the relief from the heat of the burning sun.

Their only hope now rested upon some friendly driver stopping to aid them.

To the amazement of Fred, as well as of his companions, the man whom they discovered enjoying the shade was none other than the tramp who had first been seen in the old Meeker House.

He stared a moment at the unexpected sight and then as a grin spread over the countenance of the man he was convinced that his first impression had been correct. The tramp of the Meeker House was there before him. How he had come there, so far from the place where he had been first seen, was a mystery.

"You seem to have had bad luck, my friends," laughed the tramp, as he sat erect when the boys approached.

"Yes, the day is so hot," growled George, "that the tube burst. We had a blowout. We had it blown up too much anyway when we left Newburgh."

"Have you been to Newburgh!" inquired the tramp.

"Yes," replied George shortly.

"Did you find your car?"

"No."

"That's too bad." If the tramp, however, had any real sympathy for the boys in their loss his countenance failed to reflect the feeling, for he was still grinning at his young companions. "Not much use," he continued. "There must be seventy-five or a hundred thousand autos in Jersey alone, and when you stop to think of all that are in New York and Pennsylvania you will see you stand mighty little chance of ever finding your own car."

"Thank you," said George. "You needn't be worried though, for we are going to get it."

"What are you doing up here?" demanded Fred.

"Why I got to thinking of it last night," explained the tramp, "after you boys left home and the more I thought about it the more I thought I would like to come up into this part of the world too. You haven't any objection to my coming?" he added quizzically.

"Oh, no, not the slightest," said Fred glibly. "I was just wondering how a man as weary as you are could have made such good time. You must have come forty miles or more. How did you do it?"

"Part of the way," replied the tramp, "I came in an empty box-car. I got a lift with an old man who was taking a load of produce to market and another man gave me a ride in his automobile. I don't think I have walked all together more than half a mile. There's always somebody that is good to the halt, the blind, the lame, -- "

"And the lazy," joined in Fred.

"I guess that's right," said the tramp. "But I'm not to blame for it. I don't like to work. It's the way I was born, and if I don't like it I don't see why I should do it, do you?"

"Not as long as some one else is willing to work and get you something to eat and wear," suggested George tartly.

"I guess you're right again," drawled the tramp. "If the time ever comes when there isn't anybody to do that for me, then I guess I'll have to go to work. But I'm putting it off as long as possible. Hello," he added quickly, "there comes a car," pointing as he spoke toward an automobile which was swiftly approaching.

George ran speedily down to the road and hailed the approaching car.

The automobile was stopped as the signal was discovered, and for the first time George was conscious of his dust-discolored face, for seated in the back seat was a young girl with her mother. She laughed as she saw George's countenance and even her mother's face could not conceal the quizzical expression that appeared when George spoke.

"We had a blowout here," explained George, "and when we tried to put on a new tube our jack broke. Can you help us out?"

"Certainly," said the woman. "James, you help these young gentlemen," she added as she turned to her chauffeur.

The other boys now turned and offered their assistance to George, although Grant and John plainly were more interested in the occupants of the friendly car than they were in the task immediately confronting them.

"There's no use, boys," said the chauffeur at last. "That blowout must have been a big one."

"It was," spoke up Fred quickly.

"It has bent your rim. Yon never can get a new tire on that until it has been fixed."

"What shall we do?" inquired George blankly.

"The best thing I can suggest is for you to get in our car and we will take you to a good garage about four miles up the road. They will have to come back here in another car so you won't have to walk."

"That's a good suggestion," said George quickly as he prepared to accept the invitation.

His zeal, however was quickly shared by two of his friends, who insisted that their presence also was required. "You see," Fred explained, "if they cannot help us at that garage, why some of us will have to go on to another. We cannot leave our car here all day in the sun."

John was the only one of the party left behind and as it was deemed necessary for some one to remain with the car he volunteered for that service.

The task confronting him was not difficult, however, and John soon was reclining once more in a shaded spot near the tramp who was still seated in the same place he had first been seen.

In spite of John's efforts to draw the man into conversation the tramp was strangely silent most of the time. At last, however, his mood changed and turning to John he said, "Your friends ought to be back here by this time."

"They may have had trouble in getting a car right away to bring them back."

"Well, they will be here pretty soon," said the tramp. "I think I'll go up to that orchard up yonder," he added as he pointed to a hillside covered with apple trees about one hundred yards distant.

"Are there any apples there ripe?" inquired John quickly.

"Plenty of them. Plenty of them. The owner doesn't seem to care anything about them. He hasn't sprayed his trees or pruned them for years, but there are some juicy red apples in the corner of the orchard and they are mighty good. I know for I have tried them already."

"Wait a minute and I'll go up with you," said John.

Together they made their way up the side of the hill and John speedily discovered that the statement of his companion was correct. The ground beneath the trees was carpeted with a layer of red apples tempting in their size and appearance.

"I think I'll take back a few for the other fellows," said John, as he filled his cap. "I would like to pay for them, but I don't see anybody around here."

"Nobody pays for these apples," explained the tramp. "The owner of the farm spent a lot of money on his place and then got tired of it and went back to the city. He left everything here to go to pieces."

"That's a pity," said John as he climbed over the fence and started back toward the place where they had left the automobile.

"Where is our car?" demanded John in consternation as he drew near the place from which they had started.

In amazement he looked up and down the road, but not a trace of the automobile was to be seen.

"What do you suppose has happened to that car?" he demanded, again turning to his companion.

"I don't know unless it has evaporated," said the tramp. "It's a pretty hot day."

"Evaporated nothing!" explained John angrily. "The car is gone. I don't know what George and the fellows will say. We have lost two cars now instead of one. I don't understand how it could have been taken away without our knowing it."

"That isn't nearly so important," suggested the tramp, "as the fact that it is gone. There isn't any car here."




Chapter XVII -- Left Behind


"I think the men from the garage may have come and taken the car away," suggested the tramp.

"That may be the way it is," said John, relieved by the suggestion. A moment later, however, the thought occurred to him that in the event of the return of the boys with a man from the garage, in all probability some of them would have remained and not all have gone back with him. In that case his companions must be near, but as he looked up and down the road he did not discover any trace of his friends.

"They will be back here by and by," said the tramp encouragingly. "It won't take very long to straighten that rim and put on a new shoe. The best thing for you to do is to stay right here until they come."

"I don't see much else to do," said John, still far from being persuaded that an explanation of the missing car was to be found in the suggestion made by his strange companion. "I guess I'll just have to wait."

"If you do, then you might as well wait comfortably." As he spoke the tramp again sought the shaded place on the bank above the road, and seated on the ground, with his back against a tree, he at once began to feast upon the apples he had brought from the orchard.

Following his example John speedily climbed the little knoll and quickly seated himself in a similar manner against a nearby tree.

"We can see up and down the road here," said the tramp, "and if your friends come you'll know it long before they are here."

For some reason John lost his desire to talk to the strange man. He was continually looking up the road in the direction in which the boys had disappeared when they had departed in the friendly car. A half-hour passed and only two automobiles were seen on the dusty road. The heat seemed to increase as the noon-hour approached. There was no habitation within sight at which a luncheon might be obtained and John now began to feel hungry as well as anxious.

He was by no means satisfied that George's car had been taken to the garage by the boys. Indeed, his fear that the second car had been stolen was steadily increasing and he was blaming himself, as not unnaturally he believed George would blame him if the car had indeed been taken.

When an hour had passed a car was seen approaching which the tramp quickly declared belonged to a garage in a neighboring village. "I know that car," he said confidently, "for I have worked in that shop."

"Do you know anything about automobiles?" demanded John quickly.

"Not very much, but then one doesn't have to know very much to work in a place like that. I used to look wise and hammer a lot and then charge still more. I have made up my mind that if ever I have to work again I'm going to find a job in an automobile shop. The hardest thing you have to do is to make out your bills."

"That may be so," said John, smiling as he spoke, "though I hope it won't prove to be the case this time. There are the boys in that car," he added quickly, as he recognized his three friends approaching. The car was driven by a man in his shirt sleeves and the speed at which he was moving proclaimed the fact that either he was an expert driver or one of the most reckless of men.

A few minutes later the automobile was stopped in front of John, who now ran down into the road to greet the returning boys.

"Where's the car, Jack?" inquired Grant quickly.

"I don't know," said John.

"You don't know! Weren't you here in charge of it?"

"I have been here all the time except about five minutes when I went up into the orchard yonder and got some apples. When I came back the car was gone. This man," he added, pointing to the tramp as he spoke, "said he thought you had come from the garage and taken the car back with you."

"Whew!" whistled Fred. "This is getting exciting. First you lose one car and then you lose another. I think we'll have to go back to the old Meeker House and look for its ghost."

"I don't see anything funny in this," said Grant in disgust. "Here we are at least four miles from the railroad. We know how hot and dusty the road is and we don't want -- "

"You fellows are a sympathetic crowd," broke in George. "You're thinking about your own comfort all the while and not a word about my losses. It's bad enough to have one car stolen to say nothing of two."

"Do you think this second car has been stolen?" demanded Fred abruptly, turning upon his friend as he spoke.

"Well, it's gone, isn't it?" said George.

"Yes, it's gone," admitted Fred, "but that doesn't mean it has been stolen."

"Well, tell me what has become of it then? Where is it? Show me the car."

"I can't do it," said Fred. "I wish I could. But I don't believe that car has been stolen."

"What do you think?" demanded George, turning to the mechanic as he spoke.

"I haven't heard of a car being stolen up here in a long time, and I don't see how anybody could have taken that car away without being seen if he was trying to steal it."

"That's all true enough," said George angrily. "I know all those things, but tell me if you can where my car is. I don't see how anybody could have taken it away from here with the shoe being in the condition that it was. I never saw such a blowout in my life."

"Perhaps we can track it," suggested Grant.

"That's right. That's just what we can do," said George eagerly. "Look here," he added, as he pointed to a place near the road where the imprint of the mutilated tire plainly could be seen.

It was possible to follow this track a few yards, but there the trail ceased, the car apparently had been brought up again on the hard roadbed and no trace was left of its passage.

"What's become of your tramp?" demanded George, suddenly turning upon John.

All four boys quickly looked about them, but the tramp had disappeared from sight.

"That's one of the strangest things I ever heard of," said Fred. "That tramp knew how you lost the other car and I guess he could tell some things about this one too, if he wanted to."

"He was with me all the time," spoke up John quickly. "I never lost sight of him a minute."

"It's a pity you didn't do as well with the car," said Grant.

"Well, the tramp and I went up into the orchard together. We were together all the while we were there and we came back together. When we got back here we saw that the car was gone. The tramp was here. Now will you please tell me how a tramp could steal an automobile and still be with me all the while?"

"What do you think is the best thing for us to do?" said George, turning to the mechanic.

"Your car isn't here," said the man, "and you could track it a little way, far enough to see that it was taken in that direction," he explained as he pointed ahead of him. "Now that's right on the way back to the garage and my advice is for all four of you to get into the car and we'll see what we can find on the way back. If you don't find anything we can telephone when you get into the village, or you can leave on the train. There's one out in about an hour and a half."

The suggestion finally was adopted and all four boys maintained a careful outlook for the missing car throughout their ride to the garage. However no trace of the missing automobile was discovered. The car had disappeared and the boys were stranded in a little village in northern New Jersey.

Leaving his companions, George telephoned his father. The conversation lasted several minutes and when at last George rejoined his friends he said glumly, "My father says the best thing for us to do is to come home by train. He told us to look out and not lose the train."

"I guess," laughed Grant, "it would be a little more expensive for him if we should lose the train than to have us lose the cars."

"If we keep this up much longer," said Fred, "we'll have a good big bill to pay. I never knew anybody in my life that ever had a car stolen and here we lose two inside of a week."

"You must remember," said John soberly, "that we are the Go Ahead boys. It doesn't make any difference what we start in we have got to leave the rest of them behind us. If it's looking for smugglers or digging for a pirate's chest or having our automobiles stolen, it doesn't make a particle of difference which, we are bound to go ahead, get ahead and keep ahead."

"I'm glad to hear you talk that way," said George grimly. "I have been looking in my pockets to see if I have money enough to get a ticket home. Have any of you got money?"

"I'll take up a collection," suggested John, seizing his cap as he spoke. The result of his efforts, however, when the sum was counted, was not quite sufficient to purchase the tickets required by the four boys on their return trip.

"I don't see anything for us to do," said Fred glibly, "except to leave String here. He's the one who is responsible for the loss of the car to-day and if anybody has to stay behind I think he ought to be the one."

"I agree with you," said John meekly. "I'm willing to stay, for I confess I would like to find out what has become of that lost car."




Chapter XVIII -- The Arrival


In spite of the protests of the other boys against John being left behind, it was finally decided that he should carry out his own plan. He had declared his purpose to find out if possible what had become of the second car.

George had insisted that all four of the Go Ahead boys either should remain together or depart in a body; but after a brief conversation in which John explained that he really was desirous of making some further investigations of his own and also that it was equally important for George to get into touch with his father, as he could not do over the telephone, it was agreed that John should remain until the following day. A very attractive hotel not far from the station was most inviting. There John explained he would remain until the following day when the boys either would come for him or send him money.

Only a few moments elapsed before the noisy train proclaimed its coming. The scream of the locomotive was echoed and re-echoed in the nearby valley and long before its arrival at the station the people of the little village were aware that the one o'clock train was "on time."

Again George protested strongly against John being left behind, although he did not explain how he was to ride on the train without a ticket nor how he was to obtain a ticket without any money. However, in a few minutes the three departing boys, standing on the rear platform of the last car, were waving their hats as they bade good-by to the fourth member of the Go Ahead boys who was watching them from the platform of the station.

Slowly John turned into the walk that led him from the little station to the main street of the village. As he came out upon the sidewalk he was startled when he heard himself addressed by his own name. Surprised, he glanced in the direction from which the unexpected hail had come and he was amazed to behold the tramp, who had been his companion in the morning, now seated in the missing automobile. Evidently he had been driving the car but the expression on his face as John ran toward him did not indicate his purpose to explain the sight which had so startled him.

"Where did you get that car?" demanded John sharply as he stared at the driver.

"I found it at the other garage," explained the tramp.

"How did it get there?"

"Why, there was another blowout right near where you had yours this morning. I guess it must be the same fellow that you scared or drove into a ditch; at least that's what he said. He couldn't fix his car because the rim was torn into pieces and he got a lift back to this garage and sent some men out to get his car."

"And they got ours?" demanded John delightedly.

"That's what it seems," replied the tramp quietly. "I suspected there might be some trouble of the kind so I went around there and sure enough I found this car just as I half expected to. Your friends have cleared out and left you, have they?"

"They have gone back home," explained John.

"Well, that's all right. We'll beat them there yet. You get in and I'll see what time I can make."

"You're sure you know how to drive?" inquired John. "Because if you don't know how I can do something at it myself."

"My 'deah boy,'" lisped the tramp, "don't distress your little heart about my being able to drive the car. You get in here and if you have any fault to find I'll resign and let you take the wheel."

"We ought to have something to eat," said John, "but I haven't a cent of money."

"So I understand. It took all the money there was in the crowd to buy tickets for three boys."

"How did you know?"

"Never mind that. I knew you didn't have any money and I knew too that I would have to furnish what we needed on our trip. I managed to get together twenty-three cents. I think that's just the amount one ought to have when he is leaving in a hurry, don't you?" laughed the tramp.

"That's all right."

"Well, I took my twenty-three cents and went over to the grocery store and I bought some cheese and a box of crackers. You get in and feed up on the way back. If you're like me you'll think you've had a dinner fit for a king."

As he spoke the tramp held up to view the purchases he had made and John instantly responded to his appeal and took his seat in front beside the driver. The hungry boy declared that he never had tasted food he enjoyed more. Meanwhile the car was driven steadily forward on its way. And if John had had any misgivings as to the ability of his companion as a driver they were soon dispelled. It was plain that the man was an expert at his task.

"Where did you learn to drive a car?"

"I didn't have to learn," said the tramp. "I always knew. I have driven cars ever since they were first made. If I need any money I get a job as a chauffeur and then after I have got some money I don't need any job and quit."

John laughed as he said, "You're the strangest man I ever saw."

"That's what others have told me."

"I don't see why a man with the brains you have doesn't do something worth while. What do you want to be beating around the country for without any home and staying nights in such places as the old Meeker House?"

"I have often wondered myself," replied the tramp quietly. "I don't know that there's any answer to your question. Speaking of the old Meeker House, have you heard anything more about the strange noises over there?"

"Not since I saw you," replied John.

"Well, my advice to you is to take your friends over there to-night and I suspect you'll have an experience that will interest you."

"What is it?" demanded John, interested at once.

"I'm not sure just what it will be so I cannot explain, but if you want to see your friends stirred up you take them over there after you have had your dinner to-night. By the way, do you think there will be any reward for finding this car?"

"Knowing Mr. Sanders as I do, I'm quite sure there will be."

"I have brought the bill in my pocket for the repairs at the garage."

"How much did they charge?"

"Fifty-three cents and the man apologized for the size of his bill. That's one of the things they haven't learned up here in the country yet."

"I have never found any one who didn't know how to charge," laughed John.

"Well, this man didn't seem to know much about it, so I paid his bill and had just twenty-three cents left, as I told you. I think if Mr. Sanders wants to pay that bill I shall let him."

"I certainly know he will," said John. "I know he will insist upon it anyway for he's that kind of a man."

The automobile was making most excellent time and long before it was possible for his companions to arrive John had turned into the driveway that led to George's home.

The tramp had insisted upon leaving the car before it had turned in, explaining that he would return when Mr. Sanders came and if the latter "sufficiently urged" him to accept a reward he would do so willingly.

John laughed as the strange man departed and then drove up to the house.

Uncle Sim was the first to greet him and after staring blankly at John for a moment he said, "Whar de other boys?"

"They are coming later," said John. "They are coming on the train."

"Wha' fo'?"

"Oh, they will have to tell you," said John. "Just as soon as I can wash up I want to go over to the station and bring them home. They'll come in probably on the next train."

True to his word a half-hour later John was waiting in the automobile near the station. He had pictured to himself the excitement of his friends when they should arrive and discover him in the lost automobile, awaiting their coming.

John's meditations were interrupted by the prolonged blast by which the coming of the train was made known. So pleased was he over the prospect that he laughed aloud. The arrival of the train, however, soon caused him to watch the alighting passengers and as soon as he discovered his friends among the number, in his loudest tones he shouted, "George, tell all the Go Ahead boys to come over here!"

Startled by the unexpected hail the three boys turned and for a moment stared blankly at John. All the latter's hopes were more than fulfilled. Surprise and incredulity were stamped upon the faces of the three Go Ahead boys.

"Where did you get that car?" demanded George, hastily approaching.

"Why, it is your car, isn't it?" said John meekly.

"Sure it is, but where did you get it?"

"Why, after you fellows left me over there where you took the train I thought you would like to have me look up your car, so that's what I have done, but you don't seem to be very thankful. This is an ungrateful world, and a naughty deed arouses more interest than a good one. At least I think that's what Shakespeare says."

"Shakespeare?" broke in Fred sharply. "You never got as far as the title page."

"That may all be," retorted John. "All I mean to say now is that this car is for the exclusive use of those who are accustomed to move in polite society." As he spoke John turned on the power and despite the efforts of his friends to overtake him soon was moving rapidly over the road.




Chapter XIX -- An Invitation


Appearing to ignore his friends John drove rapidly around the circle which had been laid out between the station and the main street. Proudly returning to the place on the platform where his friends were awaiting his coming, he called out, "How's this car? How's the driver? Pretty slick, eh?"

"What we don't know," said George quickly, "is where the driver came from and how he got the car."

"You'll have to trust your Uncle John for some things," replied the driver solemnly. "There are some things you can't explain and some things it's hard for certain people to understand. You see that your car's here, don't you?"

"Yes," replied George.

"It's all right, isn't it?"

"As far as I can see."

"Cylinders all sound? Tires all complete? Boiler intact? Carbureter still working? Limousine all ready to be carved?"

"That's right," said George, laughing as he spoke. "As far as I can see everything is all straight except the fact that you didn't tell us how you got the car and beat us back here."

"Get in, fellows, and I'll tell you about it on the way back," said John. "I'll resign my position as chauffeur too," he added, as he quickly moved to another seat.

"I don't mind; stay where you are," said George cordially.

"No, I know you don't 'mind,' but this is a hot day. I would rather sit behind and tell you how to do it."

"All right then, I'll go ahead," said George, as he started the car. "Tell us how you did it."

"I have already explained to the best of my ability," said John soberly.

"Tell us again, then," broke in Fred.

"Why, all there is to it is that after you fellows left I looked around for the car and found it."

"Did you find it alone?"

"What do you mean, -- was I the only one that found it, or do you mean that I found the car all by itself?"

"My, how correct some fellows are in their talk," murmured Fred. "Yes, what I mean was were you all alone when you found the car?"

"No."

"Well, why don't you tell us who was with you?" demanded Grant irritably.

"The tramp," said John abruptly.

"The tramp!" repeated the boys together.

"That's what I said."

"Tell us about it," said George.

"Why, after you fellows cleared out and left me behind, for you remember that you took all the tickets there were and left me up there sans money, sans ticket, sans everything, as Shakespeare says -- "

"We don't remember anything of the kind," interrupted George. "We tried to get you to come along."

"Yes, you did!" laughed John scornfully. "You tried hard. You had just money enough to buy three tickets and I was generous enough to say that I would let you three fellows use them -- "

"Go on with your story about the tramp," interrupted Fred.

"Well, I'll tell you the truth," said John.

"Hope it won't make you too tired," murmured Fred.

"I'm telling you the truth," said John, glaring at his diminutive companion as he spoke. "The train hadn't fairly gotten out of sight with you fellows on board before up comes the tramp, driving this car. He came right up to the platform of the station and invited me to get on board. You may be sure I didn't stand on the form, or likewise on the platform, very long."

"Where did he get it?" demanded George.

"He suspected what had happened," explained John, "and he said he went to another garage, hoping that there had been some mistake. He said there were two cars in trouble out there on the road, one besides ours. The men that came out from the shop made a mistake and I guess each car was taken to the wrong garage."

"That's a pretty good story," laughed George.

"Well, it's all right," declared John warmly. "Here's your car anyway. The tramp brought it, just as I'm telling you, and you haven't anything to say about it."

"Maybe the tramp took the car and got scared when he saw us start off. Probably he thought we were going for help."

"Probably nothing!" exclaimed John disgustedly. "I tell you that tramp is all right. He can speak the English language and he has got some brains. I asked him to-day what he was tramping around the country for and he said he didn't know."

"He must have a lot of brains," ejaculated Fred.

"He knows how to drive a car all right," said John. "He drove all the way home."

"Where is he now?" demanded George.

"I don't know. He wouldn't stay. By the way, he did suggest before he departed that if there was any reward connected with the finding of the car he wouldn't mind taking it."

"Probably he wouldn't," laughed Fred.

"I think he is entitled to something," said George, "and I'll tell my father about it the first time he comes out."

"Where did the tramp go?"

"He didn't tell me," explained John, "but I think he went over to the old Meeker House. He said that if we wanted to see something worth while and something that would beat anything we had ever experienced in the old Meeker House we had better come over there after dinner."

"To-night?" inquired Fred.

"Yes, to-night."

"I say we go," said Grant quickly.

"So say we all," added George.

In a brief time the car was running swiftly up the driveway of the yard and as soon as his companions alighted George took it to the garage.

The other missing car, however, had not been returned nor had any word been received concerning it during the absence of the boys.

A call on the telephone speedily demanded George's attention and as soon as he rejoined his friends he said, "I have been talking to my father."

"You mean your father has been talking to you," suggested Fred.

Ignoring the interruption, George continued, "My father says that he has word of a car that is being held in Morristown. In some ways it answers the description of ours. He thinks it will be a good thing for us to go there to-morrow and find out more about it."

"Good plan. Good scheme," said Fred sympathetically. "Did your father say anything about suitably rewarding the tramp for his return of the car which he probably had all the while?"

"He did," said George simply. "He told me to give him a ten dollar bill."

"That's all right," said Fred eagerly. "Now I think it will be a good thing for each of us to take his turn, too," he added. "Every one of us can take that car off and hide it over night and get ten dollars reward when he brings it back in the morning. That's all your friend Mr. Tramp did."

"That's no such thing!" spoke up John, quick to defend his recent acquaintance.

"You may have it your own way," laughed Fred. "Then we're to go over and call on him to-night at the old Meeker House, are we?"

"That's just what we are going to do," said John.

True to the suggestion, soon after sunset the Go Ahead boys rode to the mysterious house. When they left their car by the roadside and started across the intervening field it was plain that there was an air of greater confidence now manifest by all four boys than in any previous visit.

The moon already had risen and in its clear light the old apple trees and the poplars that lined the driveway appeared like aged sentinels, twisted and gnarled. Indeed, some of the objects assumed fantastic forms and as the boys advanced, a silence not unlike that which had rested upon them in their former visits now fell over the party.

"I'll tell you one thing," spoke up Fred in a loud whisper; "I'm going with George around to the kitchen this trip."

"I haven't invited you," replied George promptly.

"It doesn't make any difference whether you have or not, I'm going just the same," said Fred.

"Then I shall have to put up with it," responded George in mock resignation. "All I can say to the rest of you is that whatever you do don't run. Let's find out what this thing means this time. Do you agree?"

"Yes, we agree," replied his friends.

"Good," responded George. "Now don't forget."

The boys at once separated, George and Fred moving around to the rear of the house while John and Grant approached the front door, which already was a familiar sight.

Without waiting for their companions to enter they at once pushed open the door, which creaked on its rusty hinges, producing sounds not unlike the cry of a child in distress.

Inside the room there again was the sound of many rushing wings. Indeed, for a moment, to the boys, who were startled in spite of their determination to be calm, the room seemed to be filled with flying creatures. Weird sounds also were heard and low spoken cries that were not unlike the creaking of the hinges of the old door.

In spite of their recently expressed courage both boys stopped as if by common consent. As they did so the sound of voices, speaking in whispers, was heard from other parts of the house. No person, however, was visible and in the dim light that penetrated the room neither of the boys was able to see any object distinctly.

Meanwhile the flapping of the unseen wings continued. Suddenly there was a flash of light that was almost blinding. It was so unexpected that both boys together and almost instantly turned toward the door. A cloud of smoke swept through the room and both boys, coughing and choking, instantly turned and fled from the house. Their speed increased as there came sounds of loud laughter from within the ancient dwelling. Unmindful of their promise not to run, both boys instantly turned and quickly were making most excellent time across the field in the direction of the automobile, which still could be seen in the open road.




Chapter XX -- The Father Of His Country


When John and Grant climbed into their seats in the waiting automobile both were nearly breathless. Before either of them spoke there came another loud burst of laughter from the house of mystery, and a moment later Fred and George were seen approaching. Both were running but neither apparently had been as greatly alarmed by the occurrences in the old Meeker House as had their two friends.

"I thought you fellows were not going to run," said Fred as he seated himself.

"We thought the place was being bombarded," explained John. "I noticed that you didn't stay very long either."

"We had to come out and find what had made you fellows run so fast," said George.

"That's all right," said John. "I'm willing to go back there now if you are."

Fred hesitated a moment, but as George had now seated himself and the car was under motion and there was slight prospect of turning back, in his boldest tones he said, "I'm perfectly willing to go back. I wasn't scared to-night anyway."

"Come on, then," said John, rising as he spoke.

George, however, ignored the conversation and increasing the speed at which the car was moving soon left the corner far behind him.

When the Go Ahead boys arrived at the farmhouse neither John nor Grant had much to say concerning their recent experience. The blinding flash which they described had been seen also by their companions, but both George and Fred declared that they had not been frightened by the unexpected occurrence.

There was no possibility of denying the fact that John and Grant had fled much more precipitately than had their companions, although there had been no great difference in the time of their return to the waiting automobile.

For some reason conversation flagged and not many references were made to the mysteries of the old Meeker House which still were unexplained.

"To-morrow morning," said George, "you understand that we are to go to Morristown. Are we all going?"

"We are," replied his friends together.

"I didn't know but John would like to stay behind and make some further investigations," laughed George.

"No, sir. I'm not going to be left this time," explained John. "I want to see Morristown. I have heard so much about the place that I want to see it for myself."

"It's well worth seeing," said George.

The following morning directly after breakfast, the Go Ahead boys were speeding swiftly toward the beautiful Jersey town which was to be their destination. The ride across the rolling country, with its frequent streams and hills and villages, was most attractive. Many beautiful homes, erected by the people of the great city beyond the borders of the state, added much to the beauty of the scenery.

However, the enthusiasm of the boys reached its highest point when at last they arrived at Morristown. The combination of age with the best that the thought of modern times could accomplish in the architecture of the houses was most impressive. Beautiful homes, many of which had extensive lawns and shade trees and the many evidences of thrift and prosperity to be seen on every side, were most attractive.

The first duty of the boys, however, was to visit the garage to which they had been directed by George's father. Here, however, again their efforts proved unavailing. The missing car was not found. An automobile of the same make and concerning which there was some question of ownership was still in the garage, but the Go Ahead boys speedily decided that they had no claim to its possession.

"I don't believe we'll ever find the car," said Fred despondently when the boys departed from the garage.

"I guess you have forgotten our name," suggested John. "We are the Go Ahead boys, not the Give Up boys."

"That's all right," spoke up George, "but just now I am going to show you some of the sights of this old historic town."

"Did Washington sleep here?" inquired Fred demurely.

"He lived here for a while," explained George, "but the British tried to find out whether he was asleep or not. They never found him asleep."

"Still I suppose he did sleep sometimes."

"When was he here?" inquired John.

"Why, don't you know the history of your own country?" spoke up Fred. "Washington came here after the battle of Princeton. That winter was a hard one for the little colonial army. People have talked about Valley Forge just as if there wasn't as much suffering at Morristown. I don't know why it is that people start on one line and then forget there are any others."

"He was here twice," explained Grant. "That winter of '77 and '78 and then too in the winter of '78 and '79."

"Yes," said George. "The house which is called Washington's Headquarters is where he lived during his second winter. I'm going to take you first," he added, "out to Washington Valley. That's where the most of the soldiers camped."

In a brief time the Go Ahead boys gained the summit of the hill from which they were able to look down upon the marvelously beautiful valley before them. It was like a great bowl among the hills. The rich and cultivated fields and beautiful homes on the hillsides and the nature of the place itself combined to make a most beautiful as well as interesting picture.

"It looks almost as if it was built for an army to hide in," said Grant.

"They were pretty well protected here," explained George. "You see, the hills were as good as forts. Now we'll go back to Washington's headquarters," he added, as he turned around and started once more back toward Morristown.

Not far from the public square the boys found the famous building. Built of brick and covered with boards and shingles, its sides painted white, it produced not merely an impression of age, but also of freshness as well.

"Then this is where the father of his country stayed, is it?" said Fred. "Just look at this picture," he added as he pointed toward the house and then turned around to George and said, "then look at this. We have fallen from that to this, Washington was the father of his country and G. Washington Sanders is just 'Pop'."

"That's all right," replied George, joining in the laugh of his friends. "I'll admit that Pop isn't the biggest word in the language any more than Pyg is."

"Quit this," demanded Grant. "We're going into the old house and you will have to behave yourselves."

The visit proved to be most interesting. Many articles that had been used when Washington was living in the house and many more which had been contributed were on exhibition. Indeed, as the boys passed from room to room they became more subdued in their manner, for somehow the knowledge that they were looking upon the same sights that had greeted the great commander had produced a marked effect. Even the old cannon on the lawn and the piles of cannon balls had stories of their own.

The silence, however, was broken when the boys resumed their seats in the automobile.

"I wonder why Washington stayed so far away from his army," suggested John.

"He had a body guard here all the time," explained Grant. "There were about two hundred and fifty men stationed here. They used to call them the life guard."

"What did they do?" inquired Fred.

"It was a special guard to protect General Washington. You see the red coats and Hessians, as I told you, tried a good many times to catch Washington asleep. Sometimes they crossed over from Staten Island and came up through Springfield, trying to catch the 'old fox' off his guard. But the people all through the country knew just what to do. They had guns or little cannon mounted on several of the hills and whenever word came that the redcoats were coming the boys fired one cannon and that would be heard by other people and the guns on the other hills would be fired too so that the soldiers at Morristown knew long before the British could arrive that they were trying to advance."

"But they never got him," said Fred gleefully.

"It wasn't because they didn't try hard enough," laughed George. "My grandfather used to tell me that when the soldiers at Morristown heard the 'old sow,' which was the name of one of the guns, they understood right away that there was danger of an attack. Everything in the old house was shut up except the windows, and then five of the continentals took their stand at every window and were ready to fire upon any one that came near the place."

"I would like to have seen Washington," said John thoughtfully.

"They say," said George, "that he was about as tall as you are, String, but he had some breadth and thickness as well as length. He weighed about two hundred pounds. All the time he was at Morristown he was very quiet. I fancy he was worried all the while. That didn't prevent him from being very strict with his soldiers, however. He issued an order that there should be no gambling or swearing, that nobody should be permitted to do any stunts on Sunday, and the men who disobeyed didn't forget the lesson taught them."

"Why, what did Washington do?" inquired Fred.

"He had guilty soldiers whipped in the presence of their companies. A man would be tied up to a tree and then the drummers or fifers would have to lash him. Sometimes they got forty blows, sometimes more. One time a soldier who had disobeyed orders about poaching and had stolen a pig from a poor farmer was reported to the commander. Washington had him whipped with more than a double dose. They say that the men did not make any complaint though, and even when they were going through the performance every man used to take a lead cartridge between his teeth and bite hard on it whenever he was struck a blow."

"I guess that's one reason why Washington was so popular," suggested John thoughtfully.

"It's an easy way to become popular," laughed Fred.

"Never you mind," retorted George. "You know just as well as I do that no fellow likes a teacher that is not strict. My father says that the man or boy who tries to be popular never is."

"And your father is dead right too," said Grant quickly, turning to his friend.

"Yes, sir, he's all right," responded John.




Chapter XXI -- An Explanation In Part


It was the middle of the afternoon when the Go Ahead boys returned to George's home. Apparently they had not been cast down by their failure to obtain information concerning the missing car. Indeed, as one of the boys laughingly remarked, George was the only one deeply and personally concerned in the loss and if he did not feel discouraged there certainly was no reason why his friends should be despondent.

On the broad piazza of the old farmhouse the boys sat for a half-hour talking over the experiences of the day. Different suggestions were made as to possible plans that might be adopted in the search for the stolen automobile.

"I'm not thinking so much about the car as I am about what we saw to-day at Morristown," said Grant thoughtfully. "I feel almost as if I had stepped right back into the eighteenth century."

"My friend," said Fred soberly, "that is where you belong. I have often been puzzled to know how to account for some of the strange traits of your peculiar personality. You have hit the nail now squarely on the head. You have been born one hundred and forty years too late. You are a rare old antique."

The boys laughed as Grant arose from his seat and lifting his diminutive friend bodily from the chair in which he was seated, he dropped him over the rail.

"When you grow up," he called, "and learn to behave you may come back here."

"I'm not coming back," called Fred glibly.

"We'll try to live through our disappointment," said Grant.

"You'll be disappointed all right the next time you see me," called Fred. Then turning to John he eagerly beckoned to him to follow him.

With a groan John slowly arose from the chair in which he was seated and followed Fred as he led the way around the corner of the house.

"What I want of you," said Fred when he and his companion could not be seen by the other boys, "is to go with me over to the Meeker House. I think I have found something."

"Is it the same thing you found last night?" inquired John.

"Not at all. I don't mind telling you that I have fixed a trap over there."

"What do you mean, a steel trap?"

"No, no," said Fred. "I sprinkled some bran last night all around the floor. I filled my pockets with it before we started and while we were in the old house I scattered it on the floors. Now, I want to go over there to find out if -- "

"If what?" interrupted John. "Are you trying to feed those spooks on bran?"

"As usual, my friend," retorted Fred, "you begin at the wrong end. I am not trying to get an impression of their heads, but of their feet. Only, spooks don't make a deep impression when they step on the floor, and I'm more than suspicious that I'll find some tracks."

"I'll go with you," said John eagerly. "Wait until I tell the other fellows that we are going away for a while. Are you going to walk, Fred?"

"Yes, I am. I have been riding all day and I want to stretch my muscles."

Both George and Grant laughed when John told them that he and Fred were going for a walk.

"You'll walk in one direction," called George, "but you'll be running when you come back. I think I'll take the car and in a half an hour I'll come over after you. You'll want to see some of your friends by that time and you will want to see them bad."

"I don't want to see them 'bad,'" retorted John as he turned away. "They are 'bad' enough as it is. I want to see them badly."

Together the two boys walked through the woods and across the lots and by a shorter route than the highway arrived within a half-hour in the yard of the house they were seeking.

"Come around to the kitchen," said Fred. Almost unconsciously he had lowered his voice and although it was still daylight he was glancing nervously about him when he and John softly opened the rear door and stepped within the kitchen.

The boards of the floor were twisted and uneven. The floor was of pine and George had explained that his father had said that he believed the floor was as old as any part of the house. There were marks of the places where the women of another generation had scrubbed the floor. Doubtless it had been their pride to keep the pine boards clean, just as it is a source of pride to many of their sisters of a later day to be adorned with feathers of various gaudy colors.

Noiselessly the boys advanced and without a word having been spoken began to examine the floor where Fred had scattered the bran the preceding evening. No footprints were found, however, and it was speedily plain that if any one had entered the building since the boys had departed they had not done so by the kitchen door.

Convinced that they were alone in the house, the courage of both boys somewhat revived. Indeed there was something in the sunshine of the summer afternoon and in the not unmusical sounds of the winged grasshoppers in the adjacent orchard that was soothing to the excited boys.

They were about to pass out of the room when John abruptly stopped and whispered, "Look here, Fred. What's that?" As he spoke he pointed to a small tube which plainly had been fastened recently to the wall. The tube was of tin, about an inch in diameter and extended almost to the ceiling. Through the wall a hole had been made and the boys peered eagerly at the wall in the adjacent room to see whether or not the tube was there also.

"That's just how it is! That's good, String!" exclaimed Fred excitedly. "That explains the sound of the voices we heard the other night."

"I don't see how it explains it," said John, somewhat puzzled by the excitement of his companion.

"Why, it's a speaking tube. You go back to the kitchen and I'll stay here and we'll try it."

The suggestion was quickly adopted and in a brief time both boys were aware that Fred's conjecture was correct. The strange sounds and the whispers of their names which had been heard frequently whenever they had visited the house after darkness had fallen, now were explained.

"That's the reason," said John eagerly, "why George always wants to come around to the kitchen door. Don't you remember he hasn't once come in by the front door?"

"That's right," responded Fred. "He knows more about what is going on in this old house than he has let on, and all the time he has been pretending that he was puzzled as much as we are by what we have seen and heard. We must think up something so that we can pay him back in his own coin."

"That's what we'll do," said John eagerly. "What shall it be?"

"Time enough to think about that later," responded Fred. "What's that?" he added abruptly.

From within the chimney could be heard the sound as of a man swinging a noisy rattle. There were also sharp noises that sometimes were quite loud and at others were low and soft and yet they were continuously sounding.

"I tell you there's something in that chimney," said John.

"I begin to think you're right," whispered Fred. "Get down on your knees and look up through the fireplace."

John obediently stretched his long form upon the floor and peered up through the flue of the open fireplace. As he did so the clatter in the chimney suddenly increased in volume and for a moment John was on the point of hastily withdrawing from the spot.

As he prepared to do so, however, suddenly a little, young bird fell, striking the floor close to John's head. At the same time there was a renewal of the clatter in the chimney and John hastily withdrew.

To his amazement he found when he arose that Fred was laughing.

"What's there so funny about it?" demanded John as he tried to brush the accumulated dust from his person.

For a moment Fred was almost unable to control himself, but at last he said, "Oh, Jack, what fools we have been. There we were so scared by the sound of the wings that we heard in this room and the strange noises that came from the chimney that we couldn't get out of the place fast enough. And now it's all as plain as daylight."

"I don't see it," said John blankly.

"Well, have a little patience, and in time you'll see it, Johnny."

"Why don't you talk? Why don't you explain yourself? What are you laughing at?" demanded John, irritated by the manner of his companion.

"Why those sounds we heard were made by chimney-swallows."

"What is a chimney-swallow?"

"Do you mean to tell me that you have lived to be seventeen years old and don't know what a chimney-swallow is?"

"They don't have them in the city where I live."

"Well," said Fred, pretending to be discouraged, "I cannot understand how any fellow can live as you have and yet not know that there are some birds called chimney-swallows that live in the chimneys of old or deserted houses. If you should look up there now you could see some nests fastened right to the sides of the chimney. I have never seen the birds, but I'm sure that's what they are. Whenever we have come into the house we have probably frightened them and they have been flying around the room. They were the spooks that scared us so."

"Do you suppose George knew about it?" demanded John ruefully.

"Of course he knew it. He has been saving it all up to add to his story of the speaking tube."

"Well, it's a comfort to know the old house isn't haunted anyway."

"Of course it isn't haunted. There isn't anything haunted because there isn't anything like ghosts or spooks."

"I'm glad to hear you talk so nicely, Freddie," said John, who now had recovered from his chagrin. "If I'm not mistaken I've heard you talk in a different tone once or twice before when we have been here."

"That's all right," said Fred glibly. "Now we have found out what the spooks are and we'll show George that we're not afraid of anything in the old Meeker House."

The boys were still conversing in whispers, and as Fred made his bold declaration he abruptly stopped and looked anxiously toward the stairway. A sound mysterious and unexpected had been heard in the room directly above them. Both boys were convinced that either others were in the house, or that they had not yet found an explanation for all the mysteries of the old Meeker House.




Chapter XXII -- A Dare


Without a word having been spoken, Fred and John instantly departed from the old house. They did not even glance at each other as they did so, but moved by a common impulse both were apparently ready to seek a place of safety with all haste.

Fred's bold declaration that now he had found an explanation for the strange occurrences in the Meeker House apparently had not held good. He was maintaining his place by the side of his tall friend when both were fleeing from the house.

The sun already had disappeared from sight and the shadows of the evening were lengthening.

Perhaps the hour increased their feeling of uncertainty. At all events the confidence they had possessed, when in broad daylight they had boldly entered the kitchen, manifestly now was gone. Each boy frequently glanced behind him in his flight, but neither spoke to the other until fifty yards intervened between them and the dwelling.

"What are we doing out here?" demanded Fred blankly.

"I don't think you need very much of an explanation," retorted John.

"That's the way it seems to me, too," responded Fred, striving to laugh lightly as he spoke.

"At all events we are making pretty good time."

Indeed the smaller boy was able to maintain the pace at which his friend with the longer legs was moving over the field. Half the distance between the house and the road had been covered when John stopped and said, "Look ahead there, Fred. Isn't that George and Grant waiting over yonder in the road?"

In response to the suggestion of his friend, Fred glanced quickly at the huge spreading oak tree that grew close to the fence. It was a magnificent tree, the pride of the country around about and the delight of many visitors. Beneath it an automobile was seen and then Fred exclaimed quickly, "You're right, String, that's George and Grant. Let's slow up a little. We don't want them to think we are in too much of a hurry."

Accordingly the speed at which they were moving decreased and as they glanced behind them and saw that the conditions about the old Meeker House apparently were unchanged the boys ceased to run and began to walk.

"Don't let them think we have been scared out," again suggested Fred. "We'll never hear the last of it if we don't."

Without replying John nodded his head and more slowly the boys walked across the intervening field and then climbed the fence and leaped lightly into the roadside when they drew near the place where the two boys were awaiting their coming.

"What's your hurry?" demanded George, laughing as he spoke.

"We're in no hurry," responded Fred glibly.

"We're hungry, that's all," said John. "We were afraid you would be keeping dinner for us."

"That's a mighty good excuse," laughed Grant. "You didn't act when we first saw you as if you were thinking of your dinner. I didn't believe that either one of you could make such good time."

"That's all right," said Fred sharply. "That's all right, but it's just exactly as I said."

"What is?" inquired George.

"Why the tricks you have been trying to play on us in the old Meeker House."

"Tricks? What tricks have I been trying to play?" replied George.

"Did you ever hear of chimney-swallows?" inquired Fred.

"Indeed I have," said George, "and I have seen them lots of times."

"Ever see any in the old Meeker House?"

"Yes," replied George, laughing again as he spoke.

"Well, why didn't you tell us that they were there? You let us go on and I think you helped us too to believe that the room was full of flying spooks."

"I didn't know that I was to blame," laughed George, "if you didn't know the difference between a spook and chimney-swallow."

"You must have put in a lot of work in that old house, George," broke in John.

"Work?" inquired George, staring blankly at his friend. "What do you mean? I never worked there in my life."

"Who put in that speaking tube that runs from the kitchen to the front room?" demanded John.

"I didn't," George said quietly.

"You mean you didn't do the work. I guess you knew it was put in and I guess too that you know who put it in."

George laughed, but did not directly reply to the implied question.

"We have found out about your old speaking tube," continued John. "That was a great trick for you to play on your old friends."

Grant, who was listening intently to the conversation, in which up to this time he had taken no part, now said, "Then you two fellows think you have found out all about the strange things in the old Meeker House, do you?"

"We didn't say that," replied Fred. "All we say is that we have found out about the wings that we heard and the chattering in the chimney and the speaking tube that ran from the kitchen into the front room. My, but I was scared when I heard my name called there," he added.

George laughed loudly as he said, "You don't need to tell me that, Pyg. I wouldn't have believed that any living creature could have made its legs fly as fast as yours did that night."

"I was trying to keep up with the rest of the fellows," retorted Fred. "I had to go some to do that."

"Now that you have found out all these things you're not afraid to go back there any time, are you?" inquired George.

"Yes, sir, I am," said Fred.

"What?"

"Because we haven't found out everything. There's something strange about that place that I don't understand yet."

"Why, what happened?" inquired George quickly.

"We heard voices upstairs."

"Was that the reason why you were moving so fast across the yard?" laughed George.

"Laugh all you want to," said Fred, "but that's what we heard."

"Probably your tramp was talking to himself," suggested Grant.

"No, sir," spoke up John promptly. "That wasn't it at all. Besides there was more than one voice."

"You didn't hear the automobile-horn, did you?" inquired George.

"No, we didn't. We heard all I wanted to without hearing that. It just made my flesh creep to hear those voices upstairs and coming down the stairway."

"Was there anything strange about the voices?" asked George.

"Yes, sir, there was."

"Well, I tell you what I'll do," said Grant promptly. "I'll dare both of you to come back here to the old Meeker House after dinner to-night."

"I'll do it," said Fred promptly.

"I'll give you another dare better than that," said John. "I'll dare you and George to go back there right now."

"Will you come too?" demanded George.

"We have just come from there," said John. "We know what there is there and you don't. Now we dare you both to go back right now."

George glanced a moment questioningly at Grant and then without a word being spoken promptly turned the car and started back toward the mysterious old house.

Apparently all thoughts of dinner had been forgotten or ignored. Fred and John looked at each other and laughed derisively, but neither spoke until at last the car was halted under the old oak tree.

Quickly George and Grant leaped out and started across the intervening field.

Fred and John left to themselves waited until their friends had gone to the rear of the building and then the former said quickly, "Let's take the car and go back home. It will serve those fellows just right to leave them there."

John laughed as he agreed to the suggestion.

Avoiding all possible noise they turned the car about and started down the road. They had gone only a short distance, however, before Fred suddenly clutched the arm of his companion who was driving and said, "Listen, String! Wasn't that a call or a shout?"

As he spoke, Fred in great excitement looked behind him in the direction of the mysterious old dwelling house. Without a word, John turned the car about and started swiftly on his way back to the old tree.




Chapter XXIII -- Led By A Man


When the boys arrived at the familiar place in the road they were startled by a renewal of the shouts from the house. It was the faint sound of these calls which had alarmed them and caused them to turn back on their way.

Even while they were hesitating as to whether or not they should leave the car and run to the house to aid their friends, who apparently were in dire trouble, they saw two forms emerge from the front door. They instantly recognized George and Grant, for the light was still sufficient to enable them to see quite plainly across the fields. Both boys were running at their highest speed.

Blowing the horn of the automobile and shouting, both John and Fred did their utmost to call the attention of their friends to the fact that they were awaiting their coming. That their calls were heard was speedily manifest when both George and Grant, turning slightly in the direction in which they were speeding, ran toward the great tree.

At that moment George stumbled over some unseen object and fell headlong upon the ground. His companion stopped a moment and Fred and John watched him as he lifted George to his feet and then both boys renewed their flight.

In a brief time they had arrived at the fence and in their haste both fell when they tried to climb over it.

"What's wrong? What's wrong?" demanded Fred excitedly, as his friends approached the car.

"Never mind what's wrong," said George brusquely. "Let me get into the car and give me that wheel."

No further words were spoken while George and his companions entered the car and in a brief time the automobile was again speeding down the road. Several times Grant glanced apprehensively behind him, but the increasing distance evidently gave him renewed courage, for when a quarter of a mile had been covered he said, "I suppose you fellows are both wondering what the trouble is."

"Yes, we are," said John quickly. "What is it?"

"It's the same thing that scared you, only worse. We heard sounds upstairs that showed that some men up there were fighting, then there was a pistol-shot and we heard some one fall. After that there were groans and cries galore, and we thought it was time for us to start for home."

"You were brave boys to leave that other fellow!" said Fred tartly. "If there was some one shot, it was time for you to help him."

"We couldn't help him very much if we went upstairs only to be shot ourselves," said George sharply.

"You don't know what you could have done," retorted Fred.

"No, I didn't know, but I'll tell you what I'll do. If you want to go back there right now, I'll take you back."

"I don't want to go," said Fred quietly. "It's time for somebody besides boys like us to step in. I think the best thing for us to do will be to find some man and take him back there. We can go in with him then and help if we have to."

"I guess that's a good suggestion, all right," said George quickly. "Grant and I were so scared that we couldn't think of anything except getting out of the horrible old house in the best possible time. My, think how Grant loped along, taking about six feet at a jump."

"I noticed that I wasn't alone," said Grant, dryly. "Whoever it was with me wasn't very far behind."

"I guess you're right," acknowledged George. "Now I'll own up, fellows, about the speaking tube and the swallows. I knew the birds were in the chimney and I knew too that you didn't know much about such things, so I thought I would let you work it out. Then I put in that speaking tube and added to the fun, but I tell you right now that I have had my lesson. I'm not afraid of all the ghosts in Jersey, but I don't like the sounds that came from that upper room in the old Meeker House. I don't mind saying so to any one. I guess my father is at the house by this time, for he said he might come out to-night. If he is, we'll tell him all about it and let him take charge. It's time for the Go Ahead boys to go ahead all right, but I think they had better follow somebody who is older, all the same."

All the boys agreed that George's suggestion was the best that could be made. The speed of the automobile increased and not many minutes had elapsed when the Go Ahead boys arrived at George's home.

They were all delighted when they found that Mr. Sanders was there. He listened to the story of the excited boys and then quietly said, "I think we'll have dinner first and then I'll go with you over to the old Meeker House. You have been stirring up the spooks, have you?" and Mr. Sanders laughed as he spoke. "There were spooks there when I was a boy, and I remember how we used to steer clear of the corner when we were coming home evenings. When we were a little older we began to make investigations and found there wasn't anything unusual or that couldn't be explained about the old place. But the stories of the spooks have kept up just the same. I don't know why, unless it is that there are some people that believe such things just because they want to believe them."

"That's what Caesar says," spoke up Grant. "I remember in his Commentaries he wrote that 'men believe that which they wish to believe.' But, Mr. Sanders, don't you think there's something very strange about what George and I heard there to-night?"

"There may be," admitted Mr. Sanders, "but there have been so many stories told about the old house that I do not know whether you boys thought you heard something or really did hear it."

"You would have known if you had been with us," spoke up George quickly.

"Well, I shall be with you soon and then we will try to find out. I cannot believe there is anything wrong there, so we might as well have our dinner and then we will start."

The plan of Mr. Sanders was followed, and directly after dinner the Go Ahead boys, together with George's father, started once more for the place which had been the scene of so much excitement throughout their summer vacation.

Upon the suggestion of Mr. Sanders a lantern was taken with them. When they arrived at the familiar spot beneath the old oak tree the lantern was lighted and all five started across the fields toward the Meeker House.

No one spoke until they arrived at the front door, which now had become a familiar spot to all four boys. Without a word Mr. Sanders pushed open the door and stepped within the room. Instantly there was a great fluttering of wings, for the chimney-swallows, startled by the light as well as by the unexpected entrance of the visitors, were displaying their alarm by their frantic cries and swift flight. No other sounds, however, were heard when the birds at last became more quiet.

"Where did you say the trouble was?" inquired Mr. Sanders.

"In the room upstairs," answered George.

"The one directly over this?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then the only thing for us to do is to go up there and see what has happened."

The boys agreed to the suggestion and although no one spoke every one was aware that his companions were as excited as he when slowly they began to mount the rickety stairway. The boards creaked and groaned beneath their feet, increasing the excitement of all.

When they had arrived at the platform about midway on the stairway, all stopped and listened. The screeching sounds of the excited birds still continued, but otherwise the silence was unbroken.

"Is there anybody here?" called Mr. Sanders loudly. As no reply was made to his inquiry he turned to the boys and said, "There doesn't appear to be anybody here. Well go on up and continue our investigations."

Once more leading the way, Mr. Sanders noiselessly mounted the steps, the boys keeping closely together and not far behind the leader. Holding his lantern before him Mr. Sanders stopped when he arrived at the head of the stairway and examined the rooms that opened before him.

Suddenly a sound very like laughter was heard in the old building, but it quickly ceased and in place of it the faint tooting of an automobile horn was heard.

The boys now were staring about them and had it not been for the presence of George's father it is doubtful if any one would have remained.

As it was, a startling event occurred which instantly cause all five to turn quickly about and run swiftly down the stairway.




Chapter XXIV -- The End Of The House


Even Mr. Sanders appeared to be as alarmed as his younger companions. At all events he was swiftly leading the way, and as the boys were running down the stairway two or three steps at a time it was necessary for him to move rapidly in order to keep his place at the head of the line.

There had been a sudden flash of light that apparently had filled the building. No sound had accompanied the strange sight although the air was heavy with the suffocating odor of burning powder. The light apparently had been flashed in every room at the same moment. The twittering of the chimney-swallows abruptly ceased after one shrill outburst of alarm.

Before the party arrived at the foot of the stairway the blinding flash was repeated. The house now seemed to be filled with the penetrating odor and even the lantern did not fully serve to light their way.

"Keep together, boys," called Mr. Sanders in a low voice. "We must all make for the front door and get out of this place as soon as possible."

In spite of their alarm, Fred in his own mind was questioning whether it was the heavy odor in the room or the desire of Mr. Sanders to gain a place of safety outside the building that had caused such a precipitate flight. At all events no one delayed, and in a brief time all five were running rapidly across the field, Mr. Sanders still holding the lantern and leading the retreating party.

Before they arrived at the road, however, they stopped and looked behind them. The old house now was wrapped in darkness. Not a sound came from the mysterious dwelling. The blinding flashes of light that had been seen apparently were ended and only the reflection of the moonlight from the few windows that still were left in the house produced an unusual sight.

In silence the Go Ahead boys and Mr. Sanders waited for a repetition of the sight which had startled them. Not a sound came from the place, and although the boys waited several minutes the strange lights were not repeated.

"I'm inclined to think," said Mr. Sanders thoughtfully, "that it will be better for us to go back and continue our investigations. What do you say, boys?"

"We agree," spoke up Fred glibly. "We might as well run this matter down now as at any time. What do you think those flashes were, Mr. Sanders?"

"From the odor I think likely they were made by setting off the powder which is lighted when a flash-light picture is taken."

"It does seem so, doesn't it?" said John quickly. "But where did such powder come from? Who lighted it?"

"That's what we must find out," said Mr. Sanders dryly.

Meanwhile the party was returning to the building and had covered half the distance when they all stopped abruptly as George exclaimed, "There's a light there now! Can't you see it? It's up in the corner of the eaves."

A moment later all declared that they could see the flames to which George had referred, but as they resumed their walk John said abruptly, "That's more than a flash-light, that's a fire! I tell you, fellows, the old Meeker House is on fire!"

Instantly every one stopped but only a brief delay was required to confirm the startling statement. The flames by this time had burst through the roof and it was evident that unless help speedily was obtained the house which had stood nearly two centuries was doomed.

There was no further waiting now and quickly all five were running toward the blazing building. This time, however, Mr. Sanders was not leading the party. The boys speedily outdistanced him and as soon as they arrived within the yard they discovered that two other men were already on the ground.

By this time the fire was under strong headway. The timbers of the dwelling house, old and dry, were burning almost like tinder. Sparks were flying from the blazing roof and the flames were steadily mounting higher and higher.

Across the field from the opposite road forms of men approaching the building could be seen, and the wild cry "Fire!" "Fire!" was heard on every side.

There were no buckets or pails to be found in the dwelling, as was speedily discovered when the doors were burst open. Near the kitchen door was the old well, which had been used in former generations. A well-sweep was there, but the heavy weight which had been used to balance the bucket was gone and it had been long since the water in the depths below had been disturbed. In desperation, however, the entire party sought to find some means of stopping the fire.

Some of the men who now had arrived started swiftly across the fields toward houses that could be seen in the distance. There was a vague thought that they might obtain pails and ropes that would enable them to quench the flames. By the time the men returned, however, the house was doomed.

Fascinated by the sight, the boys withdrew from the spot and watched the blazing dwelling as the flames leaped and roared and crackled.

"There goes the chimney!" exclaimed Fred in a low voice, as a pile of bricks fell crashing into the depths.

"I wonder what became of those chimney-swallows," suggested John.

"I guess those that could fly are gone and those that were too young to fly are already burned," said Grant.

"How do you suppose that fire started?" inquired George.

As no one had a ready solution his question remained unanswered. The boys now, however, were rejoined by Mr. Sanders, who explained that it was perilous as well as useless to attempt to fight the flames longer. The most that could be expected was to prevent the flying embers from setting fire to fences or to buildings that were not far away.

"It's a pity," said Mr. Sanders slowly, "that the old house had to go in this way."

"And it never gave up all its secrets either," added Fred. "We were just on the point of finding out, when the whole thing goes up in smoke."

"I fancy that what you call 'secrets' will all be explained. My thought is that the two men, whom we found here when we came back across the fields, can tell more about the origin of the fire than we think."

"Who were the men?" inquired George.

"I don't know either of them," answered Mr. Sanders. "To me they looked like tramps."

Startled by the unexpected statement the boys stared blankly at one another and then as if moved by a common impulse they turned and advanced among the spectators who now numbered at least three score.

"Isn't it wonderful," suggested Grant, "what a crowd you can get and in such a little while even out in the country, if anything unusual is going on? I wouldn't have believed that a blast on Gabriel's trumpet could have brought twenty people here in an hour and yet in less than twenty minutes there's a crowd. Where do you suppose they came from?"

"That fire can be seen a long distance," explained George, "and there's nothing like a fire to get a crowd. There's the tramp!" he abruptly added, nodding, as he spoke, toward a man who could be seen on the outskirts of the assembly.

By common consent all four boys instantly ran to the place where the man was seen.

As they approached, however, the tramp, for George's statement proved to be correct, apparently became aware of their coming and instantly departed.

To the boys it seemed that he had moved around to the other side of the burning building but when they sought him there he was not to be found.

"What do you suppose it all means?" inquired John blankly. "He acted as if he didn't want to see us."

"Probably he didn't," suggested George. "That's his right."

"It may be and it may not be," retorted John. "I don't believe he will stand very long on the order of his departure."

"Why not?"

"Probably he could tell more about how the fire started than any one in the crowd."

"What do you mean?" demanded George as the three boys stopped and stared into the face of their friend.

"I don't know just how much I do mean, but we all know that the tramp used the old Meeker House as a sort of headquarters, or at least that he used to stop there nights, and it may be that he was here when the fire first started."

"Of course he was," spoke up John. "Don't you remember that he told me that if we would come over to the house after dinner, we would see something interesting?"

"Well, all I can say is that we came and that we certainly found something interesting," said George dryly, as the falling timbers crashed into the fire and great showers of sparks fell all about the waiting boys.




Chapter XXV -- A Talk With The Tramp


Following the fall of the walls of the old house, the fire blazed up anew and a fresh shower of sparks fell far from the blazing building. The crowd was helpless. The only water to be had was from the old well which now had caved in and the small amount which could be secured had been exhausted in the early part of the fire. The timbers were old and dry, and blazed almost like burning paper. The faces and forms of the spectators seemed to be ghostly in the light against the dark background of the night.

For an hour the blaze still continued, but the flames were gradually becoming lower. No longer were there showers of blazing sparks that fell upon the ground far away.

There was only a dim glow when at last Mr. Sanders led the way back to the automobile. The excitement of the boys, however, still continued and when their car started they were all looking back at the spot where the crowd, fantastic in its appearance in the dim light and the glow of the dying fire, were still to be seen.

"Well, there's one thing I feel almost as badly about as I do the loss of the old building," said John thoughtfully, as the car sped homeward.

"What is that?" inquired George.

"Now we shall never know about the mysteries of the old place."

"There aren't very many mysteries left," suggested Fred. "We have found out about the speaking tube and the chimney-swallows."

"Yes," said Grant, "but how about that blaze?"

"I suspect," joined in Mr. Sanders, "that the blaze you speak of had something to do with the burning of the old house."

"What do you mean?" inquired George quickly.

"That's just what I mean," replied Mr. Sanders. "Somebody had a flash-light over there and probably set fire to the building. I haven't any idea who could have done it."

"I guess the tramp might tell us something," suggested Grant.

"The tramp?" inquired Mr. Sanders. "What tramp?"

In response to his questions the boys related all their experiences with the strange man whom they had found in the old Meeker House. The part which he had taken in the return of the lost automobile was also explained and in response to George's suggestion that his father should reward the man for the return of the car his father quickly inquired, "But what was he doing away up beyond Tuxedo? I thought you said he made his headquarters here in the old Meeker House."

"He does, part of the time," explained John.

"But what was he doing up there so far away?" inquired Mr. Sanders sharply. "You know I sent you word that there was a possibility that a car which had been located in a garage at Newburgh might be the one which we had lost. What was he doing up there? How did he travel so far and so fast?"

"He explained to us," said John, "that he had got a ride most of the way. In fact I think he said that he didn't have to walk over half a mile. He stole a ride on the cars and then somebody took him in his automobile and brought him farther."

"Did he say what he was doing up there?" inquired Mr. Sanders.

"No, sir," replied George.

"But you say he was a very skillful driver?"

"Yes, sir," spoke up John promptly. "I never saw a man that could handle a car better."

"I think we must look into this more fully," said Mr. Sanders, "but it may be that he is the one who may know more about the loss of our car than we think and I'm sure he could explain a part at least of the origin of the fire at the old Meeker House."

"Do you think he set it on fire?" demanded Fred.

"Probably not, at least intentionally," replied Mr. Sanders, "but it may be that he was the one who had the flash-light and he may have set fire to the old building without intending to do so."

"Well," spoke up John, "I'm sorry we shan't ever find out about that tooting of the automobile horn that we heard in the old building and the flash that we saw. Why, the fire seemed to be all over the building at once and then die out in every room just as quickly as it came."

"I think we shall know more about it," said Mr. Sanders quietly. "Meanwhile the best thing for us to do is not to do anything to-night."

After the arrival of the boys at George's home the excitement still continued and for two hours the boys remained on the piazza talking over the experiences of the night. Much of the mystery of the old house was still unexplained.

"Well, all I can say is," declared Fred, as the boys at last arose to go to their rooms, "that if the old cowboys and skinners came back to the old Meeker House to carry on their pranks they'll have to seek other quarters now."

"I think you will find that your cowboys and skinners are pretty well up to date," laughed Mr. Sanders. "And you'll find too that they are clothed in very substantial flesh. I have been suspicious for a long time that the tramps were using the old house for a sort of headquarters, but I was not sure of it until you told me the story of the man with whom you had had some dealings. We'll all go over there the first thing to-morrow morning and perhaps we shall find some things that will help us to make the others clear."

Accordingly, soon after breakfast the following day, the four Go Ahead boys, together with Mr. Sanders, departed for the place where the fire had occurred the preceding evening.

When they arrived, smoke was still rising from the ashes, but the flames had long since died away. No one was near the spot and as the boys approached the ruins, Mr. Sanders said, "I wish our friend, the tramp, would come."

"Why do you want him?" inquired George.

"I think he is the man who can give us the information we most want just now. I do not recall that I ever saw him."

"He's a strange man," said George quickly. "He looks like a tramp and yet he uses good English and he shows that he has been used to better things some time in his life."

"Did he tell you that?" laughed Mr. Sanders.

"I don't know that he said that exactly, but that's what he made me think."

"Quite likely."

"Well, it's true," maintained George stoutly. "All you have to do is to look into his face and hear him talk and you know that he isn't just a common tramp."

"Strange how the mysteries about the old Meeker House keep up," laughed Mr. Sanders. "First you have the cowboys and skinners meeting there and then you have men who may be modern cowboys and skinners in flesh and blood who make it their headquarters. The twittering of the chimney-swallows drives all four of the Go Ahead boys out of the building."

"But we went back," spoke up Fred quickly. "We didn't give up. Besides, Mr. Sanders, I noticed last night when we came down the stairway that all four of us had all we could do to keep up with you."

"So you did. So you did," admitted Mr. Sanders laughingly. "But I did not run because I was afraid of spooks."

"Neither did we," said Fred. "We thought when we had a man along with us that we would be protected and everything would be safe. But when we saw him leaving the old Meeker House, faster than any of us boys could go, we thought our safest plan was to try to keep up with him. Something might happen to him, you know. If he was in trouble he might need our help."

Mr. Sanders laughed heartily at Fred's assertions and then said quickly, "Who is that man coming across the field?"

All the boys looked quickly in the direction in which Mr. Sanders pointed and a moment later George said in a low voice, "That's our tramp."

"I thought he would be here," said Mr. Sanders. "Now perhaps we can find out a little more than we knew before."

All five awaited the approach of the man who indeed proved to be the one about whom they had been talking.

As the tramp came near, his face lighted up with a smile as he cordially said, "Good morning. Good morning. You're early on the scene of our disaster last night."

"Yes," responded George. "We saw you last night and then we lost sight of you in the crowd and couldn't find you again."

"Well, here I am," said the tramp, smiling. "If you still want to see me all you have to do is to look at me. I never thought before that I was very much to look at."

"We want to talk to you," said Mr. Sanders more seriously. "You told the boys, did you not, that you and your friends had been making the old house your headquarters?"

"Not exactly 'headquarters,'" replied the tramp. "We used to stay some nights there."

"And you used the ghosts to scare people off or keep them away from the old house?"

"That's what we did," admitted the tramp, laughing loudly as he spoke. "It would do your heart good if you could only have seen some of them leave."

"What were those groans that we heard?" spoke up Fred. "I never quite understood them. We found out about the birds in the chimney and the speaking tube that ran from the kitchen to the front room, but how about those groans?"

"Why, there were usually two or three of us, and when we had visitors we took our stand in different rooms and one answered the groan of the others. Sometimes we groaned all together. Usually, though, we did not have very much to do, because after one or two groans we usually found the old house deserted."

"What about that automobile horn?" inquired George.

"Oh, that was another way we had of scaring people, that was all."

"Where did you get the horn?" inquired Mr. Sanders.

"I can't just say. We had it a long time."

"It sounded, the boys tell me, very like the horn of the car that we had taken from our garage."

The tramp looked into the face of Mr. Sanders a moment before he said, "And you suspect, do you, that I took your car and left the horn here?"

"Do you know where our car is?" inquired Mr. Sanders abruptly. "I told my son to give you ten dollars for returning the old car. Here is the money," Mr. Sanders added, as he held forth a bill.

"Thank you, sir," said the tramp, as he took the money and thrust it into his pocket. "I told the boys that I could be persuaded to accept the reward; but about your other car, all I can say is that I don't know where it is now."

"Do you know who took it?"

"I do not."

"Do you know how the fire started in the old house last night?"

"No, sir. I don't."

"But you had some flash-light powder and you set it off here. The house may have caught fire from it."

"I don't think it could possibly have got on fire that way. You see we used that powder in pans and we set it off in two or three rooms at the same time, just as we used to answer one another's cries or groan together. The fire couldn't spread. The powder just flashed up and then the fire was all out in a minute. Besides, the old house was no good anyway. No one could live in it and my friends and I thought that if we slept there occasionally no one would be any the worse for it. Of course if there had been any objections made we should have been glad to pay attention to them."

"I wish you would come back to the car with me, I want to speak to you alone."

"All right, sir, just as you say," responded the tramp, quickly advancing and accompanying Mr. Sanders as he led the way across the fields after he had bidden the boys remain where they then were.




Chapter XXVI -- Conclusion


Mr. Sanders and the tramp remained in the car a long time. Indeed, as the minutes passed the boys became somewhat impatient. Frequently they glanced toward the scene in the road in which Mr. Sanders and his strange companion were evidently holding a very interesting conversation.

When an hour had elapsed the desire of the boys to depart became more pronounced. A few of the country people meanwhile had come to view the ruins of the famous old house, but they had little to say to the boys and after they had inspected the ruins the most of them slowly departed.

At last Fred said impatiently, "Look yonder! Mr. Sanders is taking that man away in the car."

"I wonder where he is going?" said George, as he glanced at the departing automobile.

"Probably taking him to the lock-up," suggested Fred.

"If he's taking the man to the lock-up I know some more that he ought not to forget," said George soberly.

"So do I," spoke up Fred, "and some of them aren't more than a thousand miles from here either."

However, after the departure of Mr. Sanders in the car, the boys became more thoughtful. They had not received any word to remain where they were, but George decided that it would not be wise for them to depart until they had received some further instructions. Doubtless, he explained, his father would return for them in a little while.

Another hour had elapsed before Mr. Sanders came back. As soon as he was discovered approaching, all the Go Ahead boys ran quickly across the field and when they were informed, in response to their inquiries, that Mr. Sanders was ready to take them home they all quickly climbed into the automobile.

"What did you do with the tramp?" inquired George as soon as the car started.

"I took him to the railroad station."

"Is he going to leave?"

"He says he is."

"You seemed to have had a mighty interesting conversation. Did he tell you all the sad, sweet story of his life?"

"I knew much of it."

"You did?" demanded George in astonishment. "You did! Who is he? What is he? How did you know him? Where did he come from? What is his name?"

"Hold on," interrupted Mr. Sanders with a laugh. "I can answer your questions one at a time, but I cannot find any answer that might fit them all alike. Let me tell you first of all that he didn't explain everything as fully as I wish he had, but he did tell me a few things."

"What were they?" demanded George impatiently.

"Let me tell you first a little about himself," said Mr. Sanders, smiling at the interest of his young companions. "That tramp is the younger brother of a great friend of mine. Indeed, his brother and I were together almost all the time when we were boys. If I was not in his house then he was in mine, or we were fishing in these brooks or nutting in the woods or coasting on the hills. We very seldom were separated. This younger brother -- "

"What is his name?" interrupted George.

"I shan't tell you his name now. Perhaps I will some other time, but he was one of the most attractive boys I ever knew. He was very quiet in his manner, and had the greatest faculty of making friends I ever knew any one to have. His mother almost idolized him and she never held him up to any task. If he got into mischief it was always the fault of the other boys, she said. If he was kept after school or had any trouble with the teachers she always told him that it was the teacher's fault. Whatever he did, to her was right. You boys want to be thankful that you have mothers that hold you up to some things instead of upholding you in everything you do.

"Well, this man when he was a boy was too lazy to have any share in the family life. Pleasant, good-natured, popular with the boys and girls, he never did anything for any one else. If his mother wanted a pail of water drawn from the old well behind the farmhouse -- and they lived right straight across the field in that house over yonder," explained Mr. Sanders, pointing as he spoke to a house that could be seen in the distance, "he always had some excuse. If his mother had simply told him to bring in a pail of water instead of trying to smooth the way for him and said that he was too tired or not strong enough, if she had done that and some other things like it I don't believe this man to-day would be tramping around the country. He has been a complete failure. He has never learned to do anything well. He used to be the best baseball player we had in all this part of the country. There wasn't a fellow that could catch him when we were in swimming in the old pond. He could make a boat and sail a boat, but he just simply drifted on. By the way, boys, did any of you ever stop to think of the fact that a boat never drifts but in one direction?"

"What's that?" inquired John.

"Why, down the stream," replied Mr. Sanders quietly. "This boy grew up to be a man and drifted into all kinds of bad ways. You see he had never learned to work and besides there are two words in the English language that he never could pronounce. One word has three letters in it and the other has two, but little words though they are, he never seemed to be able to pronounce them."

"I can't think what the words are," said George.

"I know what they are," broke in John. "They are 'yes' and 'no.'"

"That's right," replied Mr. Sanders with a smile. "They are the hardest words in the language for a good many people to use. When they say 'yes' they don't say it in a way that means much, and when they say 'no' it doesn't mean much more.

"His mother died years ago and I have always thought that this son was the cause of her death. At one time, as I told you, he was just as straight and attractive a boy as any of you."

"I guess the trouble with him was that he wasn't a Go Ahead boy," suggested Fred.

"That was one trouble," replied Mr. Sanders with a smile, "and another was that after he began to drift he couldn't stop. You see if he hadn't begun he never could have come to the end to which he has. That's a strange thing to me that more people do not realize that if they don't begin, they never will come to the end."

"Did he explain to you," inquired Fred, "why he shut me in the cellar of the old Meeker House?"

"No," replied Mr. Sanders, "I didn't know that you were shut in there."

"Well, I was. He caught me in the cellar and bolted the door on me. I must have been in there an hour and a half."

"How did you get out? Did he let you out?"

"No, sir, I went and pushed up the outside door."

"Well, why did you wait an hour and a half before you did that?" responded Mr. Sanders with a laugh.

"I'm sure I don't know," said Fred blankly. "I guess it was because I didn't think of it or try it."

"Very likely he meant it for a joke. Now, when I had my talk with him he recognized me, although at first I didn't recognize him. He did say some things about scaring you boys away from the old place."

"Did he say anything about the way we left last night?" inquired George mischievously.

"Why, how did you leave last night?" inquired Mr. Sanders.

"We left in a big hurry," declared George.

"What made you in such a hurry?"

"We were trying to keep up with the man who was with us and was leading the way," said George demurely.

Mr. Sanders joined in the laugh that followed and then said quickly, "Our lost car will be brought back to-day."

"How do you know?" demanded George quickly.

"I don't think I shall explain all of that to you, my boy," said Mr. Sanders quietly. "It ought to be enough to know that it will be there."

"But suppose the tramp doesn't bring it back?" suggested Grant.

"I am not supposing anything about the tramp, or about any failure," replied Mr. Sanders, again smiling quietly. "All I say to you is that I am confident that the car will be brought back."

"Did you find out who stole the car?" inquired John.

"I don't think it was 'stolen.' You might call it 'borrowed.'"

"Well, did you find out who 'borrowed' it then?" demanded John.

"Yes."

"Who did?" said George eagerly.

"There are several reasons why I shall not go farther into details," said Mr. Sanders. "You may draw such conclusions as you please. Very likely they will not be incorrect. You have followed the events of the summer more closely than I and I have no doubt can connect one with another."

"Well, I think," said George positively, "that the tramp took our car. He's a mighty good driver and knows all about a car. He didn't intend to sell it perhaps, but he wanted to use it for a few days."

"Are you sure he used it in the daytime?" inquired Mr. Sanders quietly.

"Why, yes. When would he use it?" demanded George.

"Let me suppose a case," explained his father. "Just suppose a man and his friends made it a practice to come to your garage nights and take out your car after you had gone to bed. Suppose on one of these long rides the car met with a bad accident. It was impossible to bring the car back that night, so it was taken to a garage where it was said that at least a week would be required to repair it. At the end of the week the car is not repaired. Naturally the people whose automobile is missing are sure the car has been stolen and they are sending word all over the country for the police to be on the lookout for it. Meanwhile the car is safe in a little town not more than ten miles distant from the place where it belonged. Finally there comes a day when the car is ready, but the man who took it and who had the accident has not money enough to pay for the repairs. He doesn't intend to steal the car, but he is not able to bring it back to its owner. If the owner telephones to the garage for a man to bring it to his home it is quite likely he may see it soon."

"And did you let the tramp get away?"

"I not only let him get away, but I gave him money to leave. I don't suppose he will use the money as I told him, but I am going to give him a chance. I would rather help two men who do not deserve it than to let one go who does. Besides," Mr. Sanders added thoughtfully, "I thought of his father and mother and how good they had been to me when I was a boy. There," he added, "I have told you more than I expected."

"Will the tramp come back?" inquired Grant.

"I hope not. I doubt if he does, because the old Meeker House has now gone and he has no place hereabout in which he can stay."

"Well, we found out what the spooks in the old house were," said Fred. "I guess that's the way with most of such things."

"We certainly had a good time finding out," said John laughingly. "I'm glad we didn't give up."

"So am I," said Fred. "But then," he added, "we are the Go Ahead boys and have not learned how to do anything else."

<eob>

With Buller In Natal

Or

A Born Leader

By

G. A. Henty



Chapter I

The Bursting Of The Storm


A group of excited men were gathered in front of the Stock Exchange at Johannesburg. It was evident that something altogether unusual had happened. All wore anxious and angry expressions, but a few shook hands with each other, as if the news that so much agitated them, although painful, was yet welcome; and indeed this was so.

For months a war-cloud had hung over the town, but it had been thought that it might pass over without bursting. None imagined that the blow would come so suddenly, and when it fell it had all the force of a complete surprise, although it had been so threatening for many weeks that a considerable portion of the population had already fled. It was true that great numbers of men, well armed, and with large numbers of cannon, had been moving south, but negotiations were still going on and might continue for some time yet; and now by the folly and arrogance of one man the cloud had burst, and in thirty hours war would begin.

Similar though smaller groups were gathered here and there in the streets. Parties of Boers from the country round rode up and down with an air of insolent triumph, some of them shouting "We shall soon be rid of you; in another month there will not be a rooinek left in South Africa."

Those addressed paid no heed to the words. They had heard the same thing over and over again for the past two months. There was a tightening of the lips and a closing of the fingers as if on a sword or rifle, but no one replied to the insolent taunts. For years it had been the hope of the Uitlanders that this would come, and that there would be an end to a position that was well-nigh intolerable. Never before had a large body of intelligent men been kept in a state of abject subjection by an inferior race, a race almost without even the elements of civilization, ignorant and brutal beyond any existing white community, and superior only in the fact that they were organized and armed, whereas those they trampled upon were deficient in both these respects. Having no votes, these were powerless to better their condition by the means common to civilized communities throughout the world. They were ground down by an enormous taxation, towards which the Boers themselves contributed practically nothing, and the revenue drawn from them was spent in the purchase of munitions of war, artillery, and fortifications, so enormously beyond the needs of the country, that it was no secret that they were intended not only for the defence of the republic against invasion, but for a general rising of the Boer population and the establishment of Dutch supremacy throughout the whole of South Africa.

The Boer government was corrupt from the highest to the lowest. The president and the members of his family piled up wealth to an enormous amount, and nothing could be done without wholesale bribery. The price of everything connected with the mining industry was doubled by the supply being in the hands of monopolists, who shared their gains with high state officials. Money was lavished like water on what was called secret service, in subsidizing newspapers to influence public opinion throughout Europe, and, as it was strongly suspected, in carrying on a propaganda among the Dutch in Cape Colony, and in securing the return of members and a ministry secretly pledged to further in every way the aims of the Presidents of the Transvaal and the Orange Free State. The British and other aliens were not only deprived of all rights of citizenship, but even freedom of speech and the right of public meeting was denied them; they were not allowed to carry arms except by a special license, their children were taught in Dutch in the schools, they had no right of trial by jury; judges who had the courage to refuse to carry out the illegal behests of the president were deprived of their offices, and the few editors of newspapers representing the Uitlanders -- as all men not born in the state were called-were imprisoned and their journals suppressed.

Intolerable as was such a state of things to a civilized community, it might have been borne with some patience had it not been that the insolence of their masters was unbounded. Every Boer seemed to take a pleasure in neglecting no opportunity of showing his contempt for the men whose enterprise and labour had enormously enriched the country, and whose superior intelligence he was too grossly ignorant to appreciate. A Boar farmer would refuse a cup of water to a passing traveller, and would enforce his refusal by producing his rifle immediately if the stranger ventured to urge his request. Of late the insolence of the Boers had greatly increased; the manner in which England had, instead of demanding justice with the sternness and determination that the circumstances called for, permitted her remonstrances to be simply ignored, was put down as a consciousness of weakness. And having now collected arms sufficient not only for themselves but for the whole Dutch population of South Africa, the Boers were convinced that their hour of triumph had come, and that in a very short time their flag would float over every public building throughout the country and the Union Jack disappear for ever.

The long discussions that had been going on with regard to a five or seven years' franchise were regarded with absolute indifference by the Uitlanders -- even the shorter time would have afforded them no advantage whatever. The members from the mining districts would be in a hopeless minority in the assembly; and indeed, very few of those entitled to a vote would have cared to claim it, inasmuch as they would thereby render themselves citizens of the republic, and be liable to be commandeered and called upon to serve in arms, not only against the natives, upon whom the Boers were always making aggressions, but against England, when the war, which all foresaw could not long be delayed, broke out.

For months the negotiations went on between President Kruger and Mr. Chamberlain, the British colonial minister, and the certainty that the Boers were bent upon fighting became more and more evident. Vast quantities of rifles, ammunition, and cannon poured into the Transvaal, their passage being more than winked at by the Dutch ministry of Cape Colony.

It was that day known that President Kruger had thrown off the mask of a pretended desire for peace, and that an ultimatum had been telegraphed to England couched in terms of such studied insolence that it was certain war must ensue. The greatest civilized power on earth would have shown less arrogance towards the most feeble. Not only was England called upon to send no more troops to South Africa, but to withdraw most of her forces already in the country, and this by a state that owed its very existence to her, and whose total population was not more than that of a small English county.

The terms of that ultimatum had just become known in Johannesburg, and it was not surprising that it had created an intense excitement. All had long felt that war must come, and that at an early date, but the step that had now been taken came as a surprise. From all appearances it had seemed that the negotiations might be continued for months yet before the crisis arrived, and that it should thus have been forced on by the wording of the ultimatum showed that the Boers were satisfied that their preparations were complete, and that they were in a position to overrun Natal and Cape Colony before any British force capable of withstanding them could arrive. England, indeed, had been placed in a most difficult position. The ministry were not unaware of the enormous preparations that the Boers were making, and had for some time past been quietly sending out a large number of officers and a few non-commissioned officers and men to the Cape. But so long as there was a hope that the Boers would finally grant some redress to the Uitlanders, they could not despatch any considerable number of troops, for had they done so they would have been accused not only on the Continent, but by a section of Englishmen, of forcing on a war with a weak state, whereas in point of fact the war was being forced on by a country that most erroneously believed itself to be stronger than England. The Boers of the Transvaal knew already that the Orange Free State would join them at once, and believed firmly that every Dutchman in Natal and Cape Colony would at the signal take up arms.

Presently a gentleman detached himself from the crowd in front of the Exchange, and joined a lad of some sixteen years old who was standing on the other side of the street.

"Well, father, is it all true what they say?" the latter asked -- "that Kruger has sent such an ultimatum to England that war is certain?"

"It is quite true, Chris; war is absolutely certain. Kruger has given the British Government only two days to reply to the most insolent demand ever addressed to a great power, and worded in the most offensive manner. I imagine that no reply will be given; and as the ultimatum was sent off yesterday, we shall to-morrow morning be in a state of war."

"Well, father, there is no doubt what the result will be."

"No doubt whatever as to the final result, but I am afraid things will go very badly for a time. I am glad, very glad, that Kruger should have sent such an ultimatum. It cannot but be accepted as a defiance by all England; and I should say that even the opposition, which has of late continually attacked Mr. Chamberlain, will now be silenced, and that Government will be supported by all parties."

After a quarter of an hour's walk they arrived at home. It was a handsome house, for Mr. King was one of the leading men in Johannesburg. He had come out with a wife and son ten years before, being sent by some London capitalists to report to them fully upon the prospects of the gold-fields. Under his advice they had purchased several properties, which had been brought out as companies, and proved extremely valuable. He was himself a large holder in each of these, and acted as manager and director of the group. "What is the news, Robert?" his wife asked, as he and her son came in. "I have had three or four visitors in here, and they all say that there is quite an excitement in the town."

"It has come at last," he said gravely; "war is inevitable, and will begin in twenty-four hours. Kruger has sent one of the most extraordinary demands ever drawn up. He calls upon England to cease sending out troops, and to speedily recall most of those now in South Africa, and has given two days for a reply, of which one has already expired. As it is absolutely certain that England will not grant this modest request, we may say that the war has begun. I wish now that I had sent you and Chris down to Durban a fortnight ago, for there will be a fearful rush, and judging by the attitude of the Boers, I fear they will make the journey a very unpleasant one. As we have agreed, it is absolutely necessary that I should remain here. There is no saying what steps the Boers will take with reference to the mines; but it is certain that we must, if possible, keep them going -- not for the sake of the profit, which you may be sure Kruger will not allow to go out of the country, but because if they were to be stopped it would cost an immense deal of money to put them in working condition again, especially if, as is likely enough, the Boers damage the machinery. I shall do as little work as I can; and the Boers will not, I fancy, interfere with us as long as they can benefit by the working. For myself, I would risk any loss or damage rather than aid in supplying them with gold, but for the sake of our shareholders in Europe I must do my best to save the mines from destruction. Indeed, if I don't work them, probably they will do so until the end is at hand, and will then do as much damage as possible. You know we have agreed on this point."

"Yes, I suppose it is best, Robert; but it seems terrible leaving you alone here, and I shall be in a perpetual state of anxiety about you."

"I don't think there is any occasion for that; as long as I am working the mines and they are taking the gold, which no doubt they will have to repay when our army are masters here, they will not interfere with me. They treat us badly enough, as we know; but they love the gold even more than they hate us, so I have no fear whatever as to my personal safety. I am afraid, dear, that for a time things will go very badly with us. Already we know that commandos have gone forward in great strength to the frontier, and I should not be surprised if the whole of South Africa rises; at any rate, the Boers are confident that it will be so. Gladstone's miserable surrender after our disasters at Laing's Nek and Majuba have puffed them up with such an idea of their own fighting powers and our weakness, that I believe they think they are going to have almost a walk over. Still, though it was certain that we should have a hard time whenever war came, we have been hoping for years that England would at last interfere to obtain redress for us, and we must not grumble now that what we have been so long expecting has at last come to pass. I believe there will be some stern fighting. The Boers are no cowards; courage is, indeed, as far as I know, the only virtue they possess. In the long run they must certainly be beaten, but it will only be after very hard fighting."

"What do you think they will do, father?"

"I can't say what they will do, but I am sure that what they ought to do is to merely hold the passes from Natal with enough men for the purpose, and to march their whole force, broken up into half a dozen columns, into Cape Colony. There is no force there that could resist them, they would be undoubtedly joined by every Dutchman there, and I am convinced that the Africander ministry would at once declare for them, in which case England would have to undertake the tremendous work of conquering the whole of South Africa afresh, for certainly she could not allow it to slip from her hands, even if it should prove as stern a business as the conquering of half India after the Sepoy Mutiny. Now to business. Fortunately we sent down your clothes and everything we had of value to our friends the Wilsons, at Durban, six weeks ago. What you have remaining you must leave behind to take its chance. You will be able to take no luggage whatever with you. We know how terribly the trains have been packed for the past fortnight, and a week ago almost all the carriages were commandeered for the use of the troops going south.

"You must take with you a basket of provisions, sufficient, if necessary, for two or three days for you both. There is no saying how long you may be on your way to the frontier; once beyond that you will, of course, be able to obtain anything you want. But you need expect no civility or courtesy from the Boers, who, indeed, would feel a malicious pleasure in shunting you off into a siding, and letting you wait there for any number of hours. You must mind, Chris, above all things, to keep your temper, whatever may happen. You know how our people have been insulted, and actually maltreated in scores of cases, and in their present state of excitement the Boers would be only too glad to find an excuse for acts of violence. I was speaking to you about it three days ago, and I cannot impress it too strongly upon you. I have already given you permission to join one or other of the corps that are being raised in Natal, and if anything unpleasant occurs on the road, you must bottle up your feelings and wait till you get a rifle in your hand and stand on equal terms with them."

"I promise that, father. I think, after what we have had to put up with here, during the past two or three months especially, I can bear anything for these last few days."

"Yes, Chris; but it will be more trying now that you have your mother under your charge. It is for her sake as well as your own that I impress this so strongly upon you. Now, will you go down at once to the railway-station and enquire about the trains? I shall go myself to the manager and see whether I can get him to make any special arrangement in your mother's favour, though I have no great hopes of that; for though I know him well, he is, like all these Dutchmen in office, an uncivilized brute puffed up with his own importance."

Chris started at once, and returned an hour later with a very discouraging report. The station was crowded with people. No regular trains were running, but while he was there a large number of cattle-trucks had been run up to the platform, and in these as many of the fugitives as could be packed in were stowed away. As soon as this was done the train had started, but not half the number collected on the platform had found room in it. His father had left a few minutes after him, and presently returned.

"From what I can hear," he said, "there is no chance whatever of your being able to get any accommodation, but must take your chance with the others. Viljoen told me that except the waggons there was not a carriage of any sort or class left here, and that there was no saying at all when any would return; but that even if they did, they would be taken for the use of the troops going south. All he could say was that if, when I came down to the station with you, he is there, he will see that you go by the first waggons that leave."

"That is something at least," Mrs. King said quietly. "I certainly do not wish to ask for any favour from these people, and do not want to be better off than others. I have no doubt that it will be an unpleasant time, but after all it will be nothing to what great numbers of people will have to suffer during the war."

"That is so, Amy. And now I think that the sooner the start is made the better. The rush to get away will increase every hour, and we shall have the miners coming in in hundreds. Many of the mines will be shut down at once, though some of them will, like ours, continue operations as long as they are allowed to."

"Make your basket, or bag, or whatever you take your provisions in, as small as possible, mother. I saw lots of baggage left behind on the platform. You see, there are no seats to stow things under. I should say that a flat box which you can sit on would be the best thing. And you will want your warmest cloak and a thick rug for night."

"I have a box that will do very well, Chris. Fortunately we have plenty of cold meat and bread in the house. I shall not be more than half an hour, Robert."

In less than that time the party were ready. Chris's preparations had been of the simplest. He carried over his arm a long, thick greatcoat, in the pocket of which he had thrust a fur cap and two woollen comforters. He had also a light but warm rug, for he thought it probable that he might not be able to be next to his mother. He had on his usual light tweed suit, but had in addition put on a cardigan waistcoat, which he intended to take off when once in the train. In his pockets he had a couple of packets of tobacco, for although he seldom smoked, he thought that some of it might be very acceptable to his fellow-passengers before the journey was over. He wore a light gray, broad-brimmed wide-awake, with a white silk puggaree twisted round it, for the heat of the sun in the middle of the day was already very great, and would be greater still when they got down to Natal. The box, which a Kaffir servant put on his shoulder, was about eight inches deep and a foot wide, and eighteen inches long.

"What have you in it, mother?"

"Two tin bottles of cold tea, each holding a gallon."

"I should hardly have thought that we wanted as much as that."

"No; but there may be many women who have made no provision at all, thinking that we shall at least be able to get water at any of the stations we stop at. I have a small tin mug, and that joint of meat; the rest of the box is filled up with bread-and-butter. I have cut it up and spread it, so that it packs a good deal closer than it would do if we put the loaves in whole."

Mr. King had his wife's thick-wadded winter cloak and a rug over his arm, and a small hand-bag with a few necessaries for the journey. Mrs. King was in her usual attire, and carried only a white umbrella.

"We look as if we were starting for a picnic rather than a journey that will last three or four days," she said with an attempt at gaiety. "There is one comfort, we shall have nothing to look after when we get to the end."

Chris walked on ahead to let his father and mother talk together, for although all arrangements had been discussed and settled during the past two or three days, there was much they had to say to each other now that the parting had come. The lad was a fine specimen of the young Uitlander. A life passed largely in the open air, hard work and exercise, had broadened his shoulders and made him look at least a year older than he really was. He was a splendid rider and an excellent shot with his rifle, for his father had obtained a permit from the authorities for him to carry one, and he could bring down an antelope when running at full speed as neatly as any of the young Boers. Four days a week he had spent in the mines, for his father intended him to follow in his footsteps, and he had worked by turns with the miners below and the engineers on the surface, so that he might in the course of a few years be thoroughly acquainted with all the details of his profession.

The last two days in each week he had to himself, and with three or four lads of his own age went for long rides in search of sport. A couple of hours every evening were spent in study under his father's direction. He was quiet in manner, and talked but little. He deeply resented the position in which the British population in the Transvaal were placed, the insolence of the Boers towards them, and their brutal cruelty towards the natives. The restraint which he so often found it necessary to exercise had had no slight influence on his character, and had given a certain grim expression to the naturally bright face. Many had been the discussions between him and his friends as to the prospect of England's taking up their cause. Their disappointment had been intense at the miserable failure of the Jameson raid, which, however, they felt, and rightly, must some day have a good result, inasmuch as it had brought out the wretched position of the Uitlanders, who, though forming the majority of the population, and the source of all the wealth of the country, and paying all the taxes, were yet treated as an outcast race, and deprived of every right possessed by people of all civilized nations.

They had wondered and fretted at the apathy with which the enormous warlike preparations of the Boers were regarded at home, and the fact that they were permitted to become a formidable power, capable of offering a desperate resistance even by the armies of England; whereas, before they had been enriched by the industry and enterprise of the immigrants, they had been in danger of being altogether wiped out by the Zulus and Swazis, and had only been saved by the interference on their behalf of the British power. Thus, then, while the war-cloud had been slowly but surely gathering, the lads had watched the approaching crisis with delight, unmingled with the anxiety and foreboding of the capitalists, who, without doubting what the end must be, were sure that enormous losses and sacrifices must result before their deliverance from Boer oppression could be obtained.

The scene at the station was an extraordinary one. Men, women, and children of all ranks were crowded on the platform; the greater capitalists, the men whose fortunes could be counted by hundreds of thousands, had for the most part left, but many who in England would be considered as rich men had remained in the town till the last moment, to make their final arrangements and wind up their affairs. With these were well-to-do storekeepers, with their wives and families, together with mining officials, miners, and mechanics of all kinds. Piles of baggage rendered movement difficult, for many had supposed that the regular trains were still running, and that they would be able to carry away with them the greater portion of their belongings. The scenes at the departure of the previous trains roughly awakened them to the fact that all this must be abandoned, and women were crying and men cursing below their breath at this last evidence of Boer indifference to the sufferings of those by whose work they had so greatly benefited. Mr. King soon found that the manager was still there, but on speaking to him he shrugged his shoulders, and said:

"I do not see what I can do. Look at the crowd there. When the waggons come up there will be a rush, and I have no men here to keep such a number in order."

"I see that, Mr. Viljoen, but if you would send a man with us to where the waggons are standing in readiness to come up, my wife could take her place then."

"Yes, I will do that at once. You had better go with her outside the station, and the porter shall take you on from there. If you were to get off the platform here and walk up the lines, others would notice it, and there would be an immediate rush."

He called to one of the porters on the platform, and gave him instructions, and in a few minutes Mrs. King was seated on her box in the corner of a truck, which, with a few others, had a covered roof, although it was entirely open at the sides. In the next half-hour eight or ten others, who had been similarly favoured by the manager, joined them. All these were known to the Kings, and it was a great relief to them to find that they would travel together, instead of being mixed up with the general crowd. They had packed themselves together as closely as possible, so that when the train became crowded there should be no room for anyone to push in among them. Among the party was John Cairns, a great chum of Chris's. He and his father and mother had been waiting for two hours at the station, and he told him that there were seven or eight of their companions there.

"We will take our seats on that side," Chris said, "and as we move in shout to them to join us. It will be a great thing to get as many people we know in here as possible."

Presently the train began to move. Fortunately, at the spot where it drew up, a group of their acquaintances were clustered together, and these all managed to get into the truck, which was speedily filled up until there was scarce standing-room. Three minutes later the train moved on. A great number were left behind, although everyone made as much room as possible, women especially being helped in after the trucks seemed absolutely choke-full. As soon as the train was fairly in motion many of the men climbed up on to the roofs of the covered waggons, thereby relieving the pressure below, and enabling all the women to sit down. Others ranged themselves along the sides, sitting on the rail, and so minimizing the space they occupied. But even with all this, the women were packed inconveniently together. All, however, were so much pleased at their good fortune in having got away that there was no complaining or grumbling. That the journey would be a long one, all knew; but at least they had started, and would soon be a free people in a free country. Chris and his friends had been among the first to climb up on to the roof, and they sat down in a group at one end of it.

"It is going to be pretty cold here to-night, and desperately hot to-morrow," Chris said; "but we can put up with that. I would stand it for a month rather than stop any longer among these brutes." There was a general murmur of agreement.

"Thank heavens," one of them said, "the next time we meet them will be with arms in our hands. We have a long score to pay off, and we shall, I expect, have plenty of chances. The Boers are boasting that they will soon drive the last Englishman out of South Africa, and seem to regard it as a sort of general picnic. They will find out their mistake before they have done."

"Still, we must not think that it is going to be a picnic our way," Chris said. "They have quite made up their minds that every Boer in Cape Colony and Natal will join them at once. If they do, it will be a very long business to put them down, though I have no doubt it will all come right in the end. Do you know anything about the others?"

"I know that Peters and Carmichael and Brown went off with their people last night, but I don't know about the others."

"Capper and Willesden and Horrocks went yesterday," another lad said. "Sankey and Holdsworth were on the platform, and no doubt got into another truck.

"There are seven of us here," Chris said, "and as six have gone on, that makes thirteen certain, and there are eight more to come. Most of us will stop at Pietermaritzburg, but I suppose some, whose friends are going straight home, will go down with them to Durban."

"There will not be many who have to do so," another said. "Sankey's people and Carmichael's are going to Cape Town, but, so far as I know, all the others will stay and see it out either at Maritzburg or Durban. Do you think that we should take any others with us, Chris?"

"I don't think so. You see we all know each other, and it would be a nuisance having fellows with us of whom we know nothing. They might not pull with us, while we have been so much together that there is no fear of our having any disagreement. I think we have all pretty well settled that it will be much better to act by ourselves, instead of joining any of the corps that are sure to be formed down there. Still, if we knew one of the men getting up a corps -- and some of our people are pretty sure to do so -- I do think it would be a good plan to join, if they would accept us as a sort of independent troop, ready to act with them when there is any big fighting, and to go about on our own account at other times. You see, none of us will want any pay. We shall all furnish our own horses and arms, and shall therefore be on a different footing from men who have to draw pay and be equipped at the public expense; and I don't see why any officer commanding a troop in one of these corps should object to our joining him on those terms. But anyhow, I feel sure that we should be able to do a great deal more good by being free to move where we liked, and to undertake expeditions on our own account, than if we were to act in a more regular manner."

There was a general chorus of agreement.

"Now, how long do you think it will be before we cross Laing's Nek? Of course we ought to be there by to-morrow morning. It is only a hundred and fifty miles, and at fifteen miles an hour, which is about their usual rate of travelling, we should cross the frontier at two o'clock, for it was about four when we started. But there is no saying. My father thought we ought to take four days' provisions with us; I think we could hold out for that time."

"You don't mean to say, Chris, he thought it possible we might be as long as that?"

"He did think so, Peters. He considered that we might be shunted off very often to let trains with men and stores for the troops go on ahead of us."

"Well," the other replied, "I don't care so much for myself, though I don't say that it would be lively to be stuck up here for four days and nights, but it would be awful for the women; and I should say that very few of them have got more than enough provisions for a day. Still, of course, if we are shunted at a station we shall be able to buy things."

"I am not so sure of that," Chris said. "You know what the Boers are at their best; and now that they believe the time has arrived when they are going to be the absolute lords of all South Africa, they are so puffed up that there is no saying what they may do to show their hatred and contempt for us. And whatever happens, you fellows, you must keep your temper. My father spoke to me very strongly about it. You must remember that they will not mind what they do, and would shoot any of us down on the smallest excuse, knowing well enough that we are helpless, and that it is unlikely any enquiry would ever be made, or anyone punished even if they shot a dozen of us. We must remember that we intend to pay off old scores later on, and that we mean to do it with interest."



Chapter II

A Terrible Journey


Twenty-four hours had gone, and not half the distance had yet been covered. The night had passed painfully to all those in the waggons, for though most of the women had provided themselves with wraps of one sort or another, the cold was severe. This, however, was less felt than the cramped position in which all had to sit on the floor, unable to move or to stretch their legs, the only change obtainable being by standing up. The pressure was most felt in the open waggons, where the men as well as the women were packed together so closely that even sitting down was impossible. Some slight relief had been afforded by the men on the covered waggons taking as many from the uncovered trucks as could lie down there with them; but as the latter were by far the more numerous, a comparatively small number of men could be so entertained.

For a time the rising of the sun afforded some relief, but as it gained in power the position of the fugitives became almost unbearable. The stoppages were frequent, and at all the stations the Boers from the neighbourhood had assembled, some from curiosity, but the majority to wait for the trains that were to take them to the front. Although sometimes detained for three or four hours, the passengers were not allowed to alight. The men, indeed, at times, by common impulse, sprang out, but were soon forced to take their places again, some of the Boers using their heavy whips over their heads and shoulders, while others with pointed guns prevented any attempt at retaliation. Men, and even women, crowded the platform, jeering and cursing those in the waggons, menacing them with their whips and snatching at such trinkets, and even cloaks as took their fancy. The men were all several times searched for weapons, and made to turn their pockets inside out, the contents being unceremoniously transferred to those of the Boers. Chris and his companions would have taken their places below with their friends, but these implored them not to do so, being afraid that they would be enraged beyond endurance, and might in their anger say or do something that would give an excuse to the Boers to use their rifles, which they so often pointed threateningly at women as well as men. It was only when the train was in motion that food and drink were passed up from below, as these too would assuredly, had they been seen, have been confiscated by the brutal tormentors.

When they steamed into Standerton in the afternoon, the distress of the women and children for water was so great that men determined at all costs to endeavour to get some for them. As if by one impulse, when the train came to a standstill outside the station, they jumped out and made for the little village. But here all refused to give or sell them water or food, and in a few minutes a large party of Boers rode in, and falling upon them with their whips, drove them back to the train. Had they been armed the men would assuredly have resisted till the last, although certain to be killed, so mad were they with passion. As it was, it would have been throwing away their lives, without a chance of even avenging themselves on their assailants. As they reached the waggons and climbed into their places again, several had broad blue weals across their faces, while many more were smarting from the cuts they had received on the body. Chris and his companions had got out when the others did so, but had not followed them. Their supply of water and cold tea was not yet exhausted, as most of the ladies had made preparations for a journey of two or three days, and Mrs. King and the mothers of the other lads begged them not to go.

"The Boers are only waiting for an excuse to use their firearms," Mrs. King said, "and whatever happens you had better stay here. You can do no good by going." So, reluctantly, they had again taken their places on the roofs of the carriages, and sat there with their pulses beating and their fists clenched as they heard the shouts and the cracking of the heavy whips in the village, and presently saw the men running back, pursued by their cowardly assailants. Two or three of the lads were so enraged at the sight that they would have jumped down had not Chris laid a restraining hand on them.

"Wait your time," he said in a hard voice. "We can't repay them now, but we will remember this when our turn comes."

The Boers, as they rode up, leapt from their horses, and with shouts of exultation walked along the waggons, striking at the men, hurling every epithet of contempt and hatred at them, and even spitting at them. Many of the women were also struck as well as being grossly insulted.

"And these scoundrels call themselves Christian men, and their friends speak of them as simple pious farmers! I call them, both from their appearance and their actions, as unmitigated a set of ruffians as are to be found on the face of the globe," Cairns exclaimed passionately.

They were indeed as unsavoury in appearance as they were brutal in manner. Water is scarce in the Transvaal, and is used most sparingly for all purposes of cleanliness. The Boer sleeps in his clothes, gives himself a shake when he gets up, and his toilet is completed, unless on very exceptional occasions when he goes outside the door to the water-cask, fills his hands with water, and rubs them over his face.

Four times in the year, however, the Boers indulge in a general wash before starting with their wives and families for four or five days' stay at the nearest town to attend the services of the church and to do their quarter's marketing. In dress the Boer is almost universally slovenly, his clothes hang about him stained and discoloured by long usage. In the majority of cases he is altogether without education, and very many Boers are scarcely able to sign their names. Most of them wear beards and long unkempt hair. But in point of physique they are fine men, tall and powerfully, though loosely, built, but capable of standing great fatigue if necessary, although averse to all exercise save on horseback. All are taught to shoot from boyhood, and even the women in the country districts are trained in the use of firearms, for it is not so long since they lived in dread of incursions by the Zulus and Swazis.

There was no attempt whatever at uniformity of dress. Most of the men wore high riding boots. Some of the young men from the towns were in tweed suits, the vast majority wore either shooting jackets or long loose coats; some were in straw hats, but the elder men all wore large felt hats with wide brims. They were all, however, similarly armed with rifles of the best and most modern construction. Their general appearance was that of a large band of farmers of the roughest type and wholly without regard for their personal appearance.

It was fully an hour before the train moved again. Then it was shunted on to a siding while the Boers entrained with their horses on a long line of waggons which had just come up, and which started on its way south as soon as they were on board. Then the emigrant tram crawled on again. There was another night of wretchedness, and in the morning they arrived at Volksrust, the frontier town. Here they were again closely searched for arms, and what provisions remained among them were commandeered, or as the emigrants called it, stolen. However, they knew that their troubles were now nearly over, and did not grumble when they were informed that the train would go no farther, and that they must make their way on foot to Newcastle.

They were told tauntingly that they might find some of their friends there if they had not already run away, and that if they stopped at Pietermaritzburg for a week they would have another journey down to Durban as prisoners. All were too glad to get out of the clutches of the Boers to utter complaints which they knew would be useless, and they went off at once. The prospect was not, however, a pleasant one. Newcastle was nearly thirty miles away, but they hoped that at least they might obtain shelter and rest and food for the women at some of the scattered farms. At first their progress was slow, for after being for more than two days and a half packed up like cattle, they had almost lost the use of their limbs; but gradually the pace was accelerated. Men took the little children on their shoulders, others helped the women along. Charlestown, on the British side of the frontier, was already occupied by the Boers, who hooted and abused them as they passed through. At Laing's Nek there was a Dutch commando with some guns.

Two miles on the women could go no further, and they halted at a large farmhouse which had been deserted by its owners. All the men, however, who were alone, determined to push on at once to Newcastle, and promised they would send vehicles of some sort to take them on if they could possibly be obtained. Mrs. King and the other ladies authorized them to pay any sums demanded.

Thankful indeed were the tired women when they reached the farmhouse. They found the doors unfastened, as the farmer knew that were he to lock them the Boers would certainly batter them in when they arrived, and would probably do greater damage to the furniture left behind than if they had obtained an entry without trouble. The men soon found the wood-shed, and in a short time great fires blazed in every room. The bedding had been carried away, but utterly worn out as they were, the women were only too glad to lie down on rugs and cover themselves with their cloaks. The men gathered in the lower room and talked for some time before thinking of going to sleep. There was scarce one who was not determined to join one of the volunteer corps being raised at Durban and Maritzburg, and to avenge the insults and ill-treatment to which they had been subjected. The long-smouldering animosity towards the Boers had been fanned during the past three days into a fierce fire, and even those who had not before thought of taking part in the struggle were now as eager as the others to do so.

In the morning all were astir early. Had they been supplied with food they would have waited until waggons came out from Newcastle, but these could hardly arrive until evening, and at any moment the Boer advance might commence. They therefore determined to move on early, for if they met the waggons half-way these could return with them at once to the town. It was desirable to start as soon as possible so as to get well on the way before the heat of the day was at its fullest. Accordingly by six all were in movement. The long night's rest had done them good, still more so the thought that by the end of the day they would be among friends, and they were disposed to laugh and joke over their present situation. All the men had cut themselves heavy cudgels from the stock of firewood, and the fact that they were not as before wholly defenceless was no slight gratification to them. Even the ladies spoke confidently of being able to walk the twenty miles to Newcastle should they not meet vehicles coming to fetch them. They could go ten miles now and then halt till the sun was setting, and after such a long rest could certainly go on to Newcastle.

"I am afraid, mother," Chris said as they started, "that what seems so easy now will be too much for many of the women. We started without breakfast, and unless we can get something by the way I doubt if many will reach the town to-night. Of course for the men it is nothing. Very often when I have been out on the veldt and have started early, I have had nothing till I got back late in the evening. What are you wearing that veil for, mother? I saw that you pulled it down over your face yesterday afternoon. I suppose you did it to keep the dust out of your eyes, but there is none now."

"I had a reason for doing it, but I can put it up now."

She lifted the white veil to its usual place round her hat; as she did so, Chris uttered a sharp exclamation as his eye fell on a bluish-red mark across her face.

"You don't mean to say, mother," he said in a tone of horror, "that one of those scoundrels struck you?"

"They struck a good many of us, Chris, and there was no reason why I should escape more than another."

The lad's face grew white.

"Why did you not call out? I would have -- "

"I know you would," she interrupted gently, "and so of course I did not cry out. You had all had enough to try you to the utmost, and I was not going to risk your life by letting you know what had happened. It flashed across me at once that if you had seen it happen you would have been down from the roof in an instant and struck the man. Had you done so, your fate would have been sealed, you would have had half a dozen bullets in your body; therefore, I simply dropped my veil, and I can assure you that the smart of the Boer's sjambok gave me less pain when I felt that you knew nothing of it."

Chris walked along silently for a minute or two; then he said quietly: "Thank you, mother. I am sure it would have been as you said. I could not have helped it. No one could see his mother struck without interfering."

"I can understand that, dear; but it would have been a poor consolation for me had you been killed in endeavouring to right a wrong that I could very well put up with, and shall forget in a week."

"I suppose so, mother. I should not so much mind if I only knew the fellow's name, or even knew him by sight, so that I might possibly have the chance some day of settling accounts with him."

They walked on until eight o'clock, and then rested under the shade of some rocks. Fortunately there had been some rain two days before, and they had been able to quench their thirst at a little stream that came down from the hills. There were in all some thirty women and eighteen men.

"Look here, Harris," Chris said, "there is a farmhouse over there, and as I see cattle and horses, it evidently is not deserted. Let us go and see if we can get some bread and some milk for the women."

"All right!"

The other lads were quite ready to go also, and they walked across to the house, which stood some half a mile away. As they approached it a Boer came out. On seeing them he re-entered it, and appeared again with a rifle.

"I am afraid we shall get nothing here," Harris said. "The Dutchmen in Natal are only waiting for the Boers to advance to join them."

"Well, we will try anyhow," Chris said doggedly. "I dare say that you are right; but Boer or no Boer, if there is any food in that house I mean to get it."

They went quietly on. When they were within fifty yards the Boer shouted to them to go back.

"We have some women and children with us," Chris replied, continuing to advance. "They are exhausted from want of food and fatigue, and we have come to ask for some bread, and if you have it in the house, some milk."

"If the house was full of both you should not have a crumb of bread or a drop of milk. Halt! I say, or I will put a bullet into you."

Chris did not heed the command.

"We have plenty of money to pay you, and are willing to give ten times its fair price."

He was now within ten yards of the farmer. The latter burst into a torrent of abuse, and was in the act of raising his rifle when Chris sprang at him. The Boer, who had no idea that this lad would venture to attack him, discharged his rifle almost at random, and the ball passed through the brim of Chris's hat. An instant later his heavy stick fell on the Boer's head, and levelled him to the ground.

"Now, Harris," he shouted, "do you and the others go into the house, and first of all bring me out one of these fellows' whips. Cairns, pick up his rifle, and reload it. Sankey, do you and the others keep guard at the door, and don't let those viragoes out" -- for three women had just appeared, and were cursing with a fluency that Billingsgate would have envied.

Harris had already come out with a heavy whip by the time Cairns had reloaded. Chris took it and said to the Boer, who, in view of the formidable sticks the lads carried, had thought it best to lie quiet.

"Now you can get up, you hulking ruffian. I am going to give you a lesson in civility. Oh, you won't get up? Well, it will make no difference to me," and he proceeded to give the howling Boer a tremendous thrashing. "There," he said, when his arm was tired, "you may get up and go, and I hope that the lesson will do you good. Now, Cairns, we will search the house. It is likely enough he has a lot of rifles hidden somewhere, and perhaps when we have gone he may go and fetch some more of his class. We may as well possess ourselves of them."

The seven lads went into the house, paying no further attention to the Boer. In spite of the fury of the women, they searched the house thoroughly, and in a large case in a disused room they found twelve Mauser rifles, with a thousand cartridges. They then took a basket and filled it with bread, and emptied the milk from two large pans into a pail.

"We are not thieves and robbers, like your people," Chris said to the women, as he threw five shillings on the table. "Your man has been good enough to tell us that he will be in Maritzburg with the Boers in a week's time. Therefore, as war has been declared, the muskets are lawful spoil taken from a rebel. Now, boys, let's be off."

The cartridges were divided among them; then, with the thirteen guns, the basket, and pail, they started to rejoin their friends. "Well, that is a fair capture to begin with," Chris said. "As far as we are concerned, the war has begun. The Boer has made off, I see. I should not be surprised if we hear of him and some of his friends again. However, now we are well armed they can come as soon as they like."

Great was the joy among the women and children when they returned with the much-needed refreshment.

"I was getting very anxious about you, Chris," his mother said. "We heard the man fire. But where have you got all these rifles from?"

"The owner of the farm is a Boer, mother, and as he told us, a rebel. As he began the affair by putting a bullet through my hat, and abusing us and our nation heartily, we took the liberty of searching his house, with good success. I need not say that he did not give us this bread and the pail of milk of his own free-will, but I left the money for them."

His mother had turned pale when he said that a bullet had gone through his hat, but she said nothing.

"What became of the man?" she asked. "You did not kill him, I hope?"

"No, mother; I contented myself with thrashing him with one of his own whips until my arm ached."

There was enough bread for all to have a slice. The women and children had as much milk as they could drink, the rest was divided among the men. The extra rifles were given to those who could best use them. In half an hour the women said that they were ready to go on again, and that they would rather do that than wait, for they greatly feared that the Boer might gather some of his friends and attack them. Feeling greatly strengthened and refreshed, they started at a good pace. They had gone about a mile when Sankey said to Chris:

"Look, there is a party of mounted men across the valley."

"Then we had better plant ourselves among the rocks, and let the unarmed men go on with the women and children, and take shelter a bit farther on. I don't suppose they will venture to attack us when they find, to their disgust, that we are armed with as good rifles as their own. They have a great respect for their lives."

Accordingly the seven lads and the six men with rifles at once took up a position among the rocks. The rest of the party went forward two hundred yards and then took shelter also. The Boers, feeling certain that the party was unarmed, did not trouble themselves to open fire at a distance, but rode forward in a clump at full gallop.

"They are about a thousand yards away now," one of the men said. "We may as well give them a volley."

The thirteen rifles flashed out almost simultaneously. There were, as they had counted, sixteen Boers. Five horses fell, three others galloped off riderless, and the party broke up and rode off at full speed in various directions.

"I don't think we need trouble any more about them," said Sankey's father, who, was one of the party, as he rose to his feet. "You may be sure that several of those who got away carried bullets somewhere about them."

As they turned to rejoin their friends there was a general exclamation of satisfaction, for two large waggons were seen coming along the road. In ten minutes the women and children, with all the older men, were comfortably seated and on their way to Newcastle. Chris and his party accompanied them on foot so as to form a rear-guard. "We have won our first battle," Chris laughed.

"But for you there would not have been any battle at all," Field said. "I don't think any of us would have gone forward after that fellow warned us back had you not done so."

"I was determined to get some milk for the children," Chris said, "and would have gone forward even if I had been alone. I don't think I ever felt such a satisfaction as I did in thrashing that Boer. One of them struck my mother across the face, you know, in the train, and though it was not the same man, I feel better now that I have taken it out of someone."

At Newcastle they found a small British force, and learned that there were four or five thousand troops at Dundee. Trains were still running, and after only an hour's delay at Newcastle to obtain a meal, the whole party went on. Late that evening they arrived at Colenso. Mrs. King and the ladies and gentlemen of the party had decided to sleep there, but hearing on the road that the little town was crowded with fugitives from the Transvaal and the farms near the frontier, they determined to continue the journey to the capital, which they reached the next morning. The lads had quite decided upon their course before starting, and had arranged with their parents to remain at Maritzburg. The general opinion was that the British force at the front could not possibly maintain itself, but that as soon as the invasion began in force they must fall back, as the Transvaal Boers would be able to attack them in front and on the right flank, while the Free Staters would pour down through Van Reenen and De Beers Passes and make straight for Ladysmith, and so threaten their line of retreat.

There were a few indeed who still believed that the Boers would stand entirely upon the defensive so far as Natal went. They would occupy the formidable passes through the Drakensberg and await attack there, while they would invade Cape Colony at many points and raise the Boer population. However, the general opinion was that they would advance into Natal in great force, and in that case it was doubtful, indeed, whether Sir George White could oppose them successfully north of Maritzburg. He might even, it was thought, be obliged to fall back to Durban until reinforcements arrived from England. Already there was a rush to the offices that had been opened for the volunteer corps. Many of the fugitives from the Transvaal had joined, as had most of the young farmers who had been obliged by the hostility of their Dutch neighbours to abandon their homes in the north of Natal, while numbers of all ranks in Maritzburg, Durban, and other towns were giving in their names. All the lads who had come down with Chris had some time before obtained their parents' consent to join a volunteer corps, or form one among themselves, and as it was evident that the crisis was at hand no objections were raised to their doing so at once. Mrs. King would go down to Durban with her friends, so that there was no need for her son to accompany her.

It had been agreed by the other lads that they would all meet at ten o'clock at the hotel where Chris put up, and the party mustered in greater strength than had been expected, for they found that the boys who had preceded them had all waited in the town, and were stopping at the various hotels. They too had been as badly treated by the Boers as the last arrivals, and were all eager to begin work.

"There is no getting a private room here," Chris said, "so we had better go outside the town and talk things over." As they went they chatted over their adventures on the road, and great satisfaction was felt among those who had not been present on hearing how Chris had thrashed the Boer, and had gone tip to him in spite of his threat to shoot. At their last meeting at Johannesburg they had elected him their captain, but he had at the time refused to accept the post, saying that it would be wiser to decide that afterwards, as one of the others might show himself better fitted for the position. However, their first step when they sat down by the bank of the little river outside the town was to again elect him by acclamation.

"Very well," he said, "as you all wish it I will accept the post. I suppose we are well provided with funds. Our fathers all said they would find our outfit, and money enough for all expenses." There was a general assent. "Well, we start better than we had expected, for we have thirteen rifles: twelve of them are Mausers, the other we will sell; so we shall have to buy nine others. That had better be done this morning, for we may be sure that there will be a rush to the gunsmiths' shops. In the next place we must each buy a saddle and saddlery. We have agreed that we will not have any approach to uniform; because, as we all speak Dutch, we shall be able to pass unobserved, if necessary, among them. But I have been thinking it over, and it seems to me that if we have nothing of the sort we shall run the risk of being shot by our own men."

"What are we to do, then, Chris?"

"I think that we had better get flat caps, like the fatigue caps our soldiers wear. They can be carried in our pockets inside our shirts when we are in the neighbourhood of the Boers, and when we are riding anywhere near our own troops we can put them on instead of our felt hats. It would alter our appearance altogether when riding in groups, and even at a distance we could hardly be taken for Boers."

All agreed that it would be an excellent plan.

"We shall, of course, have bandoliers for our cartridges, and haversacks for our provisions and spare packets of ammunition. Not an hour must be lost in getting these things. I hear that Captain Brookfield, who came up to Johannesburg last year and stayed a fortnight with us, has raised a corps, which he has named the Maritzburg Scouts. I will call upon him this afternoon and tell him that there are one-and-twenty of us, all somewhere about my age, and that we mean fighting; and that as we all speak Dutch we think we can do more good by scouting about on our own account than by joining any regular corps; but that at the same time we should like, if there was anything like regular fighting, to place ourselves under the orders of an officer like himself. It is rather difficult to explain, you know, but I think he will understand what we mean. We should be, in fact, a section of his troop, acting generally on independent service, either scouting, or going in among the Boers and getting intelligence, trying to blow up bridges, and engaging looting parties -- for we may be sure that the Boers will be scattering all over the country plundering.

"Of course I shall say, if he won't accept us on those terms, we shall do as we best can on our own account; but that as we don't require pay, and will provide ourselves with all necessaries, we do not see that we should be any burden when we join him. I propose that we meet here again this afternoon, and I hope that by that time we shall all have got our mounts and saddlery. I hear that many of the loyal farmers north have driven their animals down here, and are only too glad to sell the horses at the usual prices. Mind, the clothes we have now won't do; we must get them of farmer fashion. Don't go together to any shop, but let each choose for himself; we don't want anything like uniformity of pattern. The stuff must be strong. We shall each want a couple of blankets; one of these, with a slit cut in the middle to slip over the head, will serve as a greatcoat. Now, let us be off! To save trouble, I should say that we had each better put a certain sum, say twenty pounds, to go into a fund for general expenditure -- food and ammunition, and that sort of thing -- into one of the banks, and we can draw upon that as we require it."

"I should say, Chris," Sankey said, "that we had better put all our money into the fund. Our people are all going to pay for our outfit, and you know they have agreed to give us a hundred pounds each to last us through the war. It is of no use carrying money about with us. I think we should agree to pay it all into the common fund, and that at the end of the business what remains is to be divided among those of us who go through it."

"I think that is a good plan, Sankey. Certainly we cannot all expect to come out alive, and that arrangement will save all trouble about money."

On going back into the town they learned that a large farmer had encamped two miles away, with a big drove of cattle and a couple of hundred horses, many of which were fine animals, and it was agreed at once that Sankey, Carmichael, and Peters should hire a buggy and drive over there and choose twenty-one good horses. Harris and Field undertook the purchase of the rifles, and Chris went to the office which Captain Brookfield, who had been an officer in the English army had taken. He had sent in his name, and was at once shown in.

"Well, Chris," he said cordially as he entered, "I am glad to see you. You have grown and widened out a good deal since last year. I suppose your father and mother have both come down with you?"

"My mother has come down, sir, but my father thought that he ought to remain behind to look after the mines."

"Have you come here to enlist?"

"Not exactly, sir, and yet I have to a certain extent;" and he told the officer of the little corps that had been formed among his companions at Johannesburg.

"A very good idea. Speaking Dutch, as you say they all do, they ought to do good service as scouts. But why have you come to me?"

This Chris explained.

The captain laughed. "I suppose the fact is, Chris, you think that you will be able to see and do more if you are altogether independent of other people's orders."

"Perhaps that is it, sir; but if there is any cavalry fighting we should much rather be under orders. Such a small corps would look ridiculous marching out by itself."

"Well, I don't see any reason why you should not carry out your plan. It would certainly be better that you should have some -- what I may call -- official sanction. All the men in our corps are paid five shillings a day, and as your troop would serve under different conditions, you can to a certain extent dictate your own terms. I will, if you like, accept you as an independent corps, attached to my command when with me, but at other times free to scout and to act as you choose; but mind, I cannot be responsible for any scrape that you get into. You might call yourselves the Johannesburg section of the Maritzburg Scouts, maintaining yourselves at your own expense, and drawing neither pay nor rations."

"Thank you very much, sir; that is just what we want."

"Then, if you will bring your companions here this evening, I will swear you in. I shall administer a different oath to you from that which the others take, and merely pledge you, when under my orders, to obey them, with permission to withdraw from the corps when you choose. And indeed, receiving no pay or assistance from government, you would naturally be free to do so."

Leaving Captain Brookfield, Chris went and bought his clothes, bandolier and belt, and saddlery, and then returned to the hotel and told his mother how he had got on, and that a horse and rifle would, he hoped, be obtained that afternoon.

"It seems to me a terribly dangerous business, Chris; but as your father agreed to it, of course I need say no more. I have a cheque for five hundred pounds for my expenses and yours."

"Father gave me a hundred before I started, mother; that will more than pay for my outfit. I don't know what we shall do for the horses, but there will certainly not be much over."

"Yes, I know, Chris; and he told me to hand you over another hundred when I went to the bank, which I shall do this afternoon."



Chapter III

At The Front


At five o'clock the lads from Johannesburg again met and reported the result of the afternoon's work. The nine Mauser rifles had been bought, and six thousand rounds of ammunition had been purchased. This appeared an excessive amount, but as there might be a difficulty in obtaining this ammunition, they bought up all that could be found in the town. Peters and his party had chosen the horses for the troop. The farmer was a well-known breeder of good stock, and was glad to dispose of some of them at a fair price in order to lessen their number. He had already had several enquiries from corps that were being raised, but the prices were higher than could be paid for ordinary troopers, though several had been bought by officers. The lot the lads had picked out had been put aside, and they had given the farmer fifty pounds earnest-money, to hold them till the next morning.

"They are as good a looking lot of horses as I ever saw," Peters said, "in fact, by a long way the best. I always heard that he was one of the largest breeders of good horses in South Africa. He had eight or ten extraordinarily good ones, but, of course, he wanted extra prices for these; but from the rest -- and he has some three hundred of them -- he let us choose any we liked at one price, and I think I can say that we shall be as well mounted a corps as any out here. Of course we avoided the showy-looking horses, and chose those specially suited to the country and likely to be fast. Mr. Duncan had several thoroughbreds from home, and there is no doubt that his stock has benefited by it; they are all of the country type, sturdy and compact, and yet somewhat finer in the limb than any I ever saw in the Transvaal. We were delighted with them."

All the lads were accustomed from childhood to horses, but those Chris had selected as the committee of inspection were admitted by their friends to be the best judges of horseflesh in the party, their fathers being wealthy men who always bought the finest horses money could obtain.

"We will go over in a body to-morrow," Chris said, "and pay for them and bring them back. We are lucky indeed to have got hold of such a good lot. Are they pretty even animals, Peters?"

"Yes, I really don't think there is anything to choose between them."

"Well then, the fair way will be, to make one-and-twenty tickets with as many numbers and fasten one to the mane of each horse, then we will put another twenty-one numbers into a hat and draw them; in that way everyone will be satisfied. Those of you who have not got their money from their people had better ask them for it this evening, so that we can settle up to-morrow for the horses and rifles and ammunition. The hundred pounds we have each been promised will well cover all our expenses up to the moment we start, and I should think leave us with something like twenty pounds apiece in pocket, but all we have and the other hundred for future expenses we had better put into the bank here to-morrow. We must arrange for four of us to sign cheques, each cheque to be signed by two, but we had better give them all our signatures so that in case what we can call the finance committee of four are all killed or taken prisoners there will be no bother about having fresh signatures to arrange about."

"Well," Sankey said, "we might as well settle that at once. I propose that Field, Carmichael, Capper, and, of course, you form the committee." As no amendment was offered, this was at once agreed to.

"What time did you say that we would come over to fetch the horses?"

"About ten o'clock."

"Well, will you all be at my hotel to-morrow at half-past eight with your money? Then we will all sign our names on paper the committee first; afterwards they shall go with me to the bank and pay all the money in, give them the list of signatures, and tell them that until further notice two of the four first names will sign the cheques, but that should circumstances prevent any two of them being able to do so, others will sign instead. The account had better stand as the Johannesburg Scouts. When we have arranged that we will hire a couple of light waggons and start. Have you all got your saddlery?"

"Yes."

"Well, we will take it with us, and then we can ride the horses back. I will get the tickets made out."

As soon as the bank opened in the morning, Chris and his three companions presented themselves, and had an interview with the manager, who was somewhat surprised when twenty-one cheques and cash to the amount of three thousand five hundred pounds were handed in, each member having deducted the amount paid for saddlery and clothes. "We wish the account to stand in the name of the Johannesburg Scouts, and cheques will be signed by two of the four names standing first on this list; but as casualties may occur, you will please accept any of these signatures. Our little corps will form part of the Maritzburg Scouts, but in money matters we keep to ourselves, being all volunteers serving without pay."

The manager ran his eye over the cheques. All the names were well known to him as those of prominent men at Johannesburg, and the great majority had already accounts at his bank, as all had some time previously made arrangements for drawing money in case of necessity.

"I suppose, Mr. King," he said, "that as you and your friends represent the corps, you are all young men?"

"We are all boys," Chris answered with a smile, "but we are old enough to do men's work, and in the Transvaal the Boers are commandeering all boys two or three years younger than we are."

"Well, I congratulate you all both on your patriotism and your pluck, Mr. King, and I have no doubt that you will do good service."

Receiving a cheque-book, they drew two hundred pounds for current expenses, and then going back to the hotel found the two Cape-carts and their companions ready, and the saddlery already stowed away. On arriving at the farm all were highly pleased with the horses their comrades had selected. They had on the way agreed that it would be a good plan to buy four others to act as pack-horses, and to furnish them with remounts in case any of their own were shot. These were to be sent into the town by two Kaffirs, whom they arranged to take into their service, for the farmer said at once, when they asked him that he could very well spare them, as he would be parting with a considerable number of his horses and cattle, and would not require so many hands as he had at present. The two men he chose for them were both active young natives; they made no objection to the exchange of masters, and, indeed, seemed pleased at the thought of going with them to fight the Boers, who were universally hated by the natives.

A cheque was given to the farmer for their purchase, then the horses were chosen by lot as agreed, and were at once saddled and mounted. They had all been partially broken in, and as the boys were good riders, they were after a little preliminary struggle soon at their ease, and, taking a couple of hours' sharp ride through the country, returned on good terms with their mounts. Two or three hours were spent in teaching the horses to stand steady as soon as the reins were thrown over their heads, this being a training to which all horses in the Cape are subjected. Then they rode back to the town and arranged with a farmer near it to picket their horses in one of his meadows, and for their feed while they remained there. The rest of the day was spent in laying in their supplies. The rifles and ammunition were paid for, pack saddles bought for the four spare horses, a brace of revolvers purchased for each member, haversacks ordered for the whole party, and bags to carry a supply of grain for each horse. In the evening they went out to the farm, and after discharging their rifles a few times fed their horses.

This they repeated in the morning, so as to familiarize them with the sound of firearms; then they saddled and mounted them, and after riding for half an hour drew up in line, as Captain Brookfield, who had sworn them in on the previous afternoon, was to inspect them at eight o'clock. They had all put on their working clothes, bandoliers and belts, and high boots, and the captain on his arrival, after closely inspecting them, expressed his strongest approval of their appearance.

"I really congratulate you, Mr. King," he said, "on having command of twenty such serviceable-looking young fellows. As they all can ride, and, as you tell me, can all shoot, they ought to do really good service, and I should be well pleased if all my troop were composed of such good material. From the fact that you can all speak Dutch, and most of you Kaffir, you will have great opportunities of obtaining information, and can, in case of need, pass as young Boers. In fact, I may say that there is some danger of your being mistaken for them by our men. I should take you for them myself, except that you all look brighter and more wide-awake than Boers generally do; but an artilleryman could hardly be blamed if he plumped a shell among you at a distance of two or three thousand yards."

"We thought of that, sir;" Chris turned to his band, "Change caps!" All pulled field-service caps from their pockets, took off the soft felts, rolled them up and forced them into their valises, and put on the caps.

"That is excellent!" Captain Brookfield exclaimed. "That certainly alters your appearance altogether, and as far as your figures could be made out through a glass, it could be seen that you are an irregular body of some sort. And this can be still more plainly seen if, as I should advise you, you always ride in fours when you are approaching our lines; there will then be little chance of a mistake being made. Where did you pick up all those horses?"

"We bought them yesterday from a farmer named Duncan, who has brought them down from his place near Dundee."

"Ah! that accounts for it; he is one of the best-known horse-breeders in the colony. I had not heard that he had come down."

"He only arrived two days ago, sir. We were fortunate to hear of it, and some of us rode over early yesterday and were lucky enough to secure them."

"You were lucky. There are several mounted corps being formed here and at Durban, and horses will go up in price rapidly. Where is he staying'?"

"About a mile and a half farther out, sir. If you want horses I should think that you had better go on at once, for he told me that he had sold sixty yesterday, but that very few of them were anything like as good horses as these."

"No. People are subscribing handsomely, but we cannot afford to mount our troopers on such horses as these. A good many gentlemen have found their own horses, and of course will be well mounted; but a good, sound, country horse is all we can afford for the others; they are excellent for ordinary work, though, of course, not so fast as yours, nor quite so big. Your horses have all a strain of English thoroughbred blood, and if you should at any time have to ride for it there would be little chance of the Boers overtaking you, though some of them are very well mounted, for the two things a Boer will spend money on, are his horse and his rifle. And when do you start?"

"We are going to-morrow morning. I went to the station-master yesterday evening and arranged for trucks for the horses to be attached to an early train to Dundee. We want to get up in time to see the first of it, and we should lose three days if we were to travel by road."

"That is the right spirit, and I wish I could go with you; but my troop will wear a sort of uniform, Norfolk jackets and riding-breeches, and the outfitters are so overwhelmed with orders that it will be another couple of days at least before they are ready. Then the men must have two or three days' drill before they start; I am still short of horses, so I will ride on and see Duncan. I want thirty-five more, and as yet, although subscriptions are coming in well, we are still a good deal short of our requirements. However, I dare say I shall be able to make some arrangement with Duncan, as I shall probably have enough to pay him in full by the end of the week. Altogether, I don't suppose I shall be ready to start for another ten days, and unless the Boers delay their advance I am afraid that I shall not get to Dundee."

"Do you not believe that we shall be able to hold the town?"

"I hardly think that there is a chance of it, and I am sure we made a mistake in sending a portion of the force there. I know the premier was most anxious that our troops should be posted as far north as possible, in order to save the loyal farmers from plunder. If the position were stronger and impossible to be turned, the case would be different; but it is not strong, and can be turned on each flank. If the Boers march to attack General Symons, who is in command there, he may possibly beat them off; but as they can advance towards Ladysmith either from the Free State on one side or the Transvaal on the other, he and his troops would be cut off, and the loyal farmers would be plundered just as much as if Symons had remained at Ladysmith. I fancy all the military men think that a grave mistake has been made, and that General White should not have exposed half his force to disaster. Besides, the position of Ladysmith is no more defensible than that of Dundee. The Tugela would be the natural line of defence, but even that could be turned by troops from the Transvaal going through Zululand, and the line of the river would be very difficult to defend by a force of less than twenty thousand men. However, we shall see how the thing works out -- how enterprising the Boers are, and how warmly the Free Staters throw themselves into the work."

"You think that we shall have a hard time, Captain Brookfield?"

"Yes, I think that is certain, even if Cape Colony keeps quiet, which I am very much afraid it will not do. If it rises, it will take all the strength of England to put it down. Well, I wish you all luck. I can assure you I feel proud of my Johannesburg section, and I shall be glad when you join me."

He shook hands with the whole of the lads and then rode off.

"The train starts at eight o'clock," Chris said. "We had better get our good-byes over to-night, get some breakfast if we are able to do so at half-past five, and meet here at six. We ought to be at the station at least an hour before the train starts. We shall not only have to get the horses into the trucks, which is certain to be a troublesome business, as they are altogether new to it, but we shall have to see to our other stores and belongings. I have arranged that we shall travel with the horses, so that we can each stand at the heads of our own animals, and if they are very wild, we can blindfold them until they become accustomed to the situation. I have bought a couple of trusses of hay from Thomas, and he will send down two of his native boys to the station. I should advise you all to put some food into your haversacks, there is no saying how long we may be on the road."

"What sort of trucks are they, Chris?"

"They have high sides, but no roofs. Of course I would rather have had roofs, but the station-master could not provide any waggons with them. But he showed me these, and as the sides are quite high enough to prevent the horses getting out, they will do very well."

The saddles were taken off and piled together. There was no chance of rain, so they were left uncovered. The lads then walked back into the town. There was, of course, a sad parting that evening between Chris and his mother, but she bore up well. She knew that hundreds of other women were parting with husbands or sons, and she felt that, as the main cause of the war was to rescue the Uitlanders in the Transvaal from the oppression of the Boers, it behooved all the fugitives from that country to do their utmost.

In the morning the lads all arrived punctually at the rendezvous. The horses were fed to the accompaniment, as usual, of pistol shots. Then they were saddled up, the valises the lads had brought down with them were strapped on, and with their rifles slung behind them they rode to the station.

It was, as they had expected, a long and troublesome business to get the horses into the trucks, but at last this was managed. Nose-bags were put on, with a few double-handfuls of grain, then one trooper was left to each two horses, while the rest saw to their bundles of blankets, their stores of tea, sugar, and flour, preserved milk, cocoa, bacon, and tinned food. A couple of frying-pans, and a canteen of tin cups and plates, a knife, fork, and spoon each, and two kettles, completed their outfit. They had put their soft felt hats in their valises, and were all in their flat fatigue caps.

The train was a long one, but the carriages with it were empty, for while the trains from the north were closely packed, there were few persons indeed proceeding up country. The trucks, however, were well filled, as great quantities of stores were being taken up, some to Ladysmith, and others for the force at Dundee. The horses soon became accustomed to the motion, and their masters took the opportunity of familiarizing themselves with them, by talking to them, patting them, and giving them pieces of bread and an occasional lump of sugar. The two Kaffirs had brought on the pack-horses four water-skins and a couple of buckets, and in the heat of the day the horses were allowed a good drink, while their masters, whose haversacks had been filled by their friends, enjoyed a hearty meal, washed down by tin mugs full of champagne.

They were in the highest spirits, although the meal was taken under difficult circumstances, for all were seated on the upper rails of the trucks, there being no room for them to sit down among the horses. The plates were all packed up, and fingers and teeth served for knives and forks, which was the less important since chickens were the staple of the meal; and these had been cut up before starting. Many were the jokes that passed along the line. All felt that it was the last experience they were likely to have of civilized food, and that it would be a long while before champagne or any other wine would fall to their lot. The Kaffirs, who had each charge of two spare horses, enjoyed themselves no less, for they had a fair share of the provisions of their masters, and were in a high state of contentment with their prospects.

There was a halt of an hour at Ladysmith. Many of the officers and soldiers gathered at the station, their work for the day finished, and the arrival of the train being always an event of some importance in the little town. They were amused and interested at the party of young fellows who alighted to stretch their legs and get a change of position.

"Which is your leader?" a major asked Field.

"The one talking to an officer. His name is Chris King."

"Is he chosen because he is the oldest of you?"

"No, that has nothing to do with it. We are all within a year of the same age. We have all been chums and friends, and have hunted and shot together, and he is the one we elected as our leader, just as you would choose the captain of a cricket club. We all come from Johannesburg, find our own horses, arms, and outfits, and ask nothing whatever from the government; and as we speak Dutch, and all know more or less Kaffir, we fancy we can make a good deal better scouts than your cavalry, who can't ask a question of a Boer or get information from a native."

The major laughed. He saw that the lad a little resented the joking tone in which he had asked the question.

"I have no doubt that you are right," he said, "and I am quite sure I should like half a dozen of you as subalterns. When did you come from Johannesburg?"

"We left there about a week ago, and as we were only at Maritzburg three days, we have not lost any time."

"Indeed, I think that is a record performance. Of course you are all looking forward to your first skirmish; I can assure you we are."

"We had our first on the way down here, when we were between Newcastle and the frontier. Four or five of us went to a farmhouse to try and get some food and milk for the women and children. It was a Boer's place, and the fellow came out with a rifle and warned us off. We went forward, and he took a shot at King when he was quite close to him, but fortunately the bullet only went through his hat. Chris knocked him down and gave him a tremendous thrashing with his own whip. Then we took some provisions and paid for them, and searching the house, found twelve Mauser rifles and a lot of ammunition. We took these off without paying for them. The Boer had made off while we were searching the house, and he and some twenty others pursued us, not dreaming that we were now armed. However, we gave them a volley, and emptied three saddles and killed three or four horses, and they moved off without trying to make our further acquaintance."

"Well done, lads!" the officer said warmly, "that was an excellent beginning, and I have no doubt that you will follow it up well."

Similar conversations were going on all along the platform, and when at last the lads again took their places in the trucks, a hearty cheer was given them. The sun was setting when they arrived at Dundee. It was a larger place than Ladysmith, as there were some coal-mines in the neighbourhood, and a considerable number of men were employed in them. Like Ladysmith it is situated on a plain dominated by hills. The camp was some little distance out of the town. An officer was at the station with a party of men to receive the stores brought up by the train. Chris at once went up to him and saluted.

"We have just arrived, sir; we are a section of the Maritzburg Scouts, acting independently. As we are all from Johannesburg, and find our own horses, equipment, and food, provide our own rations, and, of course, serve without pay, we propose to scout on our own account, and as we all speak Dutch well, I think that we may be useful in obtaining information. We shall, of course, search the country in whatever direction may be considered most useful."

"I have no doubt that you will be of good service, sir," the officer said.

"I suppose we can camp anywhere we like."

"I should think so. As you do not draw rations, it can matter little where you post yourselves; but I don't think that you will be able to get tents to-night."

"We shall not want them, sir; we have each a large waterproof sheet, and intend to use them as tentes d'abri. I suppose I had better report myself at the headquarters of the general?"

"Yes, that would be the proper thing. The camp is a mile and a half away; if you follow the Glencoe railway, you cannot miss it."

As soon as the horses were detrained and the baggage packed, the little party mounted and left the station, and choosing a piece of unoccupied ground a few hundred yards away, proceeded to unsaddle and picket the horses, while Chris rode away to the camp accompanied by one of the natives to hold his horse there. He had no difficulty in finding it, and dismounting, walked to the group of head-quarter tents. His appearance excited a good deal of amusement and some chaff from the soldiers he passed. He looked, indeed, like a young Dutch farmer in his rough clothes, and his rifle, and a bandolier of cartridges. Seeing a young officer close to a tent, he asked him which was that of the adjutant-general.

"He is there talking to the general at the door of his tent. Do you wish to speak to him?"

"I should be glad to do so," Chris replied. The officer walked across and informed the colonel that Chris wanted to speak to him.

"Bring him across, Mr. Williams," the general himself said. "He is evidently a young farmer, and possibly brings in some news of the enemy's movements."

The lieutenant returned to Chris and led him up to the general.

"You have some news that you wish to give us, sir?" Sir Penn Symons said.

"No, general; but I hope to be able to do so to-morrow."

He then stated his position and the nature of his command.

"We are all very well mounted, sir," he went on, "and as we all speak Dutch, hope to be useful. At any rate, we shall be no trouble to you, as we draw neither rations nor pay. We think we can pass anywhere as Boers; that is why we have not adopted any uniform."

"I have no doubt you will be of service," the general said, "though I hardly think that you will pass as Boers with those caps."

"We have all wide-brimmed hats to use while we are scouting, general; but we carry these too, so that on our return towards your lines we can be recognized even at a distance as not being Boers, and so avoid being fired at."

"Yes, that is a very necessary precaution. I will have officers commanding cavalry and artillery detachments warned, that a section of Maritzburg volunteers are dressed as farmers, but may be known in the distance by having caps similar to the ordinary infantry field-service caps.

"Well, sir, I shall be glad if you will to-morrow ride to the south, following the river, and endeavour to find out whether the Boers have any considerable force in that direction, either on this side of the river or the other, I may tell you that five of the Natal police were captured on the evening of the 13th at De Jagers Drift. The Boers have been in possession of Newcastle for the past three days, and they are certainly crossing the passes from the Free State. You must be very careful, for they have scouting parties across the river almost as far as the Tugela. However, we hardly expect any serious struggle for another week or ten days; for all the accounts are to the effect that the Boers are still very deficient in transport, and that for the past week those at Laing's Nek, and the other passes, have been very much straitened for provisions. It would be as well for you, while you are at Dundee, to come over once a day to report your doings, and to receive orders as to the point where we most need information. Have you gone into lodgings in the town?"

"No, sir. We have waterproof sheets that form tentes d'abri, and we prefer being with our horses, which were only bought a few days ago; so, as we shall not have much opportunity of sleeping otherwise than in the open for some time, we thought it as well to begin at once, especially as the weather looks threatening, and the horses, being unaccustomed to be picketed, might pull up the pegs and get loose were there a heavy rain."

"You seem to be well fitted for the work, and to set about it in the right spirit."

"We have all been accustomed to hunting expeditions, sir, when we have often been out for some days, so that we understand how to shift for ourselves, though we are new to campaigning."

"What rifles have you? that does not look like a Lee-Metford."

"No, general, it is a Mauser. We captured twelve of them, at a Boer's farmhouse three or four miles this side of Newcastle six days ago. He fired at us, and though his bullet only went through my hat, we thought ourselves justified in searching his house."

"Certainly you were. We heard that there had been a skirmish on the road, and learned the particulars from one of those who took part in it, and who stayed here for two or three days before going down the country. He said that four or five young gentlemen, who were coming down with a party of women and children from Volksrust, had gone to a farmhouse to try and get food, milk, and bread for the females. The Boer farmer insulted them, and shot at one of them when but two or three yards away; he had been tremendously thrashed by the young fellow, and they returned laden with a good supply of milk and bread, and twelve rifles and a lot of ammunition that they had found at the farm. And with these they and some of the men had beaten off an attack of a score of Boers without any loss to themselves."

"Yes, general, that was our party; we had sent forward for some waggons, and got into Dundee two hours after the skirmish; and as there was a train just going we went on at once, and reached Maritzburg the next morning, where we were joined by some of our party who had come down the day before. As we had made all our plans before leaving Johannesburg, we were able to start this morning, which was the third after our arrival there."

"You were prompt indeed," the general said with a smile, "and must have needed money as well as brains."

"We had all obtained leave of our families, general, and were well provided with funds to carry us through the campaign if it lasts for a year. We wanted to be in time for the first fight."

"I think yours was the first fight, except that a few shots were exchanged between our scouts and the Boers on the morning after the ultimatum expired. Now, sir, if you should at any time be in want of necessaries I shall be glad to supply you; but I cannot furnish you with ammunition, as the Mausers carry a smaller bullet than our rifles."

"Thank you, general, but we have enough to last us for a considerable time, having brought up six thousand rounds."

"A good provision indeed," the general laughed; "enough to last you through half a dozen pitched battles. I shall be in the town at six o'clock to-morrow morning, and shall be pleased to inspect your little corps before you start."

"I thank you, general; we shall all be very proud to be inspected by you."

Then saluting he returned to his horse and rode back to Dundee. He was pleased to see that the eleven little tents had been erected strictly in line, that the horses were all standing quietly at the picket-rope, and that two of the troop were placed as sentries. A large fire was blazing in front of the tents, the two natives were squatting by it, the kettles were swung over it, and a joint of meat was roasting there. Two or three of the lads were standing talking together; the rest had gone into the town. Cairns came up to him as he dismounted.

"Have you heard the news, Chris?"

"No, I have not heard any particular news."

"I was at the station a quarter of an hour ago, and a telegram had just been received that the Boers were, when it was sent off, entering Elandslaagte station, and were in the act of capturing the passenger train that was standing there. The message stopped abruptly, as no doubt the Boers entered the room where the clerk was at work at the needles."

"By Jove we are in luck!" Chris said. "Of course that was the train that had to leave three hours after us. If we had stopped for that, the horses, rifles, and kit would all have gone, and we should now be prisoners. It is serious news, though, for it is evident that not only are they marching against us in front, and on both flanks, but have cut our communications with Ladysmith. There can be no doubt that, as everyone said there, it was a mistake to send General Symons forward here, as it was almost certain that with four regiments, three batteries of artillery, a regiment of cavalry, and a few hundred of the Natal police and volunteers, he could never maintain himself here. Why, we heard at Ladysmith that a column had gone out the day before towards Besters station, as the news had come in that they were even then in the neighbourhood. It was a false alarm, but it was enough to show that the Boers were likely to be coming down and cutting the railway in our rear. General Symons told me that he did not expect any general advance of the enemy just yet, because he heard that their transport was incomplete, and that they were very short of provisions. But I don't think the want of transport would prevent their advancing. We know well enough that the Boers think nothing of going out for three or four days without any prospect of getting any more provisions than they carry about them, unless they have the luck to bring down an antelope. And as Utrecht and Vryheid and Newcastle are all within a few miles of us, and the Free Staters have already come down through some of the passes of the Drakensberg, they must be within an easy ride of us; and if they are in force enough to drive us out of this place, they must know they would find themselves in clover, for we heard at Ladysmith that there were provisions and stores for two months collected here."



Chapter IV

Dundee


After picketing his horse, Chris went into the town. He found the streets full of excited people, for the news that the railway had been cut was serious indeed, and the scene reminded Chris of that which he had witnessed in the streets of Johannesburg but eight days before. Only eight days! and yet it seemed to him as if weeks had passed since then. So much had been done, so great had been the changes. As at Johannesburg, a considerable portion of the population had left, seeing that, although the troops might for a time defend the town, the Boers were certain to cut the line of railway. Work at the coal-mines had been pushed on feverishly of late, for strangely enough there was no store of coals either in Dundee itself or at any of the stations down to Durban, and the authorities had only woke up a few days before to the fact that coal would be required in large quantities for the transports on the arrival of the troops. But now all this was to come to a stop. The hands would be thrown out of employment, and the town would become stagnant until it was captured by the Boers, or until an army arrived of sufficient strength to clear Natal of its invaders. That evening many who possessed vehicles started by road for Ladysmith, feeling that in another twenty-four hours it might be too late.

At seven o'clock, as had been arranged when they arrived, all the members of the band met at the bivouac for supper. There was a general feeling of excitement among them. They had known that hostilities must soon begin, but to find that the line had already been cut, and that the enemy were closing in in all directions, came almost as a surprise. This, however, in no way prevented them from enjoying their meal. After it was over they held, at Chris's suggestion, a sort of council. He had already told them what the general had said to him, and that they were to be inspected in the morning. As their saddlery was all new, there was nothing to be done in the way of burnishing buckles and rubbing up leather. As Chris remarked, all that would be necessary was an hour's work in the morning grooming their horses.

"Now," he said, "that the work is going to begin, we must draw up a few rules, for, volunteers though we are, we must have some regulations. In the first place, I find that the troops all parade in order of battle before daybreak, so as to be able to repel a sudden attack or move in any direction that may be required. If it is necessary for them, it is still more necessary for us, and I think that it should be a standing rule that we are all ready to mount at daybreak. Sentries must be posted at night, however safe we may feel. I think there should be two, relieved every two hours. There will be no hardship in that, as each would only go on duty every other night. In the next place, I think there should be what they call an officer of the day, who would generally be in charge of the arrangements, see that the Kaffirs attended to their horses properly, and so on. You see, we shall not be always acting together, but might sometimes be broken into four troops, in which case one in each five should command. I think the same lot should always keep together. What do you think? Would it be better that in each group of five one should be in charge each day, or that each group should choose one to act as non-commissioned officer?"

There was no reply.

"What do you think yourself, Chris?" Sankey asked after a pause.

"You are as well able to judge as I am," he replied. "I think that it would perhaps be the best way to write down the twenty names and put them in a hat, and draw them one by one. The first five should be number one squad. I don't know whether that is the right word, but anyhow it will do for them. The next five number two, and so on. Then each five can vote whether they would prefer alternate commands, or to choose one of their number as permanent non-commissioned officer. If they prefer this, they must then ballot as to which among them shall be leader. If you can think of any way that you would like better, by all means say so."

All agreed that the plan that he proposed should be adopted. Four groups were first chosen. Before they proceeded to the next step, Peters said:

"Of course I am quite game to carry it out as you suggest, Chris, but don't you think it would be a good plan to let the final decision stand for a week or two, each taking the leadership of his group in rotation? At the end of that time we should be better able to make a choice than we can be now."

"I think that is a very good idea, Peters. What do you all say? Will you each take your turn alphabetically for the present, and at the end of fifteen days, when each of you have led three times, you can decide whether each squad shall choose a permanent leader or go on as you have begun."

All at once agreed to the proposal. They felt, good friends as they were, that it would be very difficult to decide now.

"Very well, then, it shall be so," Chris said. "To-morrow we shall certainly do some scouting, but in a day or two you may be shut up here; and until we get away there will be no scouting to be done. We must have some signals. Suppose we are scattered over two or three miles, we may want to assemble, and must be able to signal. I thought of it before we started from home, and put down in my pocket-book the sort of thing that I fancied would be wanted. I will read it out to you."

He stirred the fire into a blaze and then read:

"One shot followed by another and a third, with ten seconds between them, will mean 'Enemy seen on the right'; with twenty seconds between, 'Enemy seen on the left'; then, after a pause, two shots in quick succession will mean 'Enemy in strength'; three shots will be 'Small party only'; one shot, followed at an interval of ten seconds by two in succession, will mean 'Retire to the point agreed on before we separated'; followed by three shots in quick succession, will be 'Close in to the centre'. We can think of others afterwards, but I think that will do to begin with. I know that you have all pocketbooks, so take down these signals at once."

"We ought to know where you will be," Field said, "so that we could rally round you ready for the next order."

"That might be so; therefore we had better fix on three shots in quick succession, followed in ten seconds by a fourth. The sound will be sufficient to let you know pretty well where I am, and you will on hearing it, join me at once. Are there any other suggestions?"

There was silence and then the books were closed.

"I cannot too strongly impress upon you all," Chris said, after they had chatted for some time, "the necessity for being extremely cautious. We know how slim the Boers are, and how accustomed they are to stalk game; and we shall have to be as watchful as deer, more so, in fact, since we have not their power of smell. When we break up into four parties, each party must scatter, keeping three or four hundred yards apart. On arriving at any swell or the crest of a hill, a halt must be made, and every foot of the country searched by your field glasses, no matter how long it takes. You must assure yourself that there are no moving objects in sight. When you get near such a point you must dismount, and, leaving your horse, crawl forward until you reach a point from where you have a good view, and on no account stand up. While you are making your observations any Boers who might be lying in sight would be certain to notice a figure against the skyline, and we know that many of them are provided with glasses as good as our own. We must be as careful as if we were out after game instead of men. You all know these things as well as I do, but I want to impress them upon you. You see, they have captured five of the Natal police, who are a very sharp set of fellows. However, a few days' scouting will show us far better what is required than any amount of thinking beforehand. There is one thing that I want to say to you. You elected me for your leader, but it is quite probable that when we have worked together for a bit some of you may prove much better qualified for the post than I am. What I want to say now is, if this is the case, I shall feel in no way aggrieved, and shall serve just as cheerfully under his orders as I hope you will under mine so long as I command you."

There was a general chorus of "No fear of that, Chris. We all know you well enough to be sure that we have made a good choice. We knew it before we left Johannesburg, but your pluck in walking up to that Boer with his loaded rifle clenched the matter."

"Well, we shall see," Chris said. "I shall do my best, but, as I said, the moment you want a change I shall be ready to resign; and now I think that we may as well turn in. It is nine o'clock, and we must be up at daybreak. Squads number one and two will each furnish a man for the first watch, taking the first on the list alphabetically. At eleven they will be relieved by two from squads three and four; then one and two furnish the next pair, and so on. Four watches will take us on till daybreak. The two of each squad who will be on duty to-night turn in to the same tent together, then the others will not be disturbed."

The blankets were spread in the little shelter tents, and all except the two men on duty were soon asleep. Chris had a tent to himself, there being an odd number, and an extra waterproof sheet had been carried for this purpose. Before leaving Maritzburg twenty-two poles, a little longer than cricket stumps, had been made under Chris's direction. They were shod with iron, so that they could be driven into hard ground. At the top was a sort of crutch, with a notch cut in it deep enough to hold another of the same size. Twenty-two other sticks of the same length were to form the ridgepoles. Half these were provided with a long brass socket, into which its fellow fitted. The whole, when they were accompanied by the spare horses, would be packed with their stores and spare blankets. At other times each rider would carry two of the poles strapped to his valise behind him.

Chris was the first to stir in the morning. There was but the slightest gleam of daylight in the sky, but he at once blew a whistle that he had bought that evening in the town, and heads appeared almost immediately at the entrances of the other tents, and in half a minute all were out, some alert and ready for business, others yawning and stretching themselves, according to their dispositions.

"First of all, let's put on the nose-bags, and let the horses have a meal," Chris said; "then set to work to groom them. Remember, there must not be a speck of yesterday's dust left anywhere."

All were soon hard at work. The Kaffirs stirred up the embers of the fire, which they had replenished two or three times during the night, hung the kettles again over it, and cut up slices of ham ready to fry. By half-past five Chris, after inspecting all the horses closely, declared that nothing more could be done to them. Then they were saddled, the valises, with a day's provisions and a spare blanket, being strapped on. Then all had a wash, and made themselves, as far as possible, tidy. By this time breakfast was ready, and they had just finished their meal when a party of horsemen were seen in the distance. Rifles were slung over their shoulders, and bandoliers and belts full of cartridges strapped on, and they donned their forage-caps after coiling up the picket-ropes and halters and fastening them with their valises to the saddles. Then they mounted and formed up in line just as the general, with two of his staff, rode up. After saying a few words to Chris, the general examined the horses and their riders closely.

"Very good and serviceable," he said, "and a really splendid set of horses. Of course, gentlemen, you would look better if you were in uniform, but for your purpose the clothes you have on are far more useful. Let me see you in your hats; I can then better judge how you would pass as Boers."

The lads all slipped their forage-caps in their pockets, and put on their felt hats, which were of different shapes and colours. As they had agreed beforehand they at once dropped the upright position in which they had been sitting, and assumed the careless, slouching attitude of the Boers.

"Very good indeed," the general said with a laugh. "As far as appearances go, you would pass anywhere. The only criticism I can make is that your boots look too new, but that is a fault that will soon be mended. A few days' knocking about, especially as I fancy we are going to have bad weather, will take the shine out of them, and, once off, take good care not to put it on again. A Boer with clean boots would be an anomaly indeed. Now, I will detain you no longer."

The only manoeuvre the boys had to learn was the simple one of forming fours. This they had practised on foot, and performed the manoeuvre with fair accuracy. Then Chris gave the word, and, after saluting the general, led the way off at a trot.

"They are a fine set of young fellows," the general said to the two officers with him. "They are all sons of rich men, and have equipped themselves entirely at their own expense. They are admirably mounted, and provided they are not caught in an ambush, are not likely to see the inside of a Boer prison. It says a good deal for their zeal that they are ready to disguise themselves as Boer farmers instead of going in for smart uniforms. However, they are right; for, speaking Dutch, as I hear they all do, they should be able singly to mingle with the Boers and gather valuable information."

As soon as they were fairly south of the town, Chris said:

"Now our work begins. Number one squad will make its way towards the river, and follow its course, keeping always at a distance from it, so that while they themselves would escape notice, they can ascertain whether any bodies of the enemy are this side of it, or within sight beyond the other bank. Number four will take the right flank, and keep a sharp look-out in that direction. Squads two and three will, under my command, scout between the flanking parties, and examine the farmhouses and the country generally. The whole will, as I said last night, maintain a distance of about three hundred yards apart, and each man will as far as possible keep those next to him on either hand in sight."

The two flanking companies starting off, those under Chris separating as they rode off until they were as far apart as he had ordered, and then moved forward. When on level ground they went fast, but broke into a walk whenever they came to the foot of rising ground, and when near the top halted, dismounted, and crawled forward. Each man carried a Union Jack about the size of a handkerchief, elastic rings being sewn to two of the corners. When necessary these flags could be slipped over the rifles, and a signal could be passed from one to another along the whole line -- to halt by waving the flag, to advance by holding the rifles steadily erect. Other signals were to be invented in the future. Chris took his place in the centre of the line, in readiness to ride to either flank from which a signal might be given.

For five or six miles no signs of the enemy could be perceived. Most of the fields were entirely deserted, but round a few of the scattered farmhouses animals could be seen grazing, and these Chris set down as belonging to Dutch farmers who had no fear of interference by the Boers, and were prepared to join them as soon as they advanced. Many of these, indeed, during the past fortnight had trekked north, and were already in the ranks of the enemy. Presently Chris, who was constantly using his glasses, saw the flutter of a flag on a hill away to the left, and a minute later the signal to halt passed along the line. It had been agreed that signalling by shot should not be attempted unless the enemy seen were so far distant that they would not be likely to hear.

"What do you see, Brown?" Chris said as he reached the lad who had first signalled.

"There are a good many men and animals round a farmhouse about two miles away. The house lies under the shoulder of a hill to the left, I suppose that that is why the others did not see it."

Dismounting, Chris crawled forward with the other until he could obtain a view across the country. As Brown had said, the farmhouse stood at the foot of the line of hills they were crossing, and was fully a mile nearer to those on the right flank than to the point from which he was looking at it, but hidden from their view. Bringing his glass to bear upon it, he could distinctly make out that some forty or fifty men were moving about, and that a large quantity of cattle were collected near the house.

"It is certainly a raiding party," he said to his companion. "They are too strong for us to attack openly, at least if they are all Boers. It would not do to lose half our number in our first fight. Still, we may be able to frighten them off, and save the farmer, who is certainly a loyalist, and cattle. You gallop along the line as far as it extends and order all to come over to the right. I shall go on at once and get a view of the ground close by. By the time they have all assembled we can see what had best be done."

Going back to their horses they started in opposite directions. In a few minutes Chris reached a point which he believed to be nearly behind the farmhouse, picking up some of the scouts by the way.

"I expect I shall be back in about a quarter of a hour," he said as he dismounted. "You, Peters and Field, may as well come with me, I may want to send back orders."

They walked forward fast until so far down the hill that they could obtain a view of the farmhouse. The moment they did so they lay down, and made their way across some broken ground until they were within a quarter of a mile of it; then seated among some rocks they had a look through their glasses, and could see everything that was passing as clearly as if they had been standing in the farmyard. It was evident the Boers had only arrived there a short time before Brown noticed them. Parties of two or three were still driving in cattle, others were going in and out of the house, some returning with such articles as they fancied and putting them down by their horses in readiness to carry them off. Two men and some women and children were standing together in a group; these were beyond doubt the owners of the farmhouse.

"How many Boers do you make out? I have counted thirty-eight." Peters had made out forty, and Field forty-three, the difference being accounted for by those going in and out of the house and sheds.

"Well, we will say forty-five, and then we shan't be far wrong. We certainly can't attack that number openly, but we may drive them off empty-handed if we take them by surprise." He examined the ground for another minute or two, and then said: "I think we might make our way down among these rocks to within three hundred yards of the house. I will send six more down to you. With the others I will go down farther to the left, and work along in that little donga running into the flat a hundred yards to the east of the house. You keep a sharp look-out in that direction, and you will be able to see us, while we shall be hidden from the Boers. We shall halt about three hundred yards beyond the house. As soon as we are ready I will wave a flag, then you and your party will open fire. Be sure you hide yourselves well, so that they may not know how many of you there are; they are certain, at the first alarm, to run to their horses and ride off. Directly they do so we will open fire on them, and finding themselves taken in the flank they are likely to bolt without hesitation. Don't throw away a shot if you can help it, but empty your magazines as fast as you can be sure of your aim. Between us we ought to account for a good many of them."

"I understand, Chris; we will wait here till the others join us, and then, as you say, we will work down as far as we can find cover."

Chris at once returned to the main party, who had by this time all assembled. "We can bring our horses down a good bit farther without being seen," he said. "There is a dip farther on with some rough brushwood. We had better fasten them there; they have learned to stand pretty fairly, but they might not do so if they heard heavy firing."

Leading their own horses and those of Field and Peters they walked down to the spot Chris had chosen, and there threw the reins over the horses' heads as usual, unfastened the head ropes, and tied them to the bushes. Chris had already explained the situation to the troop, and had told off six of them to go down to join Peters. He now advanced cautiously with these till he could point out to them exactly the spot where the two scouts were lying. Then he returned to the others, and they walked along fast until they came upon the break in the hill, which lower down developed into a depression, and was during the rains a water-course. Down this they made their way. On reaching the bottom they found it was some twelve feet below the level of the surrounding ground.

A couple of hundred yards further they could tell by the sound of shouting, the bellowing of cattle, and other noises, that they were abreast of the farmhouse, and going another three hundred yards they halted. Chris went up the bank until he could obtain a view, and saw that he was just at the spot he had fixed on. Making signs to the others, they took their places as he had directed, some ten yards apart. Then he raised his rifle after slipping the little flag upon it. A moment later came the crack of a rifle, followed by other shots in quick succession. Chris, with his eyes just above the level of the ground, could see all that was passing round the farmhouse. With shouts of alarm the Boers at once rushed towards their horses, several dropping before they reached them. As they rode out from the yard the magazine rifles kept up a constant rattle, sounding as if a strong company of troops were at work. Chris waited until they were nearly abreast of his party, and then fired.

His companions followed his example, and in a moment a fire as rapid and effective as that still kept up from the hill was maintained. This completed the stampede of the enemy. They were soon half a mile away, but even at that distance the Mauser bullets continued to whistle over and among them, and they continued their flight until lost in the distance. Chris's whistle gave the signal for ceasing fire, and the two parties sprang to their feet, gave three hearty cheers, and then ran towards the farmhouse. In the yard lay five Boers and seven or eight horses; the riders had jumped up behind companions, for as they passed, Chris had seen that several of the animals were carrying double. The little group, so lately prisoners, advanced as they came up, almost bewildered at the sudden transformation that had taken place, their surprise being increased on seeing that they had apparently been rescued by another party of Boers, and still more when on their reaching them they found that these were all mere lads.

"We are a party of Maritzburg Scouts," Chris said, with a smile at their astonished faces; "though, as you see, we are got up as Boers so as to be able to get close to them without exciting suspicion. We were fortunate in just arriving in time."

"We thank you indeed, sir," the settler said, "for you have saved us the loss of all our property, and, for aught I know, from being carried off as prisoners. We were intending to trek down to Ladysmith today, and had just driven in our herds when the Boers arrived. If they had been content with stealing them, they would have been away before you arrived; but they stopped to plunder everything they could carry off, and, as I should say, from noises that we heard in the house, to smash up all the furniture they could not carry off. We are indeed grateful to you."

"We are very glad to have had the chance of giving the plunderers a lesson," Chris said. "It will make them a little cautious in future. But I think that you are wise to go at once, for there are certainly parties between this and Elandslaagte, where they have cut the line; so I should advise you to travel west for a bit before you strike down to Ladysmith. We have not heard of any of them being beyond the line of railway yet. Now we have work to do. Number one and two squads will at once go up and fetch down the horses, number three and four will examine the Boers who have fallen here and out on the plain and will bring in any who may be only wounded."

He went out with this party; they found that eight more had fallen. Three of these lay at a short distance from the farmhouse, and had evidently fallen under the fire of the party on the hill; the others had been hit by those in the ambuscade. Altogether ten horses had been killed. Five of the Boers were still alive.

"Have you a spare cart?" Chris asked the farmer.

"Yes, I can spare one. Fortunately I have a small one besides two large waggons. May I ask what you want it for?"

"I want it to carry these wounded men to within reach of their friends. Which is the nearest drift?"

"Vant's Drift, and it is there, no doubt, that the party crossed. It is a little more than two miles away."

"Then we will place the wounded in the cart, and you might send one of your Kaffirs with it to the drift and stick up a pole with a sheet on it; they are sure to have halted on the other side, and will guess that there are wounded in it. As soon as the Kaffir comes within two or three hundred yards of the river he can take the horses out and return. I dare say he will be back again before you are off."

The cart was driven along the line that the Boers had taken, the wounded being carefully lifted and placed in it as it reached them. Two more were found dead and three wounded some distance beyond the spot where the searchers had turned, having fallen nearly a mile from the farm; the lads who accompanied the cart then returned. Long before they reached the house the horses had been brought down. The settler and his Kaffirs were hard at work loading the stores into two ox-waggons. The lads all lent their assistance, and in less than an hour the settlers started for Ladysmith, the women and children in the wagon, and the men on horseback driving their herds with the aid of the Kaffirs. After a hearty adieu, Chris and his party rode on together for some little distance before again scattering widely to recommence their work of scouting. Hitherto they had been too busy for conversation, but now they were able to give words to the satisfaction they all felt at their success.

"It has been splendid!" Sankey said enthusiastically. "We have defeated a force twice as strong as ourselves, have killed or badly wounded eighteen of them, and you may be sure that of those that got away several must have been hit. Not one of us has a scratch."

"Splendid!" another exclaimed. "It could not have been better managed. I think we ought to give three cheers for Chris." Three rousing cheers were given. "After this, Chris," Carmichael said, "I don't think you need talk any more about resigning the command. General Symons himself could not have done better."

"I think, at any rate, we have begun to wipe off old scores," Chris said. "We have paid for a few of the insults the ladies had to submit to as we came along, and I am heartily glad that we were in time to do it. We have baulked them of the haul they expected to make, and saved something like a thousand head of cattle for the colony, to say nothing of preventing these people from being absolutely ruined. It is only a pity that we had not our horses with us. If we had, not many of the Boers would have recrossed the river. But we could not have taken them with us without being detected before we got into position, and in that case we might have had a hard fight, and matters would probably have turned out altogether differently."

There was a general expression of assent, for all felt that in an equal fight the Boers, being twice their own numbers, would have been more than a match for them. It was evening when they returned to Dundee, having come across no more Boers during the day's work. Directly they arrived at the little camp where they had left the tents standing in charge of their two Kaffirs, Chris wrote a short report of their doings, stating briefly that they had come upon a party of forty-five Boers in the act of driving off the cattle and sacking the house of Mr. Fraser, a loyal settler. Having dismounted and divided into two parties, they had attacked the Boers and driven them off, with the loss of ten killed and eight seriously wounded left on the field. Many of their horses had been killed. The wounded Boers had been sent in a cart to Vant's Drift, and the farmer and his herds had been escorted as far as the line of railway, which they had crossed and were making for Ladysmith. There had been no casualties among his party.

Field rode over with this report and delivered it at headquarters, remaining to ask whether there were any orders for the next day. When he returned he brought a line from the general. It contained only the words, "I congratulate you most heartily. The affair must have been managed excellently, and does you all the greatest credit. Continue scouting on the same line to-morrow."

The lads were all highly delighted when Chris read this aloud, and then sat down to a well-earned meal, which was the more enjoyed as it had been voted that Field, as one of the finance committee, should go into the town and buy half a dozen of champagne in honour of their first victory. In the course of the evening one of the general's staff rode into camp on his way to town, having been requested by him to obtain full particulars of the fight at Eraser's farm. He took his seat by the fire with them, and Chris gave him a full account of their proceedings.

"Upon my word, Mr. King," he said, "you managed the matter admirably; no cavalry leader could have done it better."

"There is no particular credit about the management," Chris said; "we acted just as we should have done had we been stalking a herd of deer instead of a party of Boers. One always manages, if possible, to put a party on the line by which they are likely to take flight, before crawling up within shot. If we could have taken our horses down with us before we opened fire we should have done so, and being so well mounted, I think few of them would have got away; but we could not manage it without risking being seen, and in that case the Boers, on making out what our strength was, would certainly have shown fight; and even if we had beaten them, which I don't suppose we should have done, we should have suffered heavily."

"You were quite right not to risk it," the officer said; "we know by old experience that the Boers are formidable antagonists when behind shelter, and, accustomed as they are to shooting on horseback, I dare say they will do well when not opposed by regular cavalry, who, I am convinced, would ride through and through them. I am quite sure that in the open they will not be able to make any stand whatever against infantry, which is the more important, as in so hilly a country as Natal our cavalry would seldom be able to act with advantage."

In the course of conversation he told them that there was no news of any large body of the Boers being near. Joubert's force had not moved out of Newcastle, and nothing had been heard of the Free Staters or of the Utrecht force under Lucas Meyer. "We have sentries on all the lower hills round here and Glencoe, and there is no fear of our being surprised. The sooner they come the better, for we are all longing to get at them; and I can tell you we felt quite jealous when we heard of your spirited affair to-day. I can assure you that we shall have a greater respect for the volunteers than we had before, and if all do as well as you have done to-day they will be a most valuable addition to our force."

After their visitor had left, they sat chatting round a fire till ten o'clock, and then turned in.



Chapter V

The First Battle


All in the little camp, save the two sentries, slept soundly until, at two in the morning, they awoke with a sudden start. A deep boom and a strange rushing sound was in their ears. With exclamations of surprise they all scrambled out of their tents.

"What is that?" Chris asked the sentry.

"It is a big gun on the top of that high hill they call Talana. We saw the flash of light, and directly after heard the report, and a rushing sound. I suppose it was a shot overhead; if it had been a shell we should have heard it burst and seen the flash. It must have been fired at the camp."

The horses, startled by the report, were plunging and kicking, and the lads at once ran to their heads and patted and soothed them. Not until they were quiet did they gather again.

"What time is it?" Chris asked.

"The clock on the church struck two a few minutes ago," Brown, who was on sentry, said. As he spoke another gun boomed from Talana, or as it was generally called in the town, Smith's Hill, from a farm owned by a settler of that name at its foot. It was about a mile and a half east of the town, and therefore some three miles from the camp.

"It must be a very heavy gun by its sound -- as big as the largest of those we have heard fired from that fort above Johannesburg. Joubert must have started from Newcastle early to have managed to get it up there by this time, or it may be the force from Utrecht; anyhow, they must be strong to venture to attack us in this way. We may as well saddle up, though it is hardly likely the cavalry will be engaged. I shall not send to camp for orders; the general will have enough to think about, and it will make no matter where twenty men place themselves. However, I shall ride over to camp and see what is going on there; it is likely enough that there will be an attack by the Free Staters on the other side. Carmichael and Horrocks, do you run into the town and see what is going on there. I will not start till you get back; if any of the staff see me they may ask some questions about it."

In a quarter of an hour the two lads returned. The people there were completely scared at the unexpected attack, and the streets were full of half-dressed men; however, they seemed to be getting over their first terror, now that they found it was the camp and not the town that was being fired at, and the volunteer corps was already gathering in readiness for orders.

"We may be pretty sure that nothing will be done till daylight," Chris said. "Our men know the ground now, and none of the Transvaal Boers can do so, and I don't think they will venture to move till they can see their way about. I am glad, indeed, that most of the women and children were sent off two days ago, and that the scare on the evening that we arrived, when the news came of the railway being cut at Elandslaagte, sent the greater part of the men who had remained behind, and who did not mean fighting, off by road. If they bombard the town they may do damage to property, but there will be no great loss of life. You had better give the horses a feed -- that is, if they are disposed to eat at this hour -- while I am away."

On reaching the camp, Chris found all the troops under arms. They had been roused before the Boer fire began, as a picket to the east of Dundee had been attacked and driven in. It was not, however, supposed that the Boers were in force until their guns opened fire. All lights were out in the camp, and the enemy's shot had gone wide. It was by no means clear why the Boers should have betrayed their presence on the top of the hill until it was light enough for them to use their guns with effect. Chris had, before starting, put on his flat cap.

As he approached the camp he was challenged by a sentry: "Who comes there?" and on his replying, "An officer of the Maritzburg Scouts," the sentry called out: "Advance, officer of the Maritz Scouts, and give the countersign."

Fortunately, as it happened, the officer had given it to Chris on his visit to their camp, and he therefore answered at once, "Ladysmith," and was relieved when the sentry called out, "Ladysmith pass, and all is well."

When he entered the camp he found the men were standing in lines, but at ease, with their rifles piled in front of them, and there was a hum of conversation in the ranks. At the head-quarter tents everybody was astir. Presently an officer came up.

"Who are you?" he asked as he advanced.

"I am in command of the party of Maritzburg Scouts."

"Mr. King, is it not?" the officer asked.

"Yes, sir. I have ridden in to ask if there are any orders."

"No, and there will be none issued until it is daylight, and we can make out how matters stand and what is the force of the Boers. It is not likely that you will have any special orders, but can act with the cavalry and mounted infantry."

"Thank you, sir. Then I will ride back at once." On returning to camp, he said: "There is nothing to be done till morning. So far they have no idea of the force of the Boers. This is just the work we were formed for. Peters, you and Field and Horrocks certainly speak Dutch better than any of the others. It is half-past two now, and we have at least two and a half hours of darkness, therefore I propose we try to find out what force the Boers have got up there. It is no use for more than four of us to go, so the others can turn in, except the two sentries; but all will, of course, be ready to mount in case any party of Boers should come down upon the town before it is light. The next time I want three men on special duty I will give others a chance."

"Shall we ride, Chris?"

"I think so. Of course it will be more difficult getting up there in the dark; but I shall make a detour of three or four miles, and come up on the other side, and we should be much more likely to be questioned if we were on foot than on horseback. Should we come upon any party of armed Boers, remember we have just arrived from Standerton, and finding when we got to Newcastle that the force had moved on, and were to take up their station at Talana Hill, we rode on to overtake them. When we get fairly there among them, we will dismount; Field and Peters will stand by the four horses, Horrocks and I will go on. If you hear a row, you will mount and wait a minute or two, and then if we do not come, you will ride off with our horses as well as your own. We shall try and make our way to the edge of the hill, and ought to be able to slip away in the darkness if we can get there before we are shot down or overtaken. However, I don't think there is much chance of our being recognized. Indeed, I expect most of them will be lying down for a sleep before the time comes for action. If there is one thing a Boer hates it is being kept awake at night. I will take one of the Kaffir boys with us. They can see in the dark a great deal better than we can; and as the Boers are sure to have some natives with them, he is quite as likely to pick up news as we are -- more so, perhaps, for the natives will sit and talk all night while their masters are snoring. I think the one we call Jack is the sharpest."

Jack was called up, and on being told what was required, at once agreed to accompany them.

No time was lost. Chris and his three companions mounted, and with the Kaffir running alongside they set off at a trot. Keeping to the north of east, they rode on for some two miles, Jack leading the way with as much ease as if it had been daylight. When they had, as they calculated, come upon the ground the Boers must have passed over, they turned south, and kept on until they saw the dark mass of Talana on their right, and made towards it. On this side the hill sloped gradually, while on that facing Dundee it was extremely steep and strewn with boulders. They were now going at a walk, and they soon came upon an immense gathering of waggons, carts, oxen and ponies, crowded without any order, just as they had arrived two hours before. "There is no fear of our being detected," Chris said in a whisper, "and we can't do better than stop here. There is no getting the horses through this crowd, and if we did manage to do so there would be no getting them back, certainly not in a hurry. You had better lie down beside them, it is not likely that any Boers will be coming up or down. If the whole camp is like this there is not the slightest fear of our getting caught." Jack had already been instructed that when he got into the camp he was to leave them and join any party of Kaffirs he found awake, and talk to them as if he were one of the bullock drivers. As Chris and his companions returned, the former would blow his whistle softly, and he was then to make his way down to the horses at once.

Passing on unquestioned they neared the top of the hill, having left the mass of the vehicles behind them. There were, however, large numbers of ponies assembled here in readiness should their masters require them. Hitherto they had heard no voices since entering the camp, but as they went farther they heard talking. Here the fighting men were assembled. For the most part they were lying down; some were asleep; others, however, were moving about, and joining or leaving groups gathered together discussing the events of the next day. Horrocks and Chris now separated and joined different parties, some twenty yards from each other. They attracted no attention whatever. Their appearance in their broad hats and rough clothing, their bandoliers and rifles, was precisely similar to that of the men standing about.

No doubt whatever that the morning would bring them a brilliant victory, appeared to be entertained by the enemy. The artillery would first crush that of the British, then they would charge down and finish the affair. "They say that they have less than four thousand altogether," one said. "We are as many, and, as everyone knows, one Boer is a match for any three rooineks. It will not be a fight, it will be slaughter. We shall stop a day to gather the plunder and send it off in the waggons, then we shall go south and destroy the force at Ladysmith. Three days later we shall be in Maritzburg, and within three or four days afterwards shall drive the British on board their ships at Durban. We shall get grand plunder there and at Maritzburg. But I think it is time now to take a hand at building up that wall along the front. Ebers' commando have been at it for three hours, and it is our turn now."

There was a general movement, which was accelerated by a sharp order, and a minute later Horrocks and Chris again came together and moved on with the others. Three hundred yards farther they came upon six guns, beyond which a number of men were at work carrying and placing great stones to form a rough wall. These left off their work as soon as the party arrived. Having now seen all that was necessary, the two lads joined them and returned with them down the hill. The others threw themselves down near their horses, but Chris and his companion went on. Through the huge gathering of waggons they made their way with great difficulty, Chris giving a low whistle occasionally. At last they were through the camp. Jack was standing by the horses, and Peters and Field at once rose to their feet. Without a word they mounted, and rode without speaking till they were some little distance from the waggons.

"You are back earlier than I expected," Field said. "You have been gone scarcely an hour."

"No; the only difficulty we had was making our way through the mass of waggons and animals all mixed up higgledy-piggledy, and there has been no more excitement than if we had been walking through Dundee. We have got all we wanted to know. Their strength is about four thousand. They have six guns. They are building a stone wall along the brow of the hill, and they are cock-sure that they are going to thrash us without difficulty." Field and Peters laughed.

"They are fools to count their chickens before they are hatched," the latter said. "If they think it is going to be another Laing's Nek business they will find themselves mightily mistaken, though it will be a very difficult business to scale that hill from the other side under such a rifle fire as they will keep up."

Jack had now taken his place ahead of them again, and kept there with ease, although, they broke into a canter as soon as they reached the level ground. In half an hour they reached their camp.

"Now, Jack," Chris said when he had dismounted, "we have not heard what news you have picked up."

"Not much news, baas. Talk with some Kaffirs; all hope that we beat them to-day, but think we cannot do so. Too many Boers and big guns. They say Boers very angry because the other commandos not here, and Free State Boers not arrived. They sure going to beat the rooineks, but are afraid that some may get away. If Joubert and Free Staters here, catch them in a trap and kill them all."

Such was the substance of Jack's answer in his own language. By this time the rest of the party had turned out to hear the news. They had had but little sleep, for all were intensely anxious as to the fate of their four comrades, and although delighted that they had returned safely, were a little disappointed on finding that the affair had been so tame and unexciting. While they were talking the two Kaffirs had stirred up the fire, put some wood and some coal on, and hung up the kettle.

"That is right, Jack," Chris said; "day will begin to break in half an hour, and we may have to be moving." All was quiet until half-past five, and the lads had just finished their meal when the Boer guns opened fire, and two or three minutes later those of the British replied.

"It is an uncomfortable feeling sitting here with that terrific roaring noise overhead," Chris said. "One knows that there is not the slightest risk of being hit, but, to say the least of it, it is very unpleasant. There, a shell has just burst over the camp. So it is shell that they are firing."

Indeed, the Boers had been using these missiles only, but owing to some fault in the loading, or the badness of the fuses, they fell for the most part without bursting. It was soon evident to the lads that the range of the British guns was shorter than that of the heavier pieces from Talana. The distance was five thousand yards, and the elevated position of the Boer guns added to the advantage given by their superior weight.

"I will ride in now," Chris said as he got up from breakfast, "and tell the staff what we have gathered as to the Boers' strength." He had on his way down the hill exchanged his hat for his forage-cap, and taking Horrocks with him he galloped to the camp. Sir Penn Symons was standing on a small elevation watching the fire. Chris rode up and saluted.

"I have no orders for you, Mr. King, except that when the fighting is over you will join the cavalry in pursuit."

"Thank you, sir; I have not come for orders, but to report to you that with Mr. Horrocks and two others, and one of our Kaffir servants, I entered the Boer camp last night in order to ascertain their strength."

"You did!" the general exclaimed in surprise. "You hear that, gentlemen?" he said, turning round to three or four of his staff standing but a short distance behind him. "Mr. King and three of his party absolutely entered the Boer camp last night to discover their force. Well, sir, what was the result?"

"There are about four thousand of them, sir, over rather than under, and they have six guns, all of heavy calibre. When I was there they were at work building a thick wall some five feet high of rough stones along the edge of the hill. It will scarcely shelter the guns, but it will provide cover for the riflemen at the edge of the hill. There is an immense gathering of waggons and carts -- there are certainly not less than a thousand of them -- in a confused mass behind the hill. Arriving in the dark, each seems to have gone on until it could get no farther. The fighting men are all on the top of the hill, and between them and the waggons are their ponies. They certainly could not ride away till the waggons have been passed through, but possibly a passage may have been left on each side of these for them to get through, in order, as is their intention, to charge your army when their guns have silenced your artillery. I gathered that expected commandos had not come up. They were disappointed at hearing nothing of the Free Staters, who they expected would have attacked Glencoe from the other side. They are absolutely confident of success, and expect to overwhelm General White at Ladysmith in three days from now, and to be in Pietermaritzburg in a week, and are talking of driving the last rooinek on board the ships at Durban shortly after."

The general smiled. "I am much obliged to you for your information, Mr. King, and am much pleased at the courage with which you and your companions entered the Boer camp to obtain it. It is satisfactory to learn that their force is not much greater than our own. It is also useful to know that their ponies are gathered so close to them, for shells that go over the hill may burst among them; and I believe that one of the Boers' most vulnerable points is their horses, for without them they would feel absolutely lost. I am sure, Mr. King, that you would wish to be in the thick of the fighting, but I would rather that you curbed your impetuosity, for after the manner in which you obtained this news for me, I can see that your party will do far greater service in scouting and in gaining intelligence than they could afford in action. I should advise you to shift your camp, as the troops are about to advance into the town, and the enemy's shot will soon be falling there."

A few minutes later two field batteries moved forward and took up their position south of Dundee, escorted by the mounted infantry and the rifles. The third battalion of the Lancashire regiment remained to protect the camp should it be attacked by the Free Staters, while the Dublin Fusiliers and the Royal Irish Fusiliers were to march through the town to a donga or river-bed half a mile to the east. Beyond this the long ascent to Talana begins. The King's Royal Rifles were to take up a position under cover to the east of the town.

Chris had ridden back fast to Dundee. The work of taking down the tents and packing their materials and all the stores on to the spare horses took but a few minutes, and two of the lads went with the two natives and saw the horses safely placed in a sharp depression half a mile away, in which they would be safe from Boer shells. Chris had told his companions what the general had said. They all looked disappointed.

"We shall have plenty of opportunities afterwards, and it is a compliment that he considers we had better reserve ourselves for scouting, which, after all, is the work we always intended to carry out. Still, though, after what he has said, we cannot absolutely join the cavalry, we will manage somehow to see some of the fighting without getting into the thick of it. Besides, I should say that in any case the whole brunt of the affair must fall upon the infantry and artillery. If they silence the Boer guns and capture the hill, the battle is won, and the cavalry will have to wait for their chance till they can get the Boers to fight on ground where they can act."

Drizzling rain had now set in, but this and the fact that they had started without breakfast in no way abated the spirits of the troops who soon came along, marching with light step and eager faces which showed that they were delighted at the prospect of action. The batteries to the right had already come into play, and a vigorous cannonade was being directed at the crest of the hill, from which the Boer guns kept up a slower though steady fire in return.

"While nothing else is doing we may just as well ride over and see how things are getting on there," Chris said. And as soon as the two Irish regiments had passed, the little troop trotted across to the rising ground and dismounted a few hundred yards from the guns. They soon saw with satisfaction that the fire of the Boers was far from effective, their aim was not good, and a very small proportion of the shells burst; while on the other hand the shrapnel from the British batteries burst with splendid accuracy over the crest of the hill. For two hours the artillery duel continued, then the Boer guns gradually ceased their fire. The mist that had partly shrouded the summit of Talana, eight hundred feet above the plain, and the smoke that still hung thickly there, rendered it impossible to say whether they had all been put out of action or simply withdrawn, but when it cleared off they could no longer be seen. It was now the turn of the infantry. Beyond the donga in which they were lying the rise of the ground was gradual, up to a plantation which surrounded Smith's farm. Beyond this the ground was rocky. The men advanced at the double in open order, and the moment they were seen by the Boers a continuous fire of musketry was opened. The distance was about a mile, but the Mauser rifles had a much greater range than this and the bullets pattered thickly on the ground. Only four men, however, fell. The two regiments halted in the plantation and farm buildings, and the advanced line at the edge of the trees opened fire in answer to that to which they were exposed. The general at first had taken up his position with the guns, but as soon as the men advanced from the donga he joined them and accompanied them as far as the plantation. Then he returned to the battery, which continued its fire with greater activity to prepare the way for the further advance of the infantry.

The Rifles had joined the two Irish regiments, and at half-past nine General Symons galloped up to the farm and gave the order for the advance. This was received with a cheer by the men, who had been impatiently awaiting it. Scarcely had the cheer died away when the general was mortally wounded by a bullet that struck him in the stomach. Unconscious that the wound was so severe he retained his seat a minute or two, and was then carried by the Indian bearer company into the town. The troops, ignorant of the misfortune that had befallen them, were now working their way up the hill, taking advantage of every stone and boulder, and although exposed to a terrific fire, gradually pushing on until they reached a stone wall which ran round the face of the hill. Beyond this the ground was much rougher and very much steeper -- so steep, indeed, that it was almost impossible to climb it. The fire of the enemy was now terrific. The troops were some three hundred yards from the crest, and it was certain death to show a head above the wall. An officer placed his helmet on the end of his sword, and the moment he raised it, it was riddled by five balls.

For a time it was impossible to advance farther, but when the Boer fire moderated a little the order ran along the line for the men to storm the position. A signal was made to the artillery to cease fire, and as it did so the men leapt over the wall and rushed forward. There was now no thought of taking shelter or returning the Boers' fire, every effort was needed for surmounting the difficulties in their way. In some places the rock was so steep that the men had to climb on their hands and knees, sometimes those below pushed their comrades up and were in turn assisted by them to climb. The roar of musketry was unceasing. It seemed to be an impossibility for any man to reach the top unscathed, and yet there was no hesitation or wavering. Numbers fell, but panting and determined the rest pressed on. The Rifles suffered most heavily, and out of the seventeen officers who advanced with them five were killed and seven wounded. At last the steepest part of the ascent was surmounted. Those who first reached this point waited until joined by others, and then fixing bayonets they rushed up the slope to the edge of the plateau cheering loudly.

The Boers did not await the onset; the great body had already fled. They had believed it impossible for mortal men to scale the hill under their continuous fire, and our steady advance through the hail of bullets had astounded them and shaken their courage. The artillery, after ceasing fire, had galloped off at full speed and taken up their position on the ridge known as Smith's Nek, overlooking the plain behind the hill. For a distance of three miles this was covered with waggons and galloping men. The guns were about to open fire upon them when a white flag was hoisted, and, believing that the Boers had surrendered, the gunners abstained from firing. It was, however, but the first of numerous similar acts of treachery, and the Boers were thus enabled to make their escape.

The appearance of the plateau gained by the troops was appalling. Some five hundred of the Boers lay dead or wounded, and many had doubtless been carried off. Three of the guns lay dismounted, the others had been removed; for as they could not be sufficiently depressed to bear upon the stormers, they had been taken off as soon as the advance began in earnest. Beyond the plateau smashed waggons and dead animals lay thickly. Great numbers of the Boer ponies had been killed; many were still standing quietly waiting for their masters, lying dead above.

Pursuit was out of the question. The men were exhausted by their efforts; they were wet to the skin by the rain that had for nine hours come down unceasingly; they had had no food since the previous day, and the tremendous climb had taxed their powers to the utmost. For a time they cheered vociferously, the first joy of victory overcoming the thought of their dead and wounded comrades, who had to be collected and carried down. The loss had been severe, ten officers and thirty men had been killed, twenty officers and a hundred and sixty-five men wounded; and nine officers and two hundred and eleven men did not answer to the roll-call. This loss was unaccountable.

Chris, as soon as the infantry advance began, had, after talking with the others, agreed to set out in the direction in which the three squadrons of cavalry had started in the morning with instructions to work round, and be prepared to cut off the enemy's retreat. They had with them some of the mounted infantry and a machine-gun.

As the whole Boer force would be concentrated on the hill, Chris thought that there would be no danger in riding round, especially as, even had the Boers posted a force to protect their line of retreat, he was confident that the speed of his horses would prevent any chance of capture. From some natives he learned the direction that the cavalry had taken, and presently on rising ground, saw two parties halted in hollows some two miles apart. The farthest out on the plain appeared to be the largest, and to this he rode. The officer in command had seen him in camp, and as he saluted on riding up, said:

"So you have come to lend us a hand, sir? Can you tell me how matters are going on at Dundee?"

"At the time we rode off, sir, the advance of the infantry had just begun, the Boer guns had been silenced, and our men were advancing from Smith's farm under a very heavy fire of the enemy, which continued without intermission as long as we were within hearing distance."

"Did you see the other squadron as you came along?"

"They are in a hollow two miles away."

"Ah! that is where we left them."

The troopers were all dismounted, and the scouts followed the example. The boom of the British guns was continuing unabated. "They can be getting on but slowly," the officer said. "I am afraid we shall find it a very tough job. I suppose there is a strong force up there?"

"Over four thousand."

"How do you know?"

"I was up there last night," Chris said, "with three of the others. We did not go up in these caps, as you may suppose, but in wide-brimmed hats. We were able to get about without exciting any suspicion whatever. We found they had six guns and over four thousand men. As we all speak Dutch fluently there was really no chance of our being detected."

The other officers of the squadron had all gathered round.

"Danger or no danger, it was a very plucky action," their leader said. "I suppose that was the news you brought in just before the troops marched off. Well, I wish that we had got our breakfast and the horses a feed before we started. It is more important for the horses than it is for us, though I should not be sorry for breakfast myself."

"We have some food in our haversacks, sir. We breakfasted before we started, and we filled our haversacks with biscuits, thinking that perhaps they would be welcome, for we knew that none of the troops had anything to eat before leaving."

"You are very good to offer it," the colonel said. "But we could not eat while the men have nothing."

"It will go round, sir, though it will be but a small portion for each. We each put about ten pounds of biscuits in our haversacks, and shall not be sorry to get rid of the weight. It will make something like three-quarters of a pound per man all round."

"More than that," the officer said. "I am indeed greatly obliged to you."

The haversacks were emptied and divided into four heaps of equal size, with a proportionate heap for the ten officers. Four men were called up from each troop, and in a short time the soldiers were all munching biscuits, every man dividing his rations with his horse. The sight of the rough-looking troop had at first excited some amusement and a little derision among the soldiers, but this feeling was now exchanged for gratitude, and it was unanimously agreed that these young farmers were a capital set of fellows. The hours passed slowly until the officers, through their glasses, saw a great movement in the encampment on the hill. The waggons standing lowest separated from the others, and gradually a general movement set in.

"Our men must be gaining ground," the colonel said, "and the Boers are beginning to funk."

The bits were put into the horses' mouths again, the saddles buckled up tightly, and an expression of satisfaction succeeded that of disgust at the long hours standing in the pouring rain. Presently, when the leading waggons were abreast of them, at a distance of about a mile, the order was given to mount, and the two squadrons dashed across the plain and were soon among the fugitives. There were many mounted men among them, these being the first to steal away from the fight. They opened fire as the cavalry approached, but were soon overthrown or driven away in headlong flight. Many of the waggons were seized, but each moment their defenders became stronger. The Boers were now flocking down in great numbers, and seeing their teams and property in danger they dismounted, formed some of the waggons up in a square, and from them opened a heavy fire upon the troopers. Chris dismounted his party, and returned the fire, but the officer in command, seeing that with so small a force of infantry he could do nothing, and that the numbers of their enemies were increasing, drew off. He would have continued the fight, but he supposed that the artillery would soon be at work, and knew they could not open fire as long as he was engaging the Boers, he therefore retired with the long train of captured waggons, and late in the afternoon reached camp.

Nothing was seen of the other squadron and mounted infantry, nor was any news received of them until the following day, when a medical officer with some wounded men came in. Like the larger force, they too had ridden in among the waggons, but had taken a more northerly line, and had come on a point where the Boers were thickest. They had charged and taken several prisoners, and inflicted severe loss on the enemy. These, however, had swarmed round them, keeping up an incessant fire and barring their retreat. They took up a defensive position in a farm, and for three hours repelled all the attacks of the Boers, until their horses were all killed or had broken away and the ammunition exhausted, while the Boers had just brought up the three guns they had withdrawn from the hill. Further resistance would have ended in the extermination of the whole party, and Lieutenant-Colonel Möller was therefore obliged to surrender.



Chapter VI

Elandslaagte


The scouts erected their tents again on their former ground. The remaining inhabitants of Dundee were jubilant over the victory that had been won, and did their best, by hanging out flags from the windows, to decorate the town. Jack and his companion had returned to the camp with the spare horses as soon as the hill was carried, and had the fires lighted by the time the party came in. In spite of having worn their blankets as cloaks, all were wet through, but after changing their clothes, they went into the town to gather the news of how the hill had been won, and by the time they returned their meal was ready.

"What do you think of affairs, Chris?"

"I think that the officer at Ladysmith was right, and that it was a frightful mistake to divide the force and send four thousand men up here. They have thrashed the Boers today, but they may be back again on the top of that hill tomorrow. Besides, we know that Joubert's force was not engaged to-day, and they and the Free Staters will be gathering round. We might win another victory, but we are certain to be obliged to fall back soon, and my opinion is that we shall be very lucky if we get through safely."

"Why not start to-morrow morning, Chris?" Peters said. "We shall be of no use scouting here, and not much use if there is hard fighting. I hear that some natives have brought in the news that there was some firing to-day at Elandslaagte. If that is the case, we must have troops there, and the chances are that they will be there to-morrow."

"Yes, that is very likely," Chris agreed. "General White will be sure to hold the line there if he can, for he must feel sure that the force here will have to retreat now that it is attacked in earnest. When we were talking to-day to the cavalry, one of the officers mentioned that we had still telegraphic communication with Ladysmith, for although the wires by the railway are cut, it is possible to communicate through Helpmakaar. The Boers seem to have forgotten that, for it is quite out of the direct line, and nearly double as far round. Well, as we had no orders to come here, I suppose there is no occasion to get orders to go back. I think Peters's proposal is a very good one, but on a point like this everyone ought to give an opinion. My view is that we might be a great deal more useful there than here, and that if we stop we shall run a great chance of being captured. I think that it would be a fair thing to put it to the vote."

He took two or three leaves out of his pocket-book, and tore them up into narrow slips of paper.

"Now," he said, "write 'Yes' if you are in favour of going back, 'No' if you are for stopping here. Drop them into my cap and the majority shall decide."

When the strips of paper were examined, it was found that only two out of the twenty-one were in favour of remaining.

"That settles it," Chris said. "It is thirty miles down to Elandslaagte by road, and as from here to Glencoe is five miles, and we are no nearer there than we are here, by cutting across to Waschbrank we shall have only five-and-twenty miles to ride. It is well that we should get there as early as possible, so we will settle to start at five o'clock, which will take us there by eight, in time to see anything that is going on. No doubt we shall be able to hear from natives as we go along whether the troops are still there; at any rate if they are, we are sure to hear firing before we get there, unless, of course, the Boers have retired."

The horses had already had an extra feed, and the Kaffirs were warned of the hour at which they were going to start. The pack-horses were able to keep up with the rest, for their loads were by no means heavy -- in fact, they carried less weight than the others. The two hundred pounds of biscuits given to the hussars made no difference in their baggage, for this had been bought at Dundee, as the lads decided to keep their stores as far as possible intact for a time when they might for some days be away scouting in a district where no provisions could be obtained.

At four o'clock the sentries roused the others, and having taken a cup of coffee and some cold meat and bread, and led the horses down to the stream while the Kaffirs were loading up the packets and bundles, they mounted at five o'clock and set off at a trot, Jack and Japhet, a name suggested by Field, who was the wag of the party, were allowed to ride on two of the horses that carried the lightest burdens. All the lads were provided with compasses, but these were not necessary, as both the natives were well acquainted with the country, which was wild and mountainous.

When they reached Wessels station, nine miles from Elandslaagte, they heard the sound of guns. At this proof that there was still a force there, they turned off from the road, and riding west, struck the point where the main road to Meran crossed the Sundays River, and then, still keeping a mile west of the line of railway, found themselves abreast of the station. Just as they did so, a body of mounted volunteers galloped up towards them. As soon as they were seen, they exchanged their hats for forage-caps, and some of them, by Chris's orders, hoisted their union-jacks on their rifles.

"It is well that you raised those flags," the officer in command said. "We made sure by your appearance that you were Boers, and rather took your change of caps as one of their slim devices, and had our rifles ready to give you a warm reception. I suppose you come from Dundee? We heard news yesterday evening of the battle, and were sorry to hear how heavy the losses were, and particularly of General Symons' wound. I suppose you have no later news?"

"No, beyond that we heard he was very dangerously hit indeed. He is either at the church or town-hall. Both have been turned into hospitals."

"There is a good deal of anxiety at Ladysmith," the officer said. "The general opinion is that, with the Boers closing in all round it, the position is a very serious one."

"I am afraid so, sir. There is nothing to prevent the Boers from returning to their position on Talana Hill to-day; and soon after we left the town this morning we heard the sound of guns away on the right, and supposed that the Free Staters had approached Glencoe. As mounted men are of very little use there, and our party is too small to be able to do any good, we thought it would be best to come back here, especially as there was a native report that there was firing in this direction."

"Yes; a party of our cavalry under French came up with a battery of field artillery. There was a little skirmishing, but in the evening the Boers were strongly reinforced, and our cavalry returned to Ladysmith. It was only a reconnaissance to ascertain the general situation. To-day we are stronger. Squadrons of the 5th Dragoon Guards, 5th Lancers, the Natal mounted, battery, and several detachments of mounted volunteers, including the Imperial Light Horse, and half the Manchester Regiment, are coming up in an armoured train. I suppose you are not attached to any other corps?"

"Yes; we form a section of Captain Brookfield's corps of Maritzburg Scouts. As you see, we are not in uniform; it being thought that, as we are all from Johannesburg, and speak Dutch and Kaffir, we should be of more use for scouting if able to appear as Boers."

"A very good idea," the officer said, "but somewhat dangerous; for if they caught you they would assuredly shoot you as spies."

"We don't mean to be caught if we can help it, as you see we are very well mounted."

"Uncommonly well. Brookfield's subscriptions must have come in handsomely for him to be able to buy such horses as those."

"We provide our own mounts and equipments," Chris said, "and consider ourselves very lucky in getting hold of this batch of horses from Mr. Duncan on the day he arrived at Maritzburg. I really think they were very cheap at sixty pounds each."

"They were not dear, certainly; and the fact that they came from him is in itself a sufficient recommendation. We have got some thirty from him, but they are a different stamp of animal and did not cost half that figure. And now we must be riding to join the rest of our fellows. We made you out when you were a couple of miles away, and were sent off to ascertain what you were. By the way, you will find Brookfield there. He arrived with his men by rail last evening." Riding on, they soon came upon the mounted corps, and were warmly received by Captain Brookfield.

"You are back just in time," he said. "I suppose that you saw something of the fight yesterday, but, as I see your number still complete, you can scarcely have been in the thick of it?"

"We were with two squadrons of Hussars, and captured a good many waggons and did a little fighting, but nothing very serious. There were only a few casualties. We heard, however, from Colonel Yule, who has succeeded poor Symons, that up to ten o'clock last night, another of the squadrons of the Hussars and a company of mounted infantry with them had not returned, and nothing was known of their whereabouts."

"Had they not got into camp when you started?"

"I did not hear, sir. In fact, we set off by daylight. But last night it was hoped that the squadron, which was acting independently, had lost their way, and would come in this morning. Where is the Boer force now?"

"Our batteries have shelled them out of the station. They were wholly unprepared for it, and bolted at once to those hills a mile and half east of the line. Their camp lies at the bottom of that conical hill. You can make them out from here with your glass. There, French is moving forward."

The order had indeed been given to advance, the artillery accompanying the cavalry, and halting every two or three minutes to deliver their fire. The ground was flat, but cut up by gullies. As soon as they came within range, the colonials dismounted and added their fire to that of the guns. An immense confusion was seen to reign in the Boer camp, and thirty-seven British subjects, including the officials and staff at the railway-station, and some of the coal-miners, took advantage of this and ran forward to join their friends. They were at once sent back into Ladysmith, after having given the information that General Koch was in command of the Boers, and that Commandant Miellof and the German Colonel Shiel, with many of the Johannesburg commando, were there. Chris and his comrades felt great satisfaction at the news.

"We have a chance of paying off old scores on the right persons now," Chris said. "I do hope that the fellows who insulted us when we were coming down are here, and that we shall manage to get among them."

For the time, however, this wish was not gratified. The Boers now seeing that they had such a small force opposed to them, steadied themselves and opened fire with some guns, Maxims, and rifles from the crest of the hill, while a swarm of horsemen and dismounted men poured out to threaten the flanks of the British. The odds were too great; the comparatively heavy guns of the enemy were well aimed and served, and quite overpowered the fire of the light cannon of the field and mountain batteries. The order was given to fall back, which was done in good order, though the troops were harassed by a hot fire from the enemy concealed in the gullies. On reaching the high ground near Modder Spruit, the country was more in favour of the British, who were now extended on each flank. The Boers were unable or unwilling to move their heavy guns from their position on the hill, and being now beyond their range, and exposed to the fire of four batteries as well as the infantry, those pressing forward fell back. General French had brought out a signalling apparatus with him, and the telegraph wires were tapped, and a message sent to General White asking him for reinforcements in order to carry the Boer position.

The fight now ceased for a time. A party of the Boers occasionally crept forward and opened fire, but the Colonial Horse dashed forward and sent them flying back to the hills. From nine o'clock till a quarter to two the troops remained idle, but the reinforcements then arrived, a battery of field artillery, several squadrons of Dragoons, Lancers, and Colonials, and the Devonshire regiment and Gordon Highlanders, the infantry being brought up by train. These were under the command of Colonel Ian Hamilton, who had a thorough knowledge of Boer tactics, and knew how to handle his troops. It was well that it was so, for, led by a less experienced commander, they would have suffered terribly in their advance. While the infantry detrained, the Colonials, followed by the 5th Lancers, rode towards some low hills, whence some parties of Boers had maintained a distant fire. These were at once scattered. The infantry marched along some ridges parallel with the railway, but a mile away, while the Devonshire regiment kept along the low ground by the line. The 5th Dragoon Guards, with some troops of Colonials and one of the field batteries, moved forward on the left.

The Manchesters were on the right of the infantry, the Gordons in the centre, and the Devons on the left, as they set their faces towards the Boer position. At three o'clock the action began, the Boer riflemen opening a heavy fire. It was still too distant, however, to do any serious execution, and the British moved forward as regularly and unconcernedly as if it had been a field day. The Boer fire grew in intensity, and one of our batteries opened with shrapnel to drive them from the lower ridges. At half-past three the Boer artillery joined their deeper roar to the rattle of musketry and the sharp cracks of the British guns. Although it was still early the light was indistinct, for a heavy thunder-storm had been for some time brewing, and this burst before the heat of the action really began. The darkness was all in favour of the advancing infantry, who in their khaki uniforms were almost invisible to the Boers.

The troops were now in extended open order, and advanced towards the foot of the hill by rushes, taking advantage of the ant-hills that studded the plain and afforded an excellent cover, being high enough to cover them while lying down, and thick and compact enough to resist the passage of a Mauser bullet. The Highlanders were suffering the most heavily, their dark kilts showing up strongly against the light sandy soil, and while the Devons and Manchesters sustained but few casualties, they were dropping fast. They and the Manchesters were somewhat in advance of the Devons, who were guarding their flank, which was threatened by a large number of Boers gathered on the ridges on that side.

The storm was now at its height, the thunder for a time deadening the roar of the battle, but through the driving rain the infantry pressed on until they reached the foot of the Boers' hill. Large numbers of the enemy were on the slope, hidden from sight by the boulders, but these could not long maintain their position, for the British marksmen shot as straight as the Boer. Our batteries, which had almost silenced those of the enemy, scattered their shrapnel among those higher up the hill, and as the Boers rose to fly before the bayonets of our cheering troops, they were swept away by volleys of the Lee-Metfords. So, with short pauses when shelter was obtainable, our troops bore upwards, cheering and even joking, until they reached the last shoulder of the hill. The Boers made a short but plucky struggle, numbers pushing up from behind to help their comrades, but nothing could check the impetuosity of our troops. The magazines of the rifles were now for the first time set in action, and the Boer force withered away under the terrible storm of shot.

The men of the Imperial Light Horse, who had dismounted and joined in the advance, were fighting side by side with the Highlanders and Manchesters. The pace was now increased to a run, and shouting and cheering the men went forward with levelled bayonets. Many of the Boers, lying behind rocks, maintained their fire until the troops were within two yards of them, and then rising, called for quarter. The men, furious at seeing their comrades shot down when all hope of resistance was over, would have spared none, had not the officers with the greatest difficulty restrained them from bayoneting the Boers, and many of these were in fact killed. As the troops, now joined by the Devons, were rushing down upon the camp, the Boers raised a white flag, and the bugle sounded "Cease firing". The men halted for a moment and then were advancing quietly when a tremendous fire broke out from the Boers, who were scattered over the ridges of the hillside and a slope leading to its summit.

Hitherto the British loss had been wonderfully small considering the storm of bullets through which they had passed, but numbers now dropped, and taken wholly by surprise, the troops ran up the hill again. But not for long. Halting when they reached the crest, and furious at the treachery that had been practised with such success upon them, they turned again, and rushed down the hill, scattering the Boers, who still clung to their shelters, with their fire. It was just six o'clock when the Devons carried the last defence of the Boers and then with the Manchesters swept down into the camp. It was now the turn of the cavalry. These had in the darkness moved forward unnoticed, and the Lancers and Dragoons, with a few of the Colonials, among whom were the Maritzburg Scouts, fell upon the flying Boers and cut them up with great slaughter, and, although it was now quite dark, followed them for upwards of two miles, and then returned to camp.

The losses were heavy. The Gordons had lost four officers killed and seven wounded, and a total of a hundred and fifteen casualties among the four hundred and twenty-five men led into action. The Imperial Light Horse lost their colonel and had seven officers wounded, and eight men killed and forty wounded. Two hundred of the Boers lay dead upon the field. Their wounded were vastly more numerous, and most of the principal officers were killed or captured. General Koch, two of his brothers, a son, and a nephew were all wounded; Shiel, Viljoen, and many others killed or captured. Everything had been left behind. Three guns, all their baggage, their waggons, a great quantity of arms and ammunition, and many horses fell into the hands of the victors. Several battle flags were also captured, and two hundred prisoners were brought in by the cavalry. The night was a dreadful one, the rain still continued to come down, the cold was bitter, and it was next to impossible to find, still less to bring down, the wounded. Nevertheless the soldiers carried on the work during the greater part of the night. Boer waggons were turned for a time into hospital tents, and here by the light of their lanterns the surgeons laboured unweariedly in giving what aid was possible to those brought in, whether Boers or Britons. Chris and his band worked as hard as the rest, and carried down a great number of wounded; but in spite of all the exertions of the troops many remained on the hillside all night, the sufferings from the wounds being as nothing to that caused by the wet and cold. The lads' flasks were of great use now, and enabled many a man, too badly wounded to be carried down the rough hillside, to hold on till morning. General White had arrived from Ladysmith while the battle was going on, but he left the command in the hands of General French. On the following morning orders came for General French to retire, as strong parties of the enemy had been seen further south, and it was hourly becoming more and more evident that it would be impossible to hold the country beyond Ladysmith, and many were of opinion that even this position was too far advanced.

The splendid valour shown by our soldiers at Dundee and Elandslaagte, and the heavy losses they suffered, had been practically thrown away. The coal-fields of Northern Natal had been lost, the loyal settlers had been plundered and ruined. Colonel Yule's force was in imminent peril, and all that had been obtained was the temporary possession of the two heights, both of which had to be relinquished on the following morning. Beyond showing the Boers how enormously they had underrated the fighting powers of the British troops, no advantage whatever had been gained by the advance beyond Ladysmith.

Three of the Johannesburg Scouts had been wounded in the charge among the Boers. None of the injuries were severe, being merely flesh wounds, of which they were hardly conscious during the fighting, and which would not be likely to keep them long from the saddle. None of them applied for medical assistance, as the surgeons were so fully occupied with serious cases. Their comrades bound up the wounds and placed them in the most sheltered position they could find, five of their comrades remaining in charge of them and the horses, there being no possibility of finding the two Kaffirs and the spare animals in the confusion and darkness.

"We have had one lesson," Chris said, as at seven in the morning the party assembled, worn out by the long night's work, "and that is, that blankets are well enough against a passing shower, but that when there is any probability of wet we must carry our waterproof sheets with us. Of course they would have been no good last night, but on occasions when there is no need for us to be using our hands they will be an immense comfort."

"But we should have been wet through before we lay down, Chris."

"Yes, they would not have kept us dry, but they would have gone a long way towards keeping us warm. It would be like putting oilskin over wet lint; we should have felt as if we were in a hot poultice in a short time. And even while riding it would have been very comfortable, if we had worn them as we did the blankets, with a hole in the middle to put our heads through."

"But that would spoil them for tents," Carmichael said.

"Well, we could have flaps sewn so as to cover the hole."

"Our blankets were very useful last night," Horrocks remarked. "I don't know how we could have got many of those poor fellows down the hill if we had not carried them in the blankets. It was infinitely easier for them and a great deal easier for us. I saw lots of soldiers using theirs in the same way."

"Are you sure you will be able to sit your horses down to Ladysmith?" Chris asked Brown, Capper, and Harris, the three wounded.

All laughed. "One would think that we were babies, Chris," Harris said. "We could ride to Maritzburg if necessary, though I feel my arm rather stiff, and no doubt it will be stiffer still to-morrow. I felt a bit miserable at sunrise after lying there shivering, and envied you fellows who could keep yourselves warm by working; but I am beginning to thaw out now, and the sight of the Kaffirs coming towards us with the horses half an hour ago, and the thought of hot coffee, did even more than the sun to warm me."

"It will be ready soon," Willesden, who was specially in charge of the stores, said. "It was a capital idea bringing that large spirit stove and the paraffin with us; even a native could not find any dry sticks this morning."

"Except as the soldiers have done," Chris said, pointing to where, a quarter of a mile from the spot where they had gathered, a dozen fires were blazing, the soldiers having utilized some of the Boer waggons that had been smashed by the shell for the purpose of firewood.

"Yes, but if we were by ourselves, Chris, there would be no broken waggons; besides, after all I should not care to go down and scramble with the soldiers for a place to put a kettle on. At any rate, the stove will be invaluable out on the veldt."

"We all agree with you, Willesden," Peters said, "and it was because you were the one who suggested it that we promoted you to the office of superintendent of the kitchen. It is a comfort, too, that we have some clear water instead of having to get it from one of these muddy streams. The storm has done good anyhow, for if it had not been for that there would have been no breakfast for the troops until they had moved to the river."

In another twenty minutes they were drinking hot coffee and munching biscuits. At ten o'clock the bugle sounded the assembly, and the troops formed up, the wounded were placed in ambulance waggons or carried on stretchers, and all returned to Elandslaagte station. Here the wounded were sent on by train, while the infantry and cavalry returned by road. Talking to some of the officers of the Imperial Horse, several of whom were friends of his father, and had only left Johannesburg a short time before the declaration of war, Chris learned that the principal object in fighting the battle was to drive the Boers off the line by which the Dundee force would retreat; for Colonel Yule in his telegraphic despatch had stated, that although a victory had been won he felt that the position was untenable, and that he might at any moment be forced to evacuate it. He also learned that the safety of the line beyond Ladysmith was already threatened, but whether Sir George White would decide upon falling back towards Pietermaritzburg or would hold Ladysmith no one knew. Certainly nothing could be determined upon until General Yule rejoined with the division from Dundee.

The position there was indeed growing worse every hour. While the battle of Elandslaagte was being fought the Boers had opened fire from the hills above Glencoe on the British camp, and had compelled it to shift its position. The next day they were again obliged to move by artillery on the Impati mountain, and it was then that General Yule decided to retire at once on Ladysmith. A cavalry reconnaissance which was sent out found that the Boers were in great strength in the pass of Glencoe, and it was therefore determined to move by the roundabout way through Helpmakaar. Some stores of ammunition that had been left under a guard in the other camp were fetched, and with full pouches the little army started on its long and perilous march at nine o'clock on the evening of the 22nd. The camp was abandoned as it stood. The wounded remained with some surgeons under the protection of the Red Cross flag. All the available transport accompanied the column, but the men's kits and all other encumbrances were left behind. They were obliged to pass through Dundee to get upon the southern road, but so quietly was the movement effected that but few of the townsmen knew what was happening.

The column was led by Colonel Dartnel, chief of the Natal Police, whose knowledge of the district was invaluable to the troops. The roads were heavy, and the rain continued to pour down in torrents. Each man carried three days' provisions; they tramped along silently through the night; stoppages by swollen streams were frequent, and by daybreak the next morning they had only accomplished nine miles of their journey. Early in the morning the townspeople had woke up to the fact that the army had gone, and there was a general exodus of all who could obtain conveyances. The Boers remained for some time in ignorance that the force whose capture or destruction they had regarded as certain had slipped away. They saw the tents, but the fact that neither men nor horses were visible puzzled them, and it was eleven o'clock before some of the more venturesome galloping down found that the English force had escaped.

Then from all sides they poured into the town. Had they at once pursued they might still have overtaken the retreating force before nightfall; but they immediately set to work to loot the great stores of provisions left behind, and to gather their pickings from the deserted houses of Dundee, and so let slip their opportunity, and no pursuit whatever was attempted. For four days the column continued its march, resting for a few hours each day and usually marching all night. The road was terribly bad, leading through narrow mountain passes, and had but a small force of the enemy held the Waschbrank gorge, where the sides were for three miles nearly perpendicular, a terrible calamity might have taken place. Happily, however, the Boers were in absolute ignorance of the road which the British troops were following, and concluded that they must have somewhere crossed the railway and were making their way down by the roads to its west. That they had gone through Helpmakaar does not appear to have occurred to them, for after marching some thirty miles to that town the column was as far off Ladysmith as when it started.

The anxiety at the latter town was intense. The line being still uncut, the arrival of the column at Helpmakaar was known, but beyond that no communication could be received. On Tuesday the 24th Colonel Dartnel arrived in Ladysmith with the news that the column was now twenty miles away, all well, and he at once returned to them with supplies and a small relief force. On Wednesday many of the men came in, and on Thursday the remainder arrived and were heartily greeted. On the 24th -- in order to divert the attention of Joubert and the Free State Boers, both of whom were converging upon General Yule's column, still making its way through the passes -- a force composed of three regiments of cavalry, four of Colonial Mounted Infantry, three batteries, and four infantry regiments went out. The enemy were found near Reitfontein. No actual engagement took place, but for some hours an artillery and rifle duel was maintained and the Boers fell back. The number of casualties was not large, and these were principally among the Gloucester regiment, who, on entering a valley supposed to be untenanted, were received by a heavy fire from a strong party of the enemy hidden there. The fight, however, fulfilled the object for which the advance was undertaken, that of occupying the Boers' attention and enabling the column from Dundee to make its way into Ladysmith unmolested. The Boers were now closing in on the latter town from all directions, and preparations for defence at once began. The town-hall and the schools were fitted up as hospitals and everything arranged for the reception of wounded. As the Boers had already been seen near Colenso, sixteen miles to the south, it was certain that the communications would ere long be cut.

No more unsuitable place for a military camp could well have been selected than Ladysmith, which had indeed been chosen, years before the war was thought of, on account of its position on the railway, and the vicinity of the Klip river. The fact that the country immediately round was fertile and forage was obtainable no doubt influenced the military authorities in their selection. Lying in the heart of a mountainous country, it was commanded by steep and rocky hills at a distance of from two to four miles. Just as many castles built in the days before firearms were in use were rendered untenable against even the clumsy cannon of early days placed on eminences near, so the improvement in artillery and the possession of powerful modern guns by the Boers had gravely imperilled the position of Ladysmith. The military authorities could never have anticipated that the town would be besieged by foes armed with artillery that could carry over five miles. But such was the case now, and all there felt, as soon as it was decided to defend the place till the last, that the position was a precarious one.

Fortunately, a considerable store of provisions had been collected, and so long as the line was open additions were being sent up by every train. The line was a single one, winding along through passes among the hills, and therefore open to attack by small bodies of the enemy. In point of size Ladysmith was the third largest town in Natal. Durban boasted a population of thirty thousand, Pietermaritzburg of twenty thousand, and Ladysmith of four thousand five hundred, being four hundred larger than that of Dundee. It was the point at which the line of railway forked, one branch running north through Glencoe to the Transvaal, the other northwest through Van Reenen's Pass to Bloemfontein. It was a pretty straggling town with its barracks, government buildings and large stores. Almost all the houses were detached and standing in their own gardens, and as these were largely wooded its appearance was very picturesque, with the Klip river, a branch of the Tugela, running through it. The houses were, for the most part, one-storied, and the roofs were all painted white for the sake of coolness. No perfectly open town had ever before undergone a siege by an army of some thirty thousand men provided with excellent guns, and yet the garrison awaited the result with perfect confidence.



Chapter VII

Ladysmith Besieged


On the 30th, the Boers being now in force on many of the hills around the town, and having inflicted the first annoyance upon Ladysmith by cutting the conduit that brought down the water-supply to the town from a reservoir among the hills, and so forced it for the future to depend upon a few wells and the muddy water of the river, it was determined to make an effort to drive them back and to gain possession of some of the hills from which it was now evident the town would stand a risk of being bombarded. Hitherto there had been considerable apathy in taking measures for keeping the enemy as far as possible out of range. A few redoubts thrown up during the last week and strongly held would have been invaluable, but it seemed to be considered by the military authorities that the siege could be but a short one, and that the Boers would speedily be driven off by the troops now pouring into Durban.

An effort was now to be made to repair the consequences of this remissness and to drive the Boers off the positions they occupied, and it was hoped that if a heavy blow were dealt them they would draw off altogether. The forces of Joubert, Meyer, and the Free Staters were now all within a distance of a few miles, and were all to be beaten up. Their central position was on a hill afterwards known as Signal Hill, and on this they had already planted a forty-pounder gun. A force composed of six companies of the Royal Irish Fusiliers, four and a half of the Gloucesters, a mountain battery and a troop of Hussars started at midnight towards a hill known as Nicholson's Nek, occupied by the Free Staters. Major General Hunter with a brigade of infantry, three batteries, and a small cavalry force were to attack Meyer's commando to the east, while General White, with two infantry brigades, French's cavalry, and six batteries of field artillery moved against Joubert's force on Modder Spruit. It was hoped that the Boers, if defeated, would find their retreat barred by the force that had stated early for Nicholson's Nek. All were well away from the town before daylight broke.

At five o'clock in the morning the guns spoke out, and were at once answered by the Boer artillery, and the roar of fire soon became general. General White's central column was screened by a ridge near the railway, and the big gun on Signal Hill directed its fire partly against the town and partly against the cavalry which could be seen by them in rear of the column. As only a few of the Volunteer Horse had been ordered to accompany the attacking force, Chris and his companions took up their position on an eminence that afforded a general view of the battle, and here a large number of the townspeople also gathered. The general plan of operations was that the two movable columns should form a rough arc of a circle and, driving in both flanks of the Boers, sweep the whole force before them.

"They have a great many guns," Peters said, as the rattle of the machine-guns and the thud of quick-firing one-pounders joined the continuous fire of several Boer batteries and the deeper roar of their big gun, "and they seem to be in greater force than was supposed, for I can make out large reinforcements coming up to them from behind."

Our artillery were first placed about four thousand yards from the Boer position, but as this was on higher ground than that occupied by our guns our fire did not appear to be effective. They were therefore moved forward some distance, supported by two battalions of the Rifles and the Dublin Fusiliers. The infantry force with them pushed forward rapidly and gained a crest from which they threatened to take the Boer position on Signal Hill in rear; but the Boers, very strongly reinforced, moved to meet them, and heavy fighting took place, until the enemy's force became so strong that they not only checked the further advance of the brigade, but threatened it on both flanks. Two batteries went to their assistance, but even with this aid they could not continue their advance, pressed as they were by greatly superior numbers and harassed by the fire of the Boer field batteries on the hill.

At other points our advance was opposed as hotly. Nowhere were our infantry gaining ground. The enemy had not wasted their time, but had thrown up intrenchments on the steep hills they occupied, and from these shelters maintained a terrible fire, while their numerous machine-guns swept the ground with a hail of bullets and shells. On such ground the cavalry were useless, and the range of the Boer guns was much greater than that of our own.

"It seems to me," Chris said, "that instead of gaining ground we are losing it. We can't see at all what is going on, but certainly the firing seems nearer than it was."

All had thought the same though none had cared to suggest such a thing.

"Hurrah! there is a train coming in," Field said. "I heard they were expecting a party of sailors with naval guns. They would be useful just at the present moment. Let us go down and see, we can make out nothing from here."

Glad to be doing something they went down the hill. As they reached the station they saw a large detachment of sailors at work detraining some twelve-pounders and two large quick-firing guns. Teams of oxen were brought up, the sailors harnessed themselves to ropes, and with tremendous exertions one of the guns was taken up to an eminence, and at eleven it opened fire. It was but just in time. In steady order the columns were retiring with their faces towards the Boers, answering shot for shot, carrying off their wounded as they dropped, in spite of the terrible rifle fire and the roar of the Boers' batteries; but as soon as the first naval gun opened fire, amid the cheers of the townspeople, the situation was changed. The first two shells burst close to the Boer big gun, the third in the midst of the artillerymen, and it was some time before its fire was resumed. In the meantime the sailors had turned their attention to other Boer batteries which the field artillery had scarcely been able to reach, and one by one these were withdrawn over the crest.

At one o'clock Colonel Hamilton's brigade, which had hitherto been lying behind the crest they first occupied, in readiness to repel any counter-attack the Boers might make, now moved out and took up their position to cover the retirement of Hunter's column and Howard's brigade, and although the Boers pressed hotly upon them they held their ground steadily until their comrades had all reached their camp, and then marched in unhindered by the enemy, whose big cannon had now been finally silenced by the naval gun and their batteries for the most part obliged to retire.

After seeing the naval gun open fire Chris had gone down to speak to Captain Brookfield, when he met two soldiers of a mountain battery carrying an injured comrade. They took him into the hospital and then came out. Their shoulder-straps showed them to belong to the mountain battery that had gone out with the Royal Irish Fusiliers and the Gloucesters, of whom nothing had been heard, though occasionally, in momentary intervals of fire, the sound of distant musketry could be made out in the direction of Nicholson's Nek.

"How are your party getting on?" he asked.

"We don't know anything about them, sir," one of the men said, "except that they have been heavily engaged since daylight. I am afraid that they are in a tight place."

"How is it you know nothing about them?"

"It has been a bad job altogether," the man said. "We were marching up a steep valley with only room for us to lead two mules abreast; we were in the rear of the column. Suddenly a boulder came rolling down the hill and some shots were fired. In a moment the mules stampeded. One or two began it, kicking and plunging and squealing like wild beasts, then the others all set to. There was no holding them? it was almost pitch-dark, and before one could say 'knife' they were tearing down the road we had come up. There was no time to stop, and those who were lucky jumped out of their way, those who were not were knocked down and trampled on. As soon as they had gone those of us who were not hurt set off after them and looked for them everywhere, but only two or three were caught. Where the rest went I don't know, but I hope that they got into the enemy's line of fire and were all shot. At last we gave it up as a bad job and went back to bring in the fellows who were hurt. I think most of them are in now. We have been a long time, for Thompson's leg was broken and one of his arms, and, I expect, most of his ribs, and it hurt him so to be moved that we have had to stop every two yards."

"It is a bad business indeed," Chris said; "and of course all your guns are lost?"

"Every one of them, and what is worse, all the reserve small-arm ammunition is lost too. The mules carrying them were with ours, and as the fighting up there has been going on ever since, I am afraid the infantry must have pretty well used up their last cartridges."

It was not until the next day that the extent of the calamity was known, when a Boer came down with a white flag asking that doctors might be sent up. The little column instead of, as had been hoped, surprising the Boers had itself been ambushed, being suddenly attacked by two strong parties of the enemy. They at once seized a little eminence, threw up a breastwork of stone, and defended themselves successfully until the ammunition was entirely exhausted, and a hundred and fifty had been killed or wounded. The Boers had, by taking advantage of every bit of cover, crept up close to them, and a murderous fire was poured in. The two regiments asked Colonel Carleton, who commanded them, to allow them to charge with their bayonets and cut their way through. He consented to allow the desperate attempt to be made, and the men were in the act of fixing bayonets when someone raised a white flag, and the Boers standing up advanced to receive the surrender.

After this the laws of war permitted no further defence, and the men, half mad with fury at the situation in which they were placed, threw down their rifles and were made prisoners. This was at two o'clock in the afternoon, after the rest of the force had returned to Ladysmith; and thus some nine hundred men fell into the hands of the Boers. Apart from this the loss was comparatively small considering the heat of the engagement. The day's work had been altogether unsatisfactory; no advantage whatever had been gained beyond the discovery of the Boers' position, and their unexpected strength and fighting powers, and it was evident that the force at Ladysmith was unable to drive off the enemy unaided, and must undergo a siege until the arrival of a relieving army. There were provisions calculated to last for two months, and no one doubted that long before that time General Buller would arrive to their rescue. So confident had the military authorities been, that not only had no defensive works been thrown up, but they had omitted to send the women and children, and the men unfitted to give active assistance, to the rear.

On the following morning the scouts held a council of war.

"Now," Chris said, "we have to decide the all-important question. It is quite certain that the town is going to be besieged, and I should say that the siege will last for some time, as nothing can be done to relieve them until a lot of troops arrive from home. We have shown at Dundee and Elandslaagte that our fellows can drive the Boers from their kopjes, but a force arriving to relieve Ladysmith would have to fight its way through a tremendously mountainous district, and to capture at least eight or ten such positions. At Dundee and Elandslaagte the Boers had only a few guns, and the big one from Pretoria had not arrived, nor had they time to fortify themselves. It is certain, therefore, that it will require a very big force to fight its way in here, especially as the Tugela has to be crossed, and the Boers will of course destroy the bridges.

"It may be a couple of months before the place is relieved. Of course the question is, Shall we stay here or go? I don't think we should be of much use here; indeed, I don't see that cavalry would be any good at all, whereas if a portion of the Boers push south we may be very useful in our own line of scouting. Still, this is a question for you to decide. You chose to make me your commander when at work, but we should all have an equal voice in a matter of this sort."

There was little discussion; all were of their leader's opinion that it was best for them to leave. The prospect of a long siege in which they could take but little active part was not a pleasant one, and it was decided at once that they should leave.

"Very well," Chris said. "Then I will go in to Captain Brookfield and ask his permission to go. Now that we are in camp with him he must be consulted."

They had since Elandslaagte taken their places as a part of the Maritzburg Scouts, and had been drilled for some hours each day. They were already favourites among the corps, who were proud of the work they had done, and being a pleasant set of lads their uncouth appearance, which had at first been viewed with much disfavour by many of their comrades, had been forgiven. Chris went to the commander's tent and laid the matter and their decision before him.

"I think that it is just as well that you should go, Chris," the officer said; "and indeed I was on the point of telling you that we are all leaving. For myself I cannot understand why the cavalry should be kept here, and indeed I know that it is their opinion also, and that they have asked the general to let them leave. However, he has decided to keep them. I am sure it is a mistake. Before the siege is over forage is sure to run short, and half the cavalry will be dismounted before the end comes. However, I have seen him and pointed out that as scouts we should be useless here. He has given me leave to go, but has requested me to join the first troops that come up the line. When we are once away I shall give you leave to act altogether independently of us, which will I am sure suit you better than being kept for weeks perhaps at Colenso or Estcourt. Another thing I will do. General Yule was speaking to me only yesterday of the manner in which your party defeated and cut up more than double your number, and how you and three of your party went into the Boer camp at Talana and ascertained their strength for General Symons. I expect that General Buller will come on here, as it is certainly the most serious point at present. I will ask Yule to give you a letter of introduction to him, it will be useful; and I have no doubt that he will give you a free hand, as I have done. I should not call upon General Buller in that rig-out, if I were you. I have heard he is somewhat of a martinet at the War Office, and we know that they have a very poor opinion of volunteers there."

Chris smiled. "Volunteers have done good service at the Cape before now, sir, and have shown over and over again that a man can fight just as well in plain clothes as if he were buttoned up to the chin in uniform; and as the Boers are themselves nothing but volunteers, I should think that before this war is over the War Office will see its mistake."

"I should think so indeed, Chris, but at present they have certainly not woke up to the fact. I see by the telegrams that the London Scottish and the London Irish have both volunteered almost to a man for service here, and that they have not even had a civil reply to their application. I tell you, lad, this war is going to be a big thing, and before it is over we may have both militia and volunteers out here, and perhaps troops from the colonies. I heard that some of the Australian colonies have already offered to send bodies of mounted men, and that our government are ordering out a larger number of men than was at first intended. I hear this morning that at Kimberley and Mafeking fighting has begun. On the 24th Kimberley made a successful sortie, and on the 25th a general attack on Mafeking was repulsed. The fact that both these places are beleaguered, and that we have again been obliged to fall back here, and are likely to be cut off altogether, has evidently stirred them up, and they begin to understand that it is going to be a much bigger affair than they expected.

"I wrote to your mother yesterday at Durban, and told her that I intended to leave while it is still possible. Of course you have written; but I told her of the flattering way in which General Yule had spoken of the doings of you and your party, and said that I hoped she would not be anxious, for it was quite evident that you were able to take good care of yourselves. My letter was in answer to one she wrote to me from Durban, begging me to keep you from undertaking what she called 'mad-brained business', and expressing some regret that you and the others had been allowed to form a separate corps, instead of being under the command of an experienced officer like myself. I told her that I thought that you would have less chance of coming to harm in scouting work than if you had to work in a regular way as the general ordered. If this sort of fighting -- I mean, of attacking in front every position the Boers choose to take -- goes on, our numbers will very speedily dwindle away.

"The fact is, as far as we colonials can see, the regulars do not as yet understand fighting the Boers. Nothing could be more splendid than the behaviour of the troops, both at Dundee and Elandslaagte, but in our humble opinion neither fight was necessary; and if Talana was to be attacked, it should have been done by marching the troops round the hill and taking it in the rear. In that case the Boers would have bolted without firing a shot. That it could have been done is shown by the fact that the cavalry did it, and encountered no difficulty on the way. Again, at Elandslaagte the object of keeping the road open would have been equally well attained if, after driving them out of the station, we had taken up a strong position there and waited for them to attack us. Therefore, Chris, I think that fighting in our way -- that is to say, in Boer fashion -- and trusting to skill as much as to shooting, you will be running a good deal less risk than you would in fighting under British generals in British fashion. We shall go off quietly this evening. We must keep a bright look-out on the way, for the trains have been fired upon, and at any moment the Boers may pull up the rails and block the roads altogether."

Two hours later all was ready for a start, and just before sunset the corps rode out of Ladysmith. They kept a sharp look-out as they went, but saw no signs of the enemy, and crossing the Tugela by the bridge near Colenso, halted there for the night. Here Captain Brookfield reported his arrival to the officer in command of the troops, and on the following day Chris and his friends rode on to Estcourt. They had seen some parties of mounted men in the far distance, but none had come near them, and as the military authorities were well aware of the Boers being in the vicinity, there was nothing to be gained by scouting. But it was now decided that they were in advance of the point that any large number of the enemy were likely to reach, and might therefore strike across the country and resume what they considered their regular work. They added to their stores several articles whose want they had felt, had slits made in the waterproof sheets, and covers sewn on to close the holes when they were used for tents, and had some triangular pieces of the same material made to buckle on so as to close the rear of the tents, which had before been open to the wind and rain. They had employed much of their spare time in training their horses and in teaching them to lie down when ordered, and thus share the shelter taken up by their masters, behind rocks or a wall.

The officer commanding the small force at Estcourt had at first viewed them with some suspicion, but Colonel Yule had purposely left open the letter with which he had furnished Chris, so that it could be shown to any officers commanding posts or detached forces, and its production now caused his cold reception to be converted into a warm welcome. Riding across country they met more than one farmer trekking with his cattle and belongings towards the ferry across the Mooi river. These reported that the Boers had overrun the whole of the country north of the Tugela, and that some parties had already crossed at the ferry on the road between Helpmakaar and Greytown. Fugitives had come in from the villages on the other side, and complained that the Boers were looting everywhere, and had driven off thousands of cattle and numbers of horses, and had everywhere wantonly destroyed the furniture and everything they could not carry off, in the farmhouses they visited.

A vigilant look-out was kept as the scouts advanced. On the second day after starting they encamped on a slight elevation near Mount Umhlumba, and early next morning they saw a party of some twenty Boers riding in a direction that would bring them within rifle-shot of their camp. All were at once on the alert.

"We will not go out and attack them," Chris said to the lads who were running towards their horses. "That would mean that though we might kill all of them, half of us would probably be shot. We will ambush them. Get the picket ropes loose and the bridles on ready for mounting, and then leave the horses in charge of the natives where we camped. They will be out of sight there. When you have done that take your places quietly among the rocks. Do you, Capper and Carmichael, put yourselves twenty or thirty yards apart; you are our best shots. When the Boers get within a thousand yards, which is as near as they will do if they keep the line they are going, open fire upon them and keep it up steadily, but not too fast. When they see that only two men are firing they will think that you are a couple of farmers whose place they have plundered, and who are determined to have their revenge. You are safe to hit some of them, and the others will decide upon wiping you out, and will probably leave their horses and crawl up in their usual style. When they get close it will be our turn. I don't think many of them are likely to get away."

His orders were carried out, and five minutes later the two rifles flashed out one after another. The Boers were riding in a clump. One was seen to fall, and the horse of another gave a violent plunge.

"Very good," exclaimed Chris, who, like the rest, was lying down behind a rock. "Don't fire too fast. Wait half a minute, and then each take another turn, one a little time after the other." The man who had fallen was instantly picked up by one of his comrades, and all rode off at full gallop, but before they could get beyond the range of the Mausers each of the lads had fired two more shots. No more of the Boers dropped, but the watchers, who had their glasses directed upon them, thought by their movements that two had been hit. The Boers, when the firing ceased, stopped, and for some little time remained clustered together. Then they took a long sweep round to a point where the ground was broken, and a shallow donga ran up in a direction that would bring them within a hundred yards of the position occupied by their hidden assailants. There they were seen to dismount, and, after some talk, leaving all the horses in the charge of one man, probably one of the wounded, they entered the donga. Its course was irregular, and once or twice the two lads were able to get a shot at them. The Boers did not return the fire but hurried past the exposed points. As they approached a head was occasionally raised above the bank to view the position, and then disappeared again. The ground between the camp and the nearest point of the donga was thickly strewn with boulders, with bushes growing between them. The lads had all shifted their position to this side.

"Don't open fire till I give the order," Chris said quietly. "We have got them now."

Except for a slight movement of the bushes, it would not have been known that the Boers had left the donga. Once or twice Capper and Carmichael caught a momentary glimpse of one of them, but held their fire, as Chris had said.

"Let them come within twenty yards, then both fire at once, whether you catch a glimpse of them or not. Thinking that your rifles are discharged, they will all jump up and make a rush. Then it will be our turn."

Presently a man's head was seen peering round a rock at about the right distance. Both the rifles cracked at once, and a Boer fell prone on the ground beyond his shelter. At the same moment there was a shout, and his comrades all sprang to their feet and rushed forward. A volley from the whole of the scouts flashed out. Twelve of the Boers fell, the others leapt back behind their shelters, and in turn opened fire.

"Keep in shelter!" Chris shouted. "They know now that we are two to their one, and will soon be making off."

The combatants were so close to each other that neither dared expose shoulder or head to take aim, and after the first shots fired at the Boers all remained quiet. Chris waited for three or four minutes, and then told four of the lads who were in the best shelter to crawl back, mount their horses, and ride out down the other side of the slope, and, after making a slight circuit, to gallop straight at the Boers' horses.

"The fellows may be some distance away already," he said, "as they may have slipped off directly they discharged their rifles. In any case there is no time to be lost in getting hold of their ponies, or at any rate in driving them off."

As two or three minutes again passed without a shot being fired by the Boers, Chris was in the act of calling off half the troop to watch the donga and fire at the Boers if they saw them running past the exposed points, when at this moment he heard the horses returning, and directly afterwards one of the lads he had sent off ran up to him.

"There are a whole lot of them coming round the other side," he said, "sixty or seventy of them at least. Some distance behind I can see a lot of cattle and waggons. I suppose they were making for home when they heard the firing." Just at this moment two or three shots rang out, telling that the surviving Boers were seen running down the donga.

"Never mind them," Chris shouted; "we are going to be attacked by a big party. Put down your rifles all of you, and pile the stones on the crest, so as to make a shelter, as quickly as you can. We shall have a few minutes. Those who are coming up can't know yet what the firing means." He ran up to the top. "They are not more than six or seven hundred yards away," he said, "and it would be better to fight it out here than to take to our horses. Some of us would certainly not get off without a bullet. You need not mind showing yourselves when they come up. They won't be able to make out what we are."

The Boers, indeed, reined in their ponies when they saw Chris appear on the brow of the eminence, and as a preliminary some of them rode off in both directions and endeavoured to ascertain the position. Those on the right soon caught sight of the clump of horses.

"They will soon know all about it," Chris said, as two of them galloped off. "We may as well teach them to keep their distance. Take your places behind rocks, and then open a sharp fire with your magazines. They cannot know how many of us there are here. Now, are you all ready? Yes? Well, then, set to work!"

In a moment an almost incessant rattle of musketry broke out upon the astounded Boers, who, turning their horses, scattered at full gallop to escape the hail of bullets; but more than a dozen had fallen before they were beyond the range of the Mausers and were fully two thousand yards away.

"I don't think we need stop," Chris said. "Fill up your magazines again, and then make for the horses." Directly the first party of Boers had been seen, Jack and Japhet had set to work taking down and rolling up the tents and loading the spare horses.

"Jump up," Chris said to them, "we are off. Mind you keep well with us. Now," he went on, as they rode off in a body, "we will do a little cattle raiding on our own account. Make for them, lads!"

With a shout they rode off at full gallop towards the great herd of cattle. As they approached, the Kaffirs who were driving them fled. Separating as they rode, waving their hats and shouting at the top of their voices, the lads dashed at the herd, who at once turned and went off at a rate that would have astonished animals accustomed only to small pastures and other enclosures.

"Don't press them too much," Chris had ordered before the band separated, "or they will break down. Listen for my whistle; when you hear it, Field, Willesden, Harris, and Bryan will follow up the herd with the Kaffirs and keep them moving, the rest will dismount, make their horses lie down, and open fire. That narrow valley we passed through yesterday afternoon will do to make a stand. It is about five miles away, head the cattle for it. The Boers won't be far behind us when we get there."

The enemy indeed had not noticed them leave the little kopje, as they were hidden by a slight fall in the ground where they descended, and it was not until they observed a commotion among the cattle that they perceived what had happened. Then, furious not only at the loss they had suffered, but at seeing their booty driven away, they mounted and pursued in hot haste. But the party had obtained a start of fully a mile, and the valley was reached by the fugitives while the Boers were still half that distance in their rear. Chris rode along until he came to a narrow and defensible point; the horses were taken a hundred yards on and made to lie down, and he and his sixteen companions then ran back and took up their positions among the rocks on each side of the track and the slopes above it.



Chapter VIII

A Desperate Project


Scarcely had the band taken cover in the gorge than the Boers appeared some five hundred yards away.

"Open fire at once!" Chris shouted, "the farther they have to come under fire the less they will like it."

The rifles at once spoke out. The lads had all used the boulders behind which they crouched as rests for their rifles, and confident of their shooting and their position, their aim was deadly. Five or six of the leading Boers fell and several horses, the rest came to an abrupt pause, galloped back some little distance and then dismounted, and leaving their horses in shelter, disappeared from sight. In a short time a dropping fire was opened from both sides of the valley.

"Don't fire unless you see a man," Chris ordered, "there are gaps on the hillside that they can't pass without giving you a chance. Fire in rotation, it is no use wasting a dozen bullets on one man; if the first misses, let the next shoot instantly, and so on. When they learn that it is death to leave shelter, they will soon get sick of it. Keep yourselves well under cover."

The rifle duel continued for an hour. As Chris had said would be the case, after seven or eight had fallen, as they were trying to make rushes across pieces of ground where boulders afforded no cover, the rest became very cautious, and at last only an occasional shot was heard.

"We will fall back now," Chris said, "for aught we know a party of them may be working round somewhere to take us in rear. We know that they have not got their horses with them, for we can see the spot where they hid them. Still, we do not want to be caught between two fires. Let four on each flank crawl back; keep well among the rocks, and don't let them catch sight of you. We will fire occasionally to let them know that we are still here. When you have got the horses up and everything is ready, whistle, and we will come back to you. It will be a long time before they venture to crawl up and discover that we have gone, an hour most likely, and by that time the cattle will be a dozen miles on their way to Estcourt, and the Boers are not likely to follow them."

Ten minutes later all were in their saddles. They had left the horses at a spot where there was a sharp elbow in the gorge, and their retreat could not be seen from the valley below. They cantered along in high glee; not one had received a scratch, while some twelve of the first party of Boers had fallen, and fully fifteen of the second, and it was certain that at least as many more must have been wounded.

"I expect they really gave up all idea of carrying our position long ago," Chris said, "and have only been keeping up their fire to prevent our turning the tables upon them. They must have seen that we are better mounted than they are, and have been afraid that we should in turn take the offensive. I should not be surprised if they stay where they are all day, and don't venture to mount and ride off till it gets dark."

"You are something like a leader," Peters said enthusiastically. "We knew that you were a good fellow, and would make the best leader among us, but no one could think that our choice would turn out so well as it has done. This is the second fight we have had with the Boers, and we have thrashed them well each time, although the first time they were twice as strong, and in the second something like four times, and we have not lost one of our number. I am sure if we had been caught where we were without you with us, at least half of us would have been killed, and we should have been lucky to get away with only that."

Riding without pressing their horses, it was two hours before they overtook the party with the cattle. These had now broken into a walk.

"We kept them at it till half an hour ago," Willesden said apologetically, when they came up, "but the Kaffirs said that unless we gave them a rest half of them would drop, so we let them go easy till you came up."

"Quite right," Chris said. "We have given the Boers such a thrashing that there is no fear of their continuing the pursuit. Unless we meet some more of these thieves, we can go on as quietly as we like. I have some sort of respect for men like those we met at Dundee and Elandslaagte, who fight manfully and stoutly, but for these raiding scoundrels who only come out to rob and plunder, and do wanton damage to quiet people, one feels only disgust, and shoots them without the least compunction."

There was a general chorus of agreement.

"Did they get near you, Chris?"

"Not within about four hundred yards. They got it so hot at first that they dismounted and took to the rocks; they pushed on for a bit, and if the whole hillside had been covered with boulders we might have had some sharp fighting, but there were some open spaces to be crossed, and after getting over two or three of them they found it safer to lie as close as rabbits. For aught we know they are there still."

They travelled quietly till sunset, and then halted in an open valley where there was water and good grass. Half the company kept watch by turns, being posted with their horses some half a mile out in the country, taking the animals with them not only because they could fall back more quickly, but because they knew the horses would hear any approaching sound long before their masters were able to do so, and would evince their uneasiness unmistakably. There was, however, no alarm, and two days later, travelling by easy stages, they arrived at Estcourt, where their arrival with so large a number of cattle created quite a sensation. They at once put up a notice at the post-office, that all persons who had been raided by the Boers could come and inspect the herd and take all animals bearing their brand. It soon appeared that the cattle were the property of four farmers living within a short distance of each other. They had arrived in Estcourt with their families two days previously, weary and broken down with fatigue, hunger, and the loss and ruin of their property. Their gratitude was deep indeed at this wholly unexpected recovery of a large portion of their herds, and they started the next morning, mounted on some ponies they had picked up for a trifle, to drive them down the country.

Chris saw the officer in command as soon as they arrived in the town, and gave him an outline of their adventure, upon which he was warmly congratulated. "Shall I send in a written report to you, sir?" Chris asked.

"No, you are not under my orders; and I should say that you had better write and post it to the officer commanding the force at Maritzburg. I do not know who it may be."

"Is the road closed to Ladysmith?" Chris asked.

"Yes, two days since. General French, who is ordered to Port Elizabeth to take command of the cavalry brigade that is forming to drive back the Boers who have crossed the Orange River, came down in the last train that got out. It was hotly fired upon by the Boers, but luckily they had not taken up the rails, and the train got through safely. We have had no news since, for even the wire to Colenso has been cut, and for anything we know the place may be in possession of the Boers. We have a little fort here, and have been throwing up entrenchments, but if they come in any force there is not much hope of our getting off. We have an armored train, which yesterday ran to within a mile or so of Colenso without being interfered with, though several parties of the enemy could be seen in the distance. I have great hopes that we shall get half a battalion up from Maritzburg to-morrow; if so, by loopholing the houses and throwing up some breastworks, we ought to be able to keep the Boers out of the place, unless they come in force. At any rate, I should advise you to scout next time beyond the Mooi River and to make Maritzburg your head-quarters. So far as we know the Boers have not yet gone beyond that river, and any news of their doing so would certainly be of value. You have done marvellously well in getting away from that party you met, but you might not be so lucky next time, for as they push on they are sure in a short time to be strong all over the country between the Tugela and the Mooi."

This, after some consultation, was agreed to by the troop. There was no reason for haste, and they rode by easy stages down to Maritzburg, stopping at Weston and Hawick. Many of their friends had gone down to Durban, but some still remained, and from these they received a hearty welcome. All found letters awaiting them, for it had been arranged that as it would be impossible to give any address, these should be sent to Maritzburg. Their friends were scarcely ready to credit their stories, but, on being shown General Yule's letter, saw that at least the accounts of their early doings were strictly correct.

Troops were coming up fast from Durban, and there was already a strong brigade there. Chris called upon the brigadier and presented General Yule's letter, and his own report of the fight with the Boers subsequently.

"This shows what can be done by young fellows who are good shots and good riders, and who, I may say, Mr. King, have been admirably commanded. What are your wishes now? There are two or three troops of volunteer horse here; would you wish to be attached to one of them? Of course, if you do so there will be no difficulty about it; but really, I think that you would be more useful in carrying on your work in your own way."

It had been known for a long time past that a large proportion of the cannon, rifles, and ammunition of the Boers had been landed at the Portuguese port of Lorenzo Marques, and taken up by rail from there to Komati-poort -- a station on the frontier, where there was a bridge across the Komati river -- and thence by rail to Pretoria. Chris heard that it was generally known that the Portuguese officials, who had long been influenced by Boer money extracted from the Uitlanders, were still winking at the practice, although it was a breach of neutrality. So much indignation was expressed on the subject at Maritzburg that Chris, one day when the party assembled at the spot where their horses were tethered, said:

"I want to have a serious talk with you all. You have all heard that immense quantities of arms and dynamite are passing through Lorenzo Marques. Now, at present we don't see much for us to do here. My idea is, that if we could manage to blow up the bridge across the river that divides Portuguese territory from the Transvaal, we should do an infinitely greater service than by killing any number of plundering Boers."

His troop looked at each other in surprise.

"You are not really in earnest, Chris?" Peters said; "it would be a tremendous business."

"It would be a big business, no doubt, but I was never more earnest in my life than in proposing it. Now that we know how strong the Boers are round Ladysmith, and what terribly hard work it will be for an army to fight its way through all those hills, we can see that the first calculations as to the time when it can be relieved are a good deal short of the mark. There must be at least twenty thousand men collected here to do it, and I think it is more likely to be the end of January than the end of December before the Boers are driven off. We have in the one case seven weeks and in the other twelve before the place is relieved, and we begin to turn the tables on the Boers; and according to the way we carry my idea out it depends whether we are back here by the end of the year or by the end of January -- that is, I acknowledge, if we get back at all.

"I have been thinking it over. There are two ways of doing it. We can go on board a ship touching at Durban and going on to Lorenzo Marques. I don't say that we could not all do it, but it would be better to choose only four; a larger number would excite more observation. Those who go will of course take dynamite with them. We can buy that at Durban. At Lorenzo Marques we should assume the character of four young Irish fellows. We know there are lots of them already up there, and Germans too, fighting in the Boer ranks and I am glad to know that they got peppered at Elandslaagte, although that is not to the point. We should go as four Irish lads who have come across from America to fight for the Boers. We have heard plenty of Irish in the mines and at Johannesburg, so shall be able to put enough brogue in our talk to pass. I know from what I have heard that a trip to the Portuguese officials would be quite sufficient for them to pass anything without examination; but even if they did open our cases and find dynamite in them, we could account for it by saying that we had been told before starting that it would be the handiest thing to take with us, and would be of more assistance to the Boers than anything we could bring them.

"No doubt some of the passengers would know that we got on board at Durban, but if any questions were asked we could account for that by saying that the ship we came over in, was going on to Australia, and therefore we had been obliged to land and take another on to Lorenzo Marques. Once landed, we should of course take a train for Komati-poort, and slip off it after dark at some station a few miles from there. Then, you know, we could first reconnoitre the bridge, and when we had settled on the best place for the dynamite, we could put it there the next night. I know a good deal about the use of dynamite. It is not like gunpowder, that you have to put in a hole and fasten up tightly, you only have to lay it upon an iron girder or arch, and light your fuse and leave it to do its work."

The boys listened with increasing surprise to his proposal.

"And what is your other plan?" Peters asked after a long pause.

"The other plan is that we should all take a passage in some small craft, which we could hire, to St. Lucia Bay, and then go up through Zululand and Swaziland, which extends to within a short distance of Komati-poort. Both tribes are friendly enough with us, and hate the Boers like poison. Of course in that case we shall take the dynamite with us, and then must be guided by circumstances as to our course and what we should do when we got to the bridge."

There was again a long silence, then Brown said: "If anyone but you had proposed it, Chris, I should have scoffed at it as impossible, but for myself I have come to have such confidence in you that I believe you would manage it. There can be no doubt that it would be a grand thing if we could do it. I have heard my father say that the river is a terribly bad one, and that sometimes it is altogether impassable for weeks at a time. Except by the bridge, even in the best times, I should think, from what he said, it would be quite impossible for them to take heavy things like cannon across. Anyhow, I am ready to go with you."

"Thank you, Brown," Chris said. "I should certainly not ask anyone to go. Those who are willing to do so must volunteer. Of course we only combined for the purpose of acting as scouts, and no one ever contemplated doing more. So far, we have, as all allow, carried out that object well; and I have no doubt that those who do not care to join in what is a sort of forlorn hope, will continue to do well after we have started on it, and of course I shall, if I get back, rejoin them. My scheme would, no doubt, be considered a very wild one, but I can see no reason why, with good luck, it should not succeed. Indeed, I believe that it will succeed, if, when we arrive there, we do not find that the Boers are guarding the bridge. Of course, if they do so there is but little hope of carrying the matter out. They will know the importance of the bridge to them, and how greatly its destruction would be desired by the British Government, and may think it possible that such an attempt as I propose would be made, and take precautions to prevent its success.

"I do not mean to throw away my life. If, when I get there, I find that it is next to impossible to carry the matter out, I shall give it up; but even then the information I should get about matters up there, both as to the Boers and the Swazis, would be of use. We know that Boer agents have been doing their utmost to get the Basutos to join them, and it is likely that they may be trying to induce the Zulus and Swazis to do the same; and even if we fail in the principal object, I should say that the time would not be wasted. When I am up there, I can, of course, get news as to how the war is going on, and if I find that our forces are pushing up into the Transvaal, I shall make straight across the country and join them. I have been thinking over the matter a good deal since we came here, and made up my mind that anyhow I shall try to carry it out, so I now resign the leadership, and also for the present my membership. Now, I don't want to influence you in any way. It has all come suddenly upon you. You had better talk it over together. All I ask you is that you will not say a word about it to anyone, not even to your relations.

"Not only because, as I know would be the case, they would be afraid of having anything to do with what they would consider an absolutely mad scheme, but because a chance word might prove fatal to success. As everyone knows, there are a great number of Dutch in the colony, who, although they may not be openly hostile, are in favour of the Boers, and will no doubt keep them acquainted with every movement of troops here, and can have no difficulty in communicating with them by native runners. Were one of our friends even to mention it casually that we had gone north, suspicions might be aroused. Therefore I beg that no one will breathe a word about the matter, but that you will decide for yourselves without consulting anyone. I shall leave you now, and we will meet here at the same time to-morrow. You will have had time to think it over then. I wish to say before I go that I don't consider that the success of my plan depends upon my having the whole twenty of you with me. I repeat, that four would be quite sufficient.

"There are advantages as well as disadvantages in having only that number. We should travel without exciting so much notice; we should have less difficulty about food; we could conceal ourselves more easily in case we were pursued. On the other hand, with a stronger party we could repulse an attack if chased by the Boers. So you see I really do not want more than three of you to join. I think four is the best number, and should be glad if only two besides Brown wished to go with me; but at the same time if more desire it, of course, as we are all comrades, they would have a right to go."

So saying he turned away, leaving the others to talk the matter over. They went through their usual drill that afternoon without any allusion being made to the subject. When they met the next day Chris said cheerfully, "Well, what have you decided? First, Brown, do you stick to what you said yesterday, or do you think better of it?"

"Certainly I stick to it," Brown said. "When I say a thing I mean it."

"And how about the others?"

"I have made up my mind to go with you, Chris," Peters said, "and so has Willesden. Field and Capper and Sankey would all go with you if you wanted to take more than four, and all would go if you wanted the troop; but if you would rather only have three of us, it is settled that Brown, Willesden and I go."

"Very well," Chris said, "that just suits me. I am glad that you would all go if you were wanted; but really I think that four would be the best number, so we will consider that as settled. And now there is one other thing I want to ask you about. You see, we have no right to take any money out of the common fund, but we shall have some heavy expenses. In the first place we shall want, I should say, a couple of hundred pounds of dynamite; then we shall have to take some natives with us, a couple of Zulus and two or three Swazis. There will be no difficulty in getting them, as so many have been thrown out of employment owing to the farmers losing their herds. We may find it useful to make presents to chiefs as we go along, and, of course, we shall have to take a certain amount of provisions for the party. Have you any objection to our each taking half our share out of the bank? Nothing has been drawn at present, and with a couple of hundred pounds between us we shall have enough and to spare for however long we may be away."

There was a chorus of agreement.

"We are all awfully sorry that you are going, Chris," Field said. "It won't be the same without you at all. We have agreed to ask you to nominate a leader during your absence."

"I would much rather not do that," Chris said. "Everyone has done equally well, and it is a question that you should settle among yourselves."

"We are all against that," Field said positively. "We have talked it over and agree that we shall never be able to fix on one. Suppose our votes were divided between four and five I don't think we should feel more comfortable afterwards. We would rather put all the names in a hat and draw one out, just leaving it to chance."

"I almost think that it would be better," Chris said, "to do as you propose. Agree first that, as we have done up till now, all important matters shall be discussed and decided by vote, then draw all the names from a hat and let each be leader for a week in the order in which they come out, with the proviso that if as time goes on you find that you can have more confidence in one than another, you can by a majority of three to one elect him as permanent leader."

"That would be a very good plan," Carmichael said, "but, you see, the difficulty is that, supposing we were going to attack the Boers or the Boers attack us, the plan the leader fixed on might not seem to us at all the best. In the two fights we have had there was not that difficulty, for everyone felt that the plan you adopted was the best, and indeed much better than any of us would have been likely to think of. I don't say that that would occur, but it might. It is not everyone who could fix upon the best thing to be done all at once as you did."

Chris thought for a minute. "I would suggest," he said, "that in such a case as you mention the leader should tell the next two on the list what he proposed. If one of the two agreed with him it would be a majority, and there would be nothing more to be said on the matter. If both disagreed with him there must be a general vote. I should hope such a thing would never occur, because the loss of five minutes would sometimes be disastrous, though in some cases it might not make any difference. Still, that is the best plan I can think of. There is no occasion for you to decide that straight off. At any rate, if you should find that any arrangement you make does not act perfectly well, I should advise you to join Captain Brookfield's troop and act with him."

The general opinion was strongly in favour of Chris's suggestion. It was agreed that at any rate the first leader should be chosen by chance. Carmichael's name came first out of the hat.

"I shall not have much responsibility," he said, "as we have settled to remain here until the advance begins. Now, Chris, about the spare horses."

"I should like to take one of them. We may have to gallop for it, and it is of no use our being well mounted if we are hampered with a pony that cannot keep up with us. We have only to lighten its load by getting rid of most of its burden, and then we should be free to go our own pace.

"I should like to take one of our Kaffirs. They have both turned out very well, and have a good idea of cooking, and are accustomed to our ways. I don't care which I have, but I should certainly like to have one of them. He would stick to the spare horse, while the other natives would be all right if they scattered and shifted for themselves."

"Would you not like two spare horses, Chris?"

"No, thank you, one would be enough. He would carry our stores, and I should get two native ponies to take the dynamite along. We shall not be travelling at any extraordinary rate of speed, and if they broke down we could always replace them. Certainly there would be no danger if we go through Zululand, and, I should think, not until we get north of the Swazis' country; for though I know there are Boers settled among them, a good many would of course have joined their army, and it would be easy to avoid the others. The danger will only lie in the last part of the journey."

"Then you have settled to go by land?"

"Yes, I have decided to go all the way on horseback. We might find difficulties with the Portuguese at Lorenzo Marques, and if we manage to blow up the bridge, should have no horses, and should have a very bad time indeed in getting back. If I can get dynamite here I shall go all the way by land, and it would be safer. No doubt the Boers have spies at Durban, and we might have difficulty in hiring a craft to take us to St. Lucia, and our starting with horses and five or six natives would be safe to attract the attention of someone looking out for news to send to the Boers. I think the best plan will be to keep a little to the east of the road to Greytown, where no doubt there are some Dutch, and strike the road that runs from there to Eshowe. A little west of Krantzkop there must be either a drift or a bridge or a ferry where it crosses the Tugela. I shall of course avoid Eshowe, and then keep along inside the Zulu frontier as far as the Maputa, which is its northern boundary, then we shall cross the Lebombo range into Swaziland. I don't know how far it would be by the way we should have to go, but as the crow flies it is about three hundred miles from here. I suppose, what with the detours and passes and so on, it will be four hundred. Ordinarily that distance could be done in twenty days, but we must allow a good bit longer than that; fifteen miles a day is the utmost we can calculate upon. However, in about a month after we start we ought to be there or thereabouts. Coming back we should do it more quickly, as we should have got rid of our weight and need not be bothered with pack ponies."

"You talk as coolly about it," Field laughed, "as if you were going out for a few days' picnic."

"It is the same sort of thing," Chris said, "except that it will be longer, a bit rougher, and a good deal more interesting."

"When will you start?"

"As soon as possible; all I have to see about are the dynamite and stores for the journey. We know pretty well by this time what we shall want. We are sure to be able to buy mealies and a bullock when we want one from the natives. Some tea and coffee, a dozen tins of preserved milk, and half a hundredweight of biscuits, in case of finding ourselves at a lonely camp with no native kraals near, and we shall be all right. Of course we will take a gallon or two of paraffin, a frying-pan, a small kettle, and so on, and a lantern that will burn paraffin. We will fill up our pouches with a hundred rounds of rifle cartridges and fifty for our revolvers, and then I think we shall be ready. Now mind, the success of our enterprise depends entirely upon your all keeping the secret absolutely. Neither Willesden, Brown, nor Peters have friends here to bother themselves about their absence. We are not likely to be missed, but if any questions are asked, you can say casually that we are off on a scouting expedition. I shall write four or five letters, with dates a week or ten days apart, and direct them from here, and leave them for you to post one by one to my mother. Be sure you send them in the right order. As she will suppose that we are stopping here quietly, and out of all harm, she won't be uneasy about me. Peters' and Willesden's friends have gone to England, so they are all right, and Brown's are at the Cape. You had better write two or three letters too, Brown, to be posted a fortnight or three weeks apart."

When these matters were arranged, Chris saw Jack, and the Kaffir agreed without hesitation to go with him. He had been so well treated since he joined them that he had become quite attached to Chris, who generally gave him his orders. He was only told they were going up on an expedition to Zululand and Swaziland.

"I want you to find two good Zulu and two Swazis. Do you think that you could do that?"

"There are plenty of them here, baas. I look about and get good men. What shall I tell them that they will have to do?"

"To act as guides, to tell the chiefs who we are, and on the march to look after two or three ponies. We shall only take one of the spare horses, you will look after him."

"Will they have guns, baas? All men like to have guns."

"Yes, they may as well carry guns, and you too, Jack."

"Much better for men to have guns, baas. They would be thought nothing of without them."

"All right Jack, there shall be no difficulty about that; the stores are full of them."

This was the case. Men entering the volunteer corps, or who intended to do any fighting, sold the rifles they had previously used and obtained those of Government pattern and carrying the regulation cartridge, so that for ten pounds Chris got hold of five really good weapons, carefully selecting those that carried the same-sized cartridge.

"You can take whichever you like," he said to Jack, who had gone with him to buy them; "and I shall tell the men I engage that if at the end of the journey I am well satisfied with their behaviour, I shall give them the guns in addition to their pay."

A few hours afterwards Jack brought up four natives for his inspection. They were all strong and well-built men, and looked capable of hard work. Having been thrown out of their employment by the events of the past fortnight, they were glad of a fresh job, and were highly satisfied when they were offered wages considerably higher than those they had before received. All preparations were completed by the following evening, and the next morning at daybreak, after bidding their comrades a hearty farewell, the little party started.



Chapter IX

Komati-Poort


The four lads were no longer dressed in the guise of farmers. These suits were carried in the packs to be resumed when they neared the Transvaal. They now dressed in the tweeds they had worn at Johannesburg, and either felt hats or straw. They still wore jack-boots. The heat of the day was now great, much more so, indeed, than they had been accustomed to, for while Maritzburg lies two thousand two hundred feet above the sea, Johannesburg is five thousand seven hundred. Behind them Jack led the spare horse, and the four new men stepped lightly along with their muskets slung behind them by the side of two strong Basuto ponies, each carrying a couple of boxes containing half a hundredweight of dynamite. These were concealed from view by sacks and blankets, the cooking utensils, and other light articles. The spare horse carried the flour, paraffin, fuses, and other stores, which brought up the weight to a hundred and twenty pounds. This was somewhat lighter than that carried by the ponies, but they were anxious to keep it in good condition in case one of their own gave out.

The baggage had all been very carefully packed, so that even when going fast it might not be displaced. They had found no difficulty in obtaining the dynamite, as several of the stores kept it for the use of the mines. They made no difficulty in selling it, and would not have been sorry to part with their whole stock. In view of the possibility of a siege, it was not an article that any sane man would care to keep on the premises. Chris had gone round to these stores and had obtained an offer from each, and as he said that he intended to accept the lowest tender, it was offered to him at a price very much below what he would ordinarily have had to give for it. The cases were sewn up in canvas, on which was painted respectively, Tea, Sugar, Biscuits, and Rice. Travelling five hours and halting at ten o'clock at a farmhouse that was still tenanted, and again travelling from half-past three until eight, they made about twenty-five miles the first day. Then they encamped at a spot where there was a small spring and consequently good feed for the horses, and knee-haltering them and taking off their saddles they turned them loose.

The natives had collected fuel as they went along, and a fire was soon made. When the kettle approached boiling, some slices of bacon, of which they had brought thirty pounds with them, were fried. There was no occasion to make bread, as they had enough for a two days' supply. The natives parched some mealies (Indian corn) in the frying-pan when the bacon was done, the fat serving as a condiment that they highly appreciated, and they quenched their thirst from the spring.

Four days' travelling took them to the drift across the Tugela. So far their journey had been wholly uneventful. Before crossing the next day they had a long talk with the two Zulus. Their language differed somewhat from that of Jack, but Chris understood them without difficulty; for a considerable portion of the labourers in the mines at Johannesburg were Zulus, and mixing with these, as Chris had done, he understood them even better than he did Jack.

The different routes were discussed, and the position of kraals, at which mealies for the five natives and the horses could be purchased, and meat possibly obtained. This, unless they bought a sheep, would be in the form of biltong, that is, strips of meat dried by being hung up in the sun and wind, and similar to the jerked meat of the prairies and pampas of America. The points at which water could be obtained were discussed. Some were at considerable distances apart; but the Zulus were of opinion that the late heavy rains had extended to the hills of Zululand, and that there would be abundance of water in little dongas and water-courses that would be dry after a spell of fine weather. While passing through Zululand there would be no occasion whatever for vigilance by day or a watch at night, for there perfect order reigned. Here and there resident magistrates were stationed, and at these points a few white traders had settled. All disputes between the natives were ordinarily decided by their own chiefs, but in serious cases an appeal could be made to the nearest magistrate, who at once interfered in cases of violence or gross injustice.

At the first kraal they came to they learned that the natives were everywhere much excited. They were most anxious to be allowed to join in the war against their old enemies, and were greatly disappointed on learning from the magistrates that this was only a white man's war, and that no others must take part in it. If, however, the Boers invaded their territory they would of course be allowed to defend themselves.

Some of the Zulus urged with reason, that though the English might wish to make it a white man's war, the Boers did not desire it to be so, for they knew that they had been urging the Swazis and the Basutos to join them against the English, and that offers of many rifles and much plunder had been made also to some of their own chiefs. To this the magistrates could only reply, that they knew of old that the Boers' words could not be trusted, and that they were always ready to break any arrangement that they had made. "They would like you to join them," they said, "because they would take your help and afterwards turn against you and steal your land. You know well enough that we have always stood between you and them; but they would know that if you had joined them against us we should be angry, and after our war with them was over would no longer protect you." The Zulus, from their knowledge of the Boers, felt that this would be so. But in any case no offers made to them would have induced them to side with the Boers; and it was the general hope that something might occur which would induce the English to allow them to attack their enemies.

Chris and his friends had laid aside their bandoliers, retaining only the cartridges carried in their belts, in order to assume the appearance of Englishmen merely travelling for sport, and as they went on they generally managed to shoot deer enough for the needs of the whole party. Occasionally they slept in the kraals of chiefs, but greatly preferred their own little tents as the smoke in them was often blinding, and more than once the attacks of vermin kept them awake. Still, it would have been a slight to refuse such invitations, and they had to go to the kraals as it was necessary to frequently buy supplies of mealies. At times the travelling was very rough, and with the utmost exertions they could not make more than twelve or fourteen miles a day, and at other times they could make five-and-twenty. Without the supply of Indian corn, the ponies could not have continued this rate of going without breaking down. The native horses are accustomed occasionally to make very long journeys, and can perform from sixty to eighty miles in a day, but after such an exertion they will need a week's rest before making another effort. With their Basuto masters they are not called upon to do so. When one of these makes a long journey he will leave his pony with the person he visits and return on a fresh mount, or if he returns to his own home after his first day's journey he will take a fresh horse from his own stock, which may vary from five to fifty ponies. As they rode they seldom talked of the work that was to be done. Until they saw the country, the positions, and approach, no plans could possibly be formed, and they therefore treated the matter as if it were a mere sporting expedition in a new country, and enjoyed themselves thoroughly. They had heavy work in crossing the Lebombo range, and, travelling a day's journey farther west, turned to the north again. They were now in Swaziland, a wild and mountainous country. Here also they were hospitably received where they stopped, although the Swazis were deeply aggrieved by the shameful manner in which England had refused, after the valuable aid they had rendered in the last war, to give them any support against the Boers. A word would have been sufficient to have kept the latter out of Swaziland, as it had kept them from raiding in Zululand; but that word was not given, and the unfortunate people had been raided and plundered, their best land taken from them, and they themselves reduced to a state of semi-subjection. However, they were glad to see four English sportsmen among them again, and to learn something of the war that had broken out between their oppressors and the British.

"If you beat them we shall be free again," they said. "Last time you were beaten, and gave over the whole country to the Boers, and left all our people, who had fought for you, at their mercy. This time you must not do that. If you beat them, shoot them all like dogs, or make slaves of them as they make slaves of the natives who dwell in their land. Only so will there be peace."

"I don't know that the English will do that," Chris said; "but you may be sure that, when the war is over, the Boers will be no longer masters, and there will be just law made by us, and all white men and all natives will be protected, and no evil deeds will be allowed."

"We are no longer united among ourselves," one of the chiefs said. "Some have been taken by the promises and gifts of the Boers, and our queen is also, it is said, in their favour. She is afraid of them, but most of us would take advantage of their fighting you to drive all of them out of our land, and to win back all the territory they have taken from us. We are very poor, our best land is gone, we can scarce grow enough food; and we long for the time when once again we can have rich mealie patches, and good grazing land for our oxen and our horses, and are again a strong people, and they afraid of us. Had not the English interfered and taken over the Boer country, we should have wasted it from end to end; and they knew it well, and begged your Shepstone to hoist your flag and protect them. Ah, he should have stayed there then! The natives, our friends in the plain, still talk of that happy time when you were masters, and the Boers dared no longer shoot them down as if they were wild beasts and treat them as slaves, and the towns grew up, and your people paid for work with money and not with the lash of a whip or a bullet. All of us have mourned over the time when the English bent their knee to the Boers, and gave them all they wanted, -- the mastery of the land, and the right to kill and enslave us at their will."

"That was not quite so," Chris said. "They promised to give good treatment to the natives; that was one of the conditions of the treaty."

"And you believed them!" the chief said scornfully. "Did you not know that a Boer's oath is only good so long as a gun is pointed at him? Perhaps it will be like this again, and when you have conquered them you will again trust them, and march away. But they tell us, it is not you who will conquer them, but they who will conquer you. They tell our people that they will be masters over all the land, and that your people will have to sail away in your ships. Runners have brought us news that they have gathered round the place where our people go to work digging bright stones from the ground, and that very soon they will take all the English prisoners, and that they have also beset Mafeking, and that they have beaten the English soldiers in Natal, and there will soon be none left there; and more than that, that the people of the other Boer state have joined them, and have entered the English territory, and are being joined by all the Boers there. Therefore we, who would like to fight against them, are afraid. We thought the English a great people; they had beaten the Zulus, and dethroned the great King Cetewayo. But now it seems that the Boers are much greater, and our hearts are sore."

"You need not fear, chief," Chris said. "Our country is very many miles away, many days' journey in ships; it will take weeks before our army gets strong. The Boers have always said they wanted peace, and we believed them and kept but a few soldiers here, and until the army comes from England they will get the best of it; but we can send, if necessary, an army many times stronger than that of the Boers, and are sure to crush them in the end."

"But how could you believe they wanted peace?" the chief asked. "Everyone knew that they were building great forts, and had got guns bigger than were ever before seen, and stores full of rifles. How could you believe their words when your eyes saw that it was not peace but war that they meant?"

"Because we were fools, I suppose," Chris said bitterly. "It was not from want of warnings, for people living out here had written again and again telling what vast preparations they were making, but the people who govern the country paid no attention. It was much easier to believe what was pleasant than what was unpleasant; but their folly will cost the country very dear. If they had sent over twenty thousand men a year ago there would have been no war; now they will have to send over a hundred thousand men, perhaps even more; and great sums of money will be spent, and great numbers of lives lost, simply because our government refused to believe what everyone out here knew to be the fact. We did nothing, and allowed the Boers to complete all their preparations, and to choose their own time for war. But though we have made a horrible mistake, do not think, chief, that there is any doubt about our conquering at last; the men who now govern our country are men and not cowards, and will not, as that other government did, go on their knees to the Boers, and even if they would do so, the people would not sanction it."

"If what the chief has heard is correct," Chris said as they rode along the next morning, "we must get back again as soon as we can. The Boers may be lying, and, of course, they would make the best of things to the Swazis. It certainly sounds as if not only at Ladysmith, but at all other places, things are going badly at present. However, in another couple of days we shall not be far from the bridge. The chief said that the frontier was only a few miles away, and our own men tell us that it is a very hilly country on the other side, just as it is here. We have certainly come faster that we had expected. Thanks to their good feeding, the horses have all turned out well. If it is really only two days farther, we shall get there in just three weeks from starting."

They had not brought the same ponies all the way; as soon as one showed signs of fatigue, it was changed for another with the arrangement that, should they return that way, they would take it back and give the chief a present for having seen that it was taken care of. The four natives, although well contented with the way in which they were fed and cared for, were much puzzled at the eagerness of their employers to push on, and the disregard they paid to all the information obtained for them of opportunities for sport. Several times they had said to Jack: "How is it the baas does not stop to shoot? There are plenty of deer, and in some places lions. There are zebras, too, though these are not easy to get at, and very difficult to stalk. Why do you push on so fast that the ponies have to be left behind, and others taken on? We cannot understand it. We have been with white men who came into our country to shoot, or to see what the land was like, but they did not travel like this. Besides, we shall soon be in the land of the Boers, and as the English are at war with them, they will shoot them if they find them."

Jack had only been told that his masters were going to strike a blow at the Boers, and had not troubled himself as to its nature. He had seen how they had defeated much larger parties than their own, and had unbounded confidence in them. He therefore only said:

"The baas has not told me. I know that all the gentlemen are very brave, and have no fear of the Boers. I do not think that we need fear that any harm will happen. They shoot enough for us to eat heartily, they buy drink for us at every kraal they stop at, and if they have seen no game they buy a sheep. What can we want more? They have got you guns, but you have never needed to use them; perhaps you may before you get back. If the Boers meddle with them you will be able to fight."

The prospect of a chance of being allowed to fight against the Boers would alone have inspired the four natives to bear any amount of fatigue without a murmur, and each day's march farther north had heightened their hopes that they might use their guns against their old enemies. It was on the twenty-first day after starting that, from a hill commanding a broad extent of country, they caught sight of a train of waggons, and knew that their journey was just at an end. They had debated which side of the Komati river would be the best to follow, and had agreed to take the eastern bank.

The Boer territory extended a few miles beyond this. Komati-poort was close to the frontier. As they knew nothing as to the construction of the bridge beyond the fact that it was iron, and were not even sure whether it was entirely on Boer ground, or if the eastern bank of the river here belonged to the Portuguese, they decided that at any rate it was better to travel as near the frontier as possible, as, were they pursued they could ride at once across the line. Not that they believed that the Boers would respect this, but they would not know the country so well as that on their own side, and would not find countrymen to join them in the pursuit.

Keeping down on the eastern side of the hills, they continued until they could see the white line of steam that showed the direction in which a train from the south-east was coming, and were therefore able to calculate within half a mile where the bridge must be situated. They camped in a dry donga, and next morning at daybreak left their horses behind them in charge of the men and walked forward. A mile farther they obtained a view of the bridge. It stood at the point where the river, after running for some little distance north-west, made a sharp curve to the south. The bridge stood at this loop. If the object had been to render it defensible, it had been admirably chosen by these Boers who laid out the line to the Portuguese frontier, for from the other side of the bank the approach could be swept by cannon and even musketry on both flanks.

Lying down, they took in all the details of the construction through their glasses, and then, choosing their ground so that they could not be seen by any on the bridge, they kept on until they were able to obtain a view from a distance of a quarter of a mile. The examination that was now made was by no means of a satisfactory nature. Near the bridge there were sidings on which several lines of loaded trucks stood. An engine was at work shunting. At least a score of natives were at work under the direction of Portuguese, while several men, who were by their dress evidently Boers, were pointing out to the officials the trucks they desired to be first forwarded. Three or four of these carried huge cases, two of them being each long enough to occupy two trucks.

"There is no doubt those are guns," Chris said. "If we can do nothing else, we can work a lot of damage here, which will be some sort of satisfaction after our long ride. As to our main object, things don't look well."

Half a dozen armed Boers could be made out stationed at the Portuguese side of the bridge, and as many more at the opposite end. Two lately-erected wooden huts, each of which could give shelter to some fifty men, stood a short distance beyond the bridge, and it was evident by the figures moving about, and a number of horses grazing near, that a strong party was stationed there to furnish guards for the bridge.

"I am afraid we cannot do it," Peters said, after their glasses had all been fixed on the bridge for several minutes; "at least, I don't see any chance. What do you say, Chris?"

"No, I am afraid there is none. If we were to crawl up to them to-night and shoot down all at this end of the bridge, we should be no nearer. You see, there are a line of huts on this side, and two or three better-class houses. No doubt the railway officials and natives all live there; they would all turn out when they heard the firing, and the Boers would come rushing over from the other side. It would be out of the question for us to carry forward those four boxes to the middle of the bridge, plant them over the centre of the girders, and light the fuses. A quarter of an hour would be wanted for the business at the very least, and we should not have a minute, if there is as good a guard by night as there is by day. It is likely to be at least as large, perhaps much more than that. The thing is impossible in that way. However, of course we can crawl up close after dark and satisfy ourselves about the guard.

"If it is not to be managed in that way, we must go down to the river bank and see whether there is anything to be done with one of the piers. If that is not possible, we must content ourselves with smashing things up generally on this side. Several of the trucks look to me to be full of ammunition, and there are eight with long cases which are no doubt rifles. We all remember that terrific smash at Johannesburg, and though I don't say we could do such awful damage as there was there -- for there were I don't know how many tons of dynamite exploded then, I think about fifty -- still, it would be a heavy blow. Any amount of stores would be destroyed, some thousand of rifles, and, for aught I know, all those waggons with tarpaulins over them are full of cartridges. However, the bridge is the principal thing. We will stop here for an hour or two and examine every foot of the ground, so as to be able to find our way in the dark. We need not mind about the trucks now, we can examine their position to-morrow if we have to give up the idea of the bridge."

On returning to their horses they had a long talk. Chris was deeply disappointed, but the others, who had never quite believed that his scheme could be carried out, were greatly delighted at the knowledge that at any rate they might be able to do an immense deal of damage to the enemy. As soon as it became quite dark, they set out again; they did not take their rifles with them, but each had his brace of revolvers. They had no intention of fighting, except to secure a retreat. Before starting, each had wound strips of flannel round his boots, so that they could run noiselessly. Brown had in the first place suggested that they should take their boots off, but Chris pointed out that if they had to run in the dark, one or other of them was sure to lame himself by striking against a stone or other obstacle. There were several large fires in the shunting yard, and at each end of the bridge, and at the Boer barracks. Crawling along on their hands and knees they were completely in the shade, and managed to get within some twenty or thirty yards of the Boers, who were sitting smoking and talking. They were all evidently greatly satisfied with news that they had heard during the day. Listening to their talk, they gathered something of what had happened since they left Estcourt. Colenso had been evacuated by us, an armoured train coming up from Estcourt had been drawn off the line, and most of the soldiers with it had been killed or captured. The last news was that the British had sallied out from Estcourt, which was now surrounded, and had attacked the Boers posted in a very strong position near a place called Willow Grange, but had been repulsed, principally by the artillery, with, it was said, immense loss. This was not pleasant hearing for the listeners. The Boers then had a grumble at being kept so far away from the fighting. It was not that they were so anxious to be engaged, as to get a share of the loot, as it had been reported that something like twenty thousand cattle and horses had been driven off from Natal.

Then their conversation turned upon a point still more interesting to the listeners. A commando had started from Barberton, a border town some thirty or forty miles to the west, into Swaziland. A native had mentioned to one of the Boers there that four Englishmen had passed north. They had stopped at his chief's kraal. They were all quite young, and had five natives with them, and three pack-horses. They had come to shoot and see the country, they said; but they had spoken with one of the men with them, who said that so far they had not done much hunting, only enough for food; he supposed that they were going to begin further on. The Boer had an hour later ridden down to Barberton with the news, and it had been at once resolved to send off a commando of a hundred men to search the hills, for there was a suspicion that the hunters were British officers who had come up to act as spies.

"Our cornet had a telegram this afternoon," one of them said, "that we were to be specially vigilant here, and we must keep a sharp lookout at night. I don't suppose they are on this side of the river. They may be going to pull up the railway, or blow up a culvert somewhere between this and Barberton. Four men with their Kaffirs might do that, but they certainly could not damage this bridge."

At ten o'clock most of the party retired into a small shed a few yards away, but two remained sitting by the fire, and were evidently left on guard, for they kept their rifles close at hand. The lads now crawled away some distance, and then made their way down a steep bank to the river. It was a stream of some size, running with great rapidity, and it did not take them long to decide that it would be impossible to swim out with the cases and place these in such a situation that the explosion would damage the structure. They then moved quietly up to the spot where the end of the last span touched the level ground; it rested upon a solid wall built into the rock, and ran some forty feet above their heads. They were now just under where the Boers were sitting, could hear their voices, and see the glow of their fire. They were unable to make out the exact position of the girders, but they had, when watching it, obtained a general view of the construction.

It consisted of two lines of strong girders on each side, connected by lattice bars, with strong communications between the sides at each pier. The depth of the girders was some twenty feet. After cautiously feeling the wall and finding that there were no openings in which their explosives could be placed, they crawled away noiselessly, ascended to the bank again a couple of hundred yards from the bridge, and returned to their camping ground. They observed as they went that there were still fires burning in the station yard, that some Kaffirs were seated near these, and as, in the silence of the night, a faint sound could be heard like that of a distant train, they had no doubt that they were waiting up for one to arrive. Indeed, before they had reached the camping place they saw a train pass by. It had no lights save the head-lights and that of the engine fire, and they therefore had no doubt that it was another train with stores.

When they reached their tents they had a long consultation. No fire had been lighted. The horses had been taken some way up a little ravine down which a stream of water trickled; here the four natives had taken up their post. These had only come down in the middle of the day to fetch their food, which Jack cooked over the spirit stove. This was alight when the lads returned, but was carefully screened round by blankets so that not the slightest glow could be seen from a distance.

"What do you think of it, Chris?" Brown said.

"I don't know what to think about it. I have no idea what effect dynamite would have when exploded at a distance of thirty or forty feet below a bridge. Certainly it would blow the roadway up, but I have very great doubts whether it would so twist or smash the main girders as to render the bridge impassable. The distance to the first pier is not great, and unless one entirely destroyed the bridge, I should say that it could be repaired very soon -- I mean, in a week or two -- by a strong gang. If the girders kept their places, two or three days' work might patch it up temporarily. If it were destroyed altogether as far as the first pier, it would stop the cannon getting over till a temporary bridge is constructed; but by rigging up some strong cables, they could pass cases of musket ammunition across the gap in the same way, you know, as I have seen pictures of shipwrecked people being swung along under a cable in a sort of cradle. What do you think, Peters?"

"Two hundred pounds of dynamite would do a lot of damage, Chris. I should think that it would certainly bring the wall down."

"I have no doubt that it would do that, Peters, but the ironwork goes some ten yards farther, and no doubts rests on the solid rock. I expect the wall is put there more to finish the thing off than to carry much of the weight. Again, you see it is only a single line, and not above ten feet wide, which is against us, for the wider the line the better chance it has of being smashed by an explosion some forty feet below it. Well, we will have another look at the bridge and the waggons to-morrow. Of course the bridge is the great thing if it can be managed, though I don't say that blowing up the yard would not be a good thing if we can't make sure of the other. Anyhow, we need not feel down-hearted about it. We came up here on the chance, and even though we may not be able to do exactly what we want, we ought to manage to do them a lot of damage."

After eating their supper they turned in to their two little tents. The spirit-lamp had been extinguished, and as they had not the least fear of discovery, they did not consider it necessary to place a sentinel. In the morning they were out again early and at their former post of observation.

"What are they up to now?" Brown said an hour later when he saw a party of Boers come down the opposite side close to the bridge, carrying posts and planks.

Chris made no answer, he was watching them intently. They stopped near the bank of the river close to the bridge. Then some of them set to work to level a space of ground, while others made holes at the corners.

"I am afraid that it is all up with our plans as far as the bridge is concerned. They are going to put up a hut there, and I have not the least doubt it means they are going to station a guard under the bridge. If they do it that side, they are probably doing the same on this, only we can't see them. The Boers are stupid enough in some things, but they are sharp enough in others, and it is possible that the commando from Barberton has come upon one of the kraals where we slept, and asking a lot of questions about us, they have found out that we had four heavy boxes with us, and the idea may have struck them that these contained explosives. If that did occur to them, it is almost certain that a man has been sent off at once to Barberton with orders to telegraph here and to other bridges, to take every precaution against their being blown up. Anyhow, there is a hut building there, and I don't see that it can be for any other purpose."

After three hours' work the hut was completed, and a party of eight men brought down blankets and other kit. Two of these at once ascended the bank with their rifles and sat down at the foot of the wall.

"That ends the business," Chris said. "However, I will creep round to a point where I can get a view of this side of the bridge. Possibly they have only taken precautions on their own side, for we were travelling for some time in the Swazis' country to the west of the Komati, and that is where they will have heard of us." He crawled away among the rocks, and rejoined his companions an hour later.

"It is just the same this side. They have settled the question for us. Now we will give our attention to the waggons."



Chapter X

An Explosion


Having given up all hopes of blowing up the bridge, Chris and his comrades turned their whole attention to the lines of waggons. The train that had come in on the previous evening had added to the number, although it had taken some of them away with it up country. They now made out that there were eight waggons piled with cases, that almost certainly contained rifles; six with tarpaulins closely packed over them, and these they guessed contained ammunition boxes; four, each with two large cases that might contain field guns; while the two with what they were sure were big guns still remained on the siding.

"I should say that about four or five pounds of dynamite would be an abundance for each of those ammunition waggons; less than that would do, as we could, by slitting the tarpaulins, put a pound among the cases, and if one case were exploded it would set all the others off. There is no trouble about them. I will just take a note. They are on the second siding; there are eight other waggons in front of them and six behind, so we cannot make any mistake about that. There must be a good heavy charge under the rifle trucks, for we shall have to blow them all well into the air to bend and damage them enough to be altogether unserviceable. As for the guns, and especially the heavy ones, it is a difficult question. Of course, if we could open the cases and get at the breech-pieces, and put dynamite among them, we could damage all the mechanism so much that the guns would be useless until new breech-pieces were made, which I fancy must be altogether beyond the Boers; but as there is no possibility of opening them, we must trust to blowing the guns so high in the air that they will be too much damaged for use by the explosion and fall. We have got altogether two hundredweight; now two pounds to each ammunition waggon will take twelve pounds. What shall we say for the rifles?"

"Ten pounds," Brown suggested.

"That would take eighty more pounds," Willesden objected, "which would make a big hole in our stores."

"We must have a good charge," Chris said. "Suppose we say nine pounds to each, that will save eight pounds; fifteen pounds apiece ought to give the eight cases which we suppose hold field-guns a good hoist; that will leave us with over a hundred pounds, fifty for each of the big guns. Now that we have seen all that is necessary, we may as well be off and begin to get ready."

The covers were taken off the boxes of dynamite, and these were unscrewed, and the explosive was with great care divided into the portions as agreed upon. Two of the cases furnished just sufficient for the ammunition waggons and the two big guns, the other two for the smaller cannon and the trucks with the rifles. The charges were sewn up in pieces of the canvas, the smaller charges for the ammunition boxes being enclosed in thinner stuff that had been sewn under the canvas used in packing; the fuses and detonators were then cut and inserted. Chris was perfectly up in this work, having performed the operation scores of times in the mines. The length it should burn was only decided after a discussion.

There would be in all nineteen charges to explode, and these were in three groups at some little distance from each other, all the cannon being on the same siding. It would be necessary, perhaps, to wait for some time till all these were free from observation by natives or others who might be moving about the yard, then a signal must be given that they could all see. It would not take long to light the fuses, for each of them would be provided with a slow match, which burns with but a spark, and could be held under a hat or an inverted tin cup till the time came for using it. The question was how far must they be away to ensure their own safety, and Chris maintained that at least four or five hundred yards would be necessary to place them in even comparative safety from the rain of fragments that would fall over a wide area. Finally it was agreed to cut the fuses to a length to burn four minutes; this would allow a minute for any hitch that might occur in lighting them, and three minutes to burn. It was of course important that they should be no longer than was absolutely necessary, as there existed a certain risk that one of the little sparks might be seen by a passing Kaffir, or, as was still more probable, the smell of burning powder should attract attention. It was agreed that Chris should light the fuses at the cannon, which were farthest from the others, that Peters should see to the six rifle trucks, and Willesden and Brown attend the eight trucks with the ammunition, one to begin at each end of the line.

When each had finished his work, he was to run straight away in the direction of the encampment, and all were to throw themselves down when they felt sure that the time for the explosions had arrived. As soon as all was over they were to meet at their place of encampment. Tents and all stores were to be removed before the work began to the ravine where the horses were, the men with them being charged to stand at the animals' heads, as there would be a great explosion, and the horses might break loose and stampede. The matter that puzzled them the most was how, when they reached their respective stations -- separated from each other by lines of waggons, and in some cases by distances of a couple of hundred yards -- they were to know when the work of lighting the fuses was to begin. It could not be done by sound, for this would reach the ears of any awake in the yard or the sentries at the bridge. Chris at last suggested a plan.

"When we start, Jack shall be stationed at a point on the hillside high enough for us to see him from all points of the yard. We will show him the exact spot while it is light. When we start he shall go down with us to the edge of the yard, and as we separate will turn and go up to the point we had shown him. He will be ordered to walk up quietly, and not to hurry; that will give us ample time to get to our stations before he reaches his. We must all keep our eyes fixed on that point. He will take the dark lantern with him; when he gets there he must turn the shade off, so as to show the light for a quarter of a minute. That will be our signal to begin. It is most unlikely that anyone else will see it, but even if they did they would simply stare in that direction and wonder what it was. Of course, only a flash would be safer; but some of us might not see it, and would remain waiting for it until the other explosions took place."

All agreed that this would be a very good plan. Chris crawled up with Jack until he reached a spot where he commanded a perfect view of the yard, and explained to him exactly what he was to do. He had already been told what was going to take place. Knowing that the Kaffirs have very little idea of time, he said: "You will hold it open while you say slowly like this, 'I am showing the light, baas, and I hope that you can all see it.' You will say that over twice and then turn off the light, and lie down under that big rock till you hear the explosion. Wait a little, for stones and fragments will come tumbling down. When they have stopped doing so make your way straight to where the horses are; you will find us there before you. Now, repeat over to me the words you are to say slowly twice."

Jack did so, and finding on questioning him that he perfectly understood what he was to do, Chris went back with him to the encampment, where they remained quietly until the sun set and darkness came on. Then, according to arrangement, the four natives came in and carried all the things back to the ravine, and laid them down ready to pack the horses as soon as their masters returned.

The day passed slowly to the lads. All were in a state of suppressed excitement, an excitement vastly greater than they had felt during their two fights with the Boers.

"How they will wonder who did it when they hear the news down in Natal!" Peters said.

"I don't expect they will hear much about it," Chris said. "You may be sure the Boers will not say much; they make a big brag over every success, but they won't care to publish such a thing as this. Probably their papers will only say: 'An explosion of a trifling nature occurred on the Portuguese side of Komati-poort. Some barrels of powder exploded; it is unknown whether it was the result of accident or the work of spies. Due precaution will be taken to prevent the recurrence of the accident. Beyond a few natives employed at the station, no one was hurt.'"

The others laughed. "I suppose that will be about it, Chris. However, I have no doubt that that commando from Barberton will keep a very sharp look-out for us as we go back."

"Yes, but they won't catch us. We won't venture into Swaziland again, but will make our way down on the Portuguese side, following the railway till we are fairly beyond the mountain range. We can ride fast now that we have got rid of the dynamite. It will be some time before they get the news about what has happened here, for the telegraph wires are sure to be broken and the instruments smashed. I really think that our best way will be to ride straight down to Lorenzo Marques. When we get there we can very well state that we had been ordered to leave Johannesburg, and that, as the trains are so slow and so crowded with fugitives, we had ridden down. I don't suppose that we shall attract the least notice, for we know that a great many of those who had intended to stay have been ordered off. That way we shall get back to Natal in a few days and avoid all danger." The others agreed that this would be a capital plan; and the distance by the road, which they had crossed a few miles to the south, and which runs from Lorenzo Marques up to Ladysdorp and the Murchison and Klein Lemba gold-fields, would not be above seventy miles. They would wait till daybreak showed them the amount of damage that had been done, and then start, and would be down at Lorenzo Marques in the evening, when, even if the news of the explosion reached the town, the Boers' suspicions that some Englishmen were in the hills, and that it was probably their work, would not be known. Not until ten o'clock was a move made. Then they took up the packages of dynamite, and, accompanied by Jack, made their way noiselessly down to the railway yard.

Here they separated. Chris, aided by Jack, carried the big packets for the large guns and for the eight smaller ones. They met no one about, and depositing their packages in the right position under them -- the fuses had been already inserted -- they returned to the spot they had left. In a minute or two they were joined by the others. Peters had placed his parcels under the eight trucks with rifles; Willesden and Brown had cut holes in the tarpaulins of the ammunition trucks, and thrust down their charges well among the boxes. All was ready. While the others stood closely round him Jack opened the lantern just widely enough for them to light their slow matches.

"Now, you are not to hurry back to the place, Jack; we shall all be on the look-out for you by the time you get there. You know your instructions; you are to turn round, open the slide of the lantern, say the words I told you over twice slowly, then shut the lantern and get under that great boulder lying against the rock. You will be perfectly safe in there."

"I understand, baas," he said, and at once turned and went off. The others hurried to their respective posts, and then turned round and gazed at the spot where the light would be shown. In their anxiety and excitement the time seemed interminable, and each began to think that the native had somehow blundered; at last the light appeared, and they turned at once to their work. Half a minute sufficed to light the fuses, and then they hurried away cautiously until past all the waggons, and then at full speed along the hillside, their thickly-padded shoes making no noise upon the rocks. Knowing that they were sure to be confused as to the time, they had calculated before the sun had set how far they could run in three minutes, which should be, if all went well, the time they would have after leaving the yard. They thought that even on the rough ground, and in the dark, they could make a hundred and fifty yards a minute, and at about four hundred and fifty from the waggons there was a low ridge of rock behind which they would obtain protection from all fragments blown directly outwards.

Chris was the first to arrive, for the trucks with the cannon were those farthest away from the bridge, and he was able to run for some distance along the line before making for the elope, and therefore travelled faster than his companions, who had farther to run on broken ground. In half a minute they rushed up almost together.

"Throw yourselves down," Chris shouted; "we shall have it directly."

Twenty seconds later there was a tremendous roar and a blinding crash, and they felt the ground shake. Almost simultaneously came eight others, then in quick succession followed six other reports, and mingled with these a confused roar of innumerable shots blended together. There was a momentary pause, and then a deafening clatter as rifles, fragments of iron and wood came falling down over a wide area. Several fell close to where the lads were crouched against the rock, but none touched them. For a full half-minute the fragments continued to fall, then the boys stood up and looked round. It was too dark to see more than that the yard was a chaos; the long lines of waggons, the huts and buildings, had all disappeared; loud shouts could be heard from the other side of the bridge, but nearer to them everything was silent. There was no doubt that the success of the attempt was complete, and the lads walked back quietly until they were at the spot where the horses had been placed, Jack overtaking them just as they reached it.

"It was terrible, baas," he said in an awed voice. "Jack thought his life was gone. Things fell on the rock but could not break it."

"Nothing short of one of those big cannon would have done that, Jack. Well, we shall see in the morning what damage is done."

The four natives, although they had been warned, were still terribly frightened. The horses had at the first crash broken away and run up the ravine, but they had just brought them down again, still trembling and lathering with fear. For some minutes the boys patted and soothed them, and accustomed to their voices and caresses they gradually quieted down, but were very restless until day began to break. The boys had no thought of sleep. The lamp was lit and tea made, and each of the Kaffirs was given a glass of spirits and water, for they had brought up a bottle with them in case of illness or any special need; and it was evident from their chattering teeth and broken speech that the natives needed a stimulant badly. Before it became light the horses were saddled, and the five natives told to take them along the hill a mile farther. When they had seen them off the lads returned to their former post above the station. They had several times, when they looked out during the night, seen a great light in that direction, and had no doubt that some of the fallen huts had caught fire.

Prepared as they were for a scene of destruction, the reality far exceeded their expectations. All the waggons within a considerable distance of the explosions were smashed into fragments, their wheels broken and the axles twisted. The ammunition trucks had disappeared, and many close to them had been completely shattered. Those in which the muskets had been were a mere heap of fragments; the rest of the trucks lay, some with their sides blown in, others comparatively uninjured. Some were piled on the top of others three or four deep; their contents were scattered over the whole yard. Boxes and cases were burst open, and their contents -- including large quantities of tea, sugar, tinned provisions in vast quantities, and other stores -- ruined.

Some still smoking brands showed where the huts had stood, and the dead bodies of some twenty natives and several Portuguese officials, were scattered here and there. The bodies of eight Boers were laid out together by the bridge, and forty or fifty men were wandering aimlessly amid the ruins. A huge cannon stood upright nearly in the centre of the yard. It had fallen on its muzzle, which had penetrated some feet into the earth. They could not see where its fellow had fallen. Five others, which looked like fifteen-pounders, were lying in different directions, the other three had disappeared. Rifles twisted, bent, and ruined were lying about everywhere.

"It is not as good as the bridge," Chris said after they had used their glasses for some time in silence, "but it is a heavy blow for them, and I should think it will be a week before the line can be cleared ready for traffic. Even when they begin they will feel the loss of so much rolling-stock. There were five engines in the yard. Every one of these has been upset, and will want a lot of repairs before it is fit for anything again. I wish I had a kodak with me to take a dozen snap-shots, it would be something worth showing when we get back. Well, we may as well be moving. The Boers look as if they were stupefied at present, but they will be waking up presently, and the sooner we start for Lorenzo Marques the better."

Half an hour later they had mounted and were on their way, travelling slowly till they came upon the road, and then at a fast pace. Jack rode the spare horse, the other natives rode the ponies in turn, those on foot keeping up without difficulty by laying a hand on the saddles. Sometimes they trotted for two or three miles, and then went at a walk for half an hour, and stopped altogether for four hours in the heat of the day, for they were now getting on to low land, being only some three hundred feet above the sea. They reached Lorenzo Marques at about nine o'clock in the evening, and failing to find beds, for the town was full of emigrants from the Transvaal, they camped in the open. In the morning they sold the two ponies, and were fortunate in finding a steamer lying there that would start the next day. Being very unwilling to part with their horses they arranged for deck passages for them, taking their own risk of injury to them in case of rough weather setting in. Every berth was already engaged, but this mattered little to them, as they could sleep upon the planks as well as on the ground.

They found that there was some excitement in the town, as there was a report that there had been an explosion and much damage done near Komati-poort. No particulars were, however, known, as the railway officials maintained a strict silence as to the affair. It was known, however, that the telegraphic communication with the Transvaal was broken, and that three trains filled with Kaffir labourers, and accompanied by a number of officials and a company of soldiers, had gone up early that morning. Among the fugitives strong hopes were expressed that the damage had been serious enough to interrupt the traffic for some little time, and to cause serious inconvenience to the Boers, and some even hazarded the hope that the bridge had suffered. This, however, seemed unlikely in the extreme.

Fortunately the weather was fine on the run down to Durban, and the passage of three hundred miles was effected in twenty-four hours. It was now just a month since they had left Maritzburg, and as soon as they landed with their horses and followers they learned that much had taken place during that time.

They had started on the 10th of November. The Boers were then steadily advancing, and so great did the danger appear, that Durban had been strongly fortified by the blue jackets, aided by Kaffir labour. On the 25th Sir Redvers Buller had arrived, and by this time a considerable force was gathered at Estcourt. The British advance began from that town on the following day. The place had been entirely cut off, Boers occupying the whole country as far as the Mooi river. General Hildyard, who commanded at Estcourt, had been obliged to inarch out several times to keep them at a distance from the town, and one or two sharp artillery engagements had taken place, the Boers being commanded by General Joubert in person. They had always retired a short distance, but their movements were so rapid that it was useless to follow; and the troops had each time fallen back to Estcourt. On the 28th the Boers had blown up the bridge across the Tugela, and our army was moving forward, and a great battle was expected shortly. On landing Chris rode at once to the address given by his mother, and found that she had sailed for Cape Town a week before. Riding then to the railway, he found that the line was closed altogether to passenger traffic, but that a train with some troops and a strong detachment of sailors was going up that evening. Learning that a naval officer was in command, as the military consisted only of small parties of men who had been left behind, when their regiments left, to look after and forward their stores, he went to him. He had, before landing, donned his civilian suit.

"What can I do for you, sir?" the officer, who was watching a party loading trucks with sheep, asked.

"My name is King, sir. I have just returned from an expedition to Komati, I and three friends with me, and we have succeeded in blowing up a large number of waggons containing a battery of field artillery, two very heavy long guns, which, by the marks on the case, came from Creusot, some eight or ten thousand rifles, and six truck-loads of ammunition."

"The deuce you have!" the officer said, looking with great surprise at the lad who told him this astonishing tale. Then sharply he added: "Are you speaking the truth, sir? You will find it the worse for you if you are not."

"What I say is perfectly true," Chris said quietly. "We only arrived an hour since from Lorenzo Marques. This open letter from General Yule will show you that the party of boys of whom I was the leader, have done some good service before now."

The officer opened and read the letter. "I must beg your pardon for having doubted your word," he said, as he handed it back. "After adventuring into a Boer camp, and giving so heavy a lesson to a superior force of the enemy, I can quite imagine you capable of carrying out the adventure you have just spoken of. Now, sir, what can I do for you?"

"I have come to ask if you will allow myself and my three friends to accompany you."

"That I will most certainly. And indeed, as you have a report to make of this matter to General Buller, you have a right to go on by the first military train. Is there anything else?"

"Yes, sir; I should be greatly obliged if you will authorize the station-master to attach a carriage to the train to take our five horses."

"I will go with you to him," the officer said. "I can't say whether that can be managed or not."

The station-master at first said that it was impossible, for his orders were for a certain number of carriages and trucks, and with those orders from the commanding officer he could not add to the number.

"But you might slip it on behind, Mr. Station-master," the officer said. "There are four gentlemen going up with a very important report to Sir Redvers Buller."

"I would do it willingly enough," the station-master said, "but the commanding officer is bound to be down here with his staff, and he would notice the horses directly."

"They might be put in a closed van, sir," Chris urged. "And as there are so many full of stores, it would naturally be supposed that this was also loaded with them."

The official smiled. "Well, young gentleman, I will do what I can for you. As the officer in command of the train has consented, I can fall back upon his authority if there should be any fuss about it. The train will start at eight this evening; you had better have your horses here two hours before that. Entrain them on the other side of the yard, and I will have the waggon attached to the train quietly as soon as you have got them in. The general is not likely to be down here till half an hour before the train starts, and it is certainly not probable that he will count the number of carriages."

It was now half-past five, and Chris joined his friends, who were waiting with the horses and Kaffirs near the station. They had hardly expected him so soon, as they did not know that his mother had left.

"Good news," he said. "There is a through train going up this evening, and I have got permission for us and the horses to go; but they must be put in a truck by half-past six, and we may as well get them in at once. We still have our water-skins; the Kaffirs had better get them filled at once, and a good supply of mealies for the horses on the way; there is no saying how long we may be. Willesden, do you run into a store and get a supply of bread and a cold ham for ourselves; a good stock of bread for the Kaffirs, and a jar of water, and a hamper, with a lock, containing two dozen bottles of beer, the mildest you can get, for them. We are sure to get out for a few minutes at one of the stations, and can then unlock the hamper and give them a bottle each. It would never do to leave it to their mercy; they would drink it up in the first half-hour, and then likely enough quarrel and fight. For ourselves, we will have a small skin of water and, say, three bottles of whisky. The carriage is sure to be full, and it will be acceptable in the heat of the day tomorrow. The remainder of our supply of tea and so on, and the lamp and other things, had better all go in with the horses, and everything we do not absolutely want in the train with us; there will be little room enough. Get an extra kettle, then we can not only make ourselves a cup of tea or cocoa on the road, but give some to any friend we may make; besides, it is sure to come in useful when we get to the front."

"I will see to all that."

"If you will, take Jack with you to carry the things you buy."

"I had better take two of them; it will be a good weight."

"Very well, take one of the Zulus; the other can lead the spare horse, and likely enough we shall have some trouble in getting them into the waggon."

That work, however, turned out more easy than he had expected. The station-master pointed out the waggon that he was to take, which was standing alone on one of the lines of rails. They all set to work, and were not long in running it alongside an empty platform, from which the horses were led into it without trouble, being by this time accustomed to so many changes that they obeyed their masters' orders without hesitation. They had, too, already made one railway journey, and had found that it was not unpleasant. The station-master happened to catch sight of them, and sent two of the porters to take the waggon across the various points to the rear of the train, where it was coupled. The water-skins had been filled and the horses given a good drink before entering the station, and the stores, waterproofs, and other spare articles stowed with the horses. The shutter was closed, and the Kaffirs told that on no account were they to open it or show their faces until the train had left the station.

In a few minutes Willesden came up with the two natives heavily laden. As soon as the stores and natives were all safely packed away and the door of the van locked by one of the porters, the lads went out and had a hearty meal at an hotel near the station. When they returned a large number of soldiers and sailors were gathered on the platform. Their baggage had already been stowed, and they were drawn up in fours, facing the train, in readiness to enter when the word was given, the officers standing and chatting in groups. The station was well lighted, as, in addition to the ordinary gas-lamps, several powerful oil-lamps had been hung up at short intervals. The naval men were in the front part of the train, and on Chris walking up there the officer in command beckoned to him.

"I will take you in the carriage with me, Mr. King. We want very much to hear your story, and there is plenty of room for you. Your three companions will go in the next two compartments, which will contain junior officers and midshipmen, and I am sure that they too will be very welcome. Before we board the train I will get you all to go and sit at the windows at the other side. If you will bring your friends up I will introduce them to their messmates on the trip. As soon as we have all entered, we shall be at the window saying good-by to our friends, and no one will catch sight of you. It is just as well, for although I feel perfectly justified in taking you on to make your report to the commander-in-chief, my senior might fuss over it; and although he might let you go on, there would be a lot of explanations and bother. Have you got your horses in?"

"Yes, sir; we were able to manage that capitally."

"Then you had better bring your comrades up at once, Mr. King, and I will introduce them to those they will travel with." Chris brought up his three friends and introduced them to the officer, who then took them to the group of youngsters.

"Gentlemen," he said, "these three gentlemen will travel in your compartment. They have seen a great deal of the war, and belong to one of the mounted volunteer corps. They have a wonderful story to tell you, and I am sure you will be delighted with their companionship. They will take their seats just before the men entrain. They must occupy the seats near the farther window, and as you will no doubt all be looking out on this side, they will probably not be noticed, which would be all the better, as it is a little irregular my taking them up."

By this time a considerable number of people were crowded in the station, friends of the officers and comrades of the sailors, who looked enviously at those going forward, while they themselves might possibly not get a chance of doing so. A quarter of an hour later the officer said:

"I am going to give the order to entrain. This is my compartment. You and your friends had better slip into your places at once."

As soon as they had got in the order was given, and with the regularity of a machine the three hundred men entered the train. As soon as they had done so the officers took their places. The crowd moved up on to the platform, and there was much shaking of hands, cheering, and exhortations to do for the Boers. Suddenly there was a backward movement on the part of the spectators, and the commanding naval officer on the station, with several others and a group of military men, came on to the platform. They were received by the officers in command of the sailors and soldiers, and walked with them along the platform talking. This was evidently a matter of ceremony only. The usual questions were put as to the stores, and after standing and chatting for eight or ten minutes the officers took their places in the train, the engine whistled, and the train moved on, amid loud cheering both from those on the platform and the men at the windows. As soon as they were fairly off, Chris's friend said:

"I have already introduced you to these officers, Mr. King, but I have not told them any of your doings. I can only say, gentlemen, that this young officer is in command of a section of Volunteer Horse, and has done work that any of us might be proud indeed to accomplish. The best introduction I can give him, before he begins to tell his story, is by reading a letter with which General Yule has furnished him."



Chapter XI

Back With The Army


While the letter was being passed round from hand to hand, a good deal to Chris's discomfort, he had time to look more closely than he had done before at his travelling companions. Three of them were young lieutenants, the fourth an older man, shrewd but kindly faced. In introducing him, his friend said: "This is our medico, Dr. Dawlish. I hope that you will have no occasion to make his professional acquaintance." When they had all read the letter, the senior lieutenant said: "Now, Mr. King, we won't ask much of you to-night; we shall have all to-morrow to listen to your story. We have all had a pretty hard day's work, and shall before long turn in. Perhaps you will tell us to begin with what your corps is, and how you became the officer."

"There are twenty-one of us, sir, and we are all about the same age. We were great friends together at Johannesburg, where our fathers were for the most part connected with mining. As things went on badly, we decided to form ourselves into a corps if the war broke out. They chose me as their leader -- for no particular reason that I know of -- and with the understanding that if I did not quite give satisfaction, I should resign in favour of one of the others. We all came down with our families from Johannesburg when war was declared, and were grossly insulted and ill-treated by the Boers, several of the ladies, among them my mother, being struck on the face with their whips; which, you can imagine, quite confirmed our determination to fight against them. We had all obtained our parents' consent, and when we got to Pietermaritzburg, proceeded to get our horses and equipments. That is all."

"A great deal too short, Mr. King," the lieutenant said. "We want to know what steps you took, and how you managed it. Did you come down all the way by train?"

Chris related the events of the journey with more detail, and how, all being well furnished with money, they had lost no time in getting all they required, and going back by train to Newcastle.

"That is a good point to leave off," the officer said. "Tomorrow morning we will take your story in instalments, and I do hope you will give us the details as minutely as you can. They will greatly interest us, as we are going in for that sort of thing, and it will show us what can be done by a small number of young fellows accustomed to the country, well-mounted, and, I am sure, from what General Yule says, remarkably well led." All were provided with flasks, and after sampling the contents of these, they wrapped themselves in their rugs and were soon fast asleep. The other three lads did not get off so easily, the younger officers were all so delighted at the prospect of soon being engaged that they were in no way inclined to sleep, and it was not until the seniors had long been soundly off that they too agreed to postpone the rest of the boys' narrative until the next morning. The train travelled very slowly, and Pietermaritzburg -- a distance of seventy miles -- was not reached until day was breaking. Here there was a long pause, and all alighted to stretch their limbs. The lads ran to the end of the train; Jack was looking out.

"I thought that we should stop here, baas," he said; "and I have got the kettles boiling and ready."

"Good man!" Chris said. "How have the horses passed the night?"

"They have been very quiet, baas."

"That is good to know. Take the kettles off and put three good handfuls of tea in each."

"Yes, baas."

"When they are emptied, fill them with fresh water and put them again on the stove. When they boil, bring them to our carriages, having of course put some tea in before you take them off the lamp. Now, give me one of those large loaves and the ham, and all the mugs and knives. We will start breakfast first in my compartment, Willesden; we will pass you in the ham when we have done with it. Anyhow, the kettles will hold enough for a mug for everyone in our three compartments, and by the time we have drunk that the second lot will be boiling. Open a couple of tins of milk, Jack, and then you can bring them along when you have taken the kettles. There is no extraordinary hurry, for I heard them say that we should wait here at least an hour."

There was some amusement among the soldiers and sailors as Jack, carrying the kettles, and Chris, Willesden, Brown, and Peters with ham, bread and butter, tin mugs, plates, and three open tins of preserved milk, came along down the platform.

"What have you got here?" the doctor asked in surprise, as they arrived at the carriage.

"Breakfast," Chris said. "It is in the rough, but you will get it rougher than this before you get to Ladysmith."

"Why, you must be a conjurer. Where did you get the water from? We were just discussing whether we should go out and try to fight our way to those barrels of beer where the Tommies are clustered, or content ourselves with spirit and water, a drink I cannot recommend in the morning."

There were exclamations of pleasure from all in the carriage as Jack was handing in the things.

"We shall not want the ham, Mr. King," the senior lieutenant said. "We provided ourselves with a great basket of eatables and a few bottles of wine, but the idea of making tea in the train did not, I think, occur to any of us."

Chris was not allowed to cut his ham, for the basket contained pies, chicken, and other luxuries; but the tea was immensely appreciated. By the time that the first mugs were empty Jack arrived with the fresh supply, and long before the train started breakfast was over, pipes had been lighted, and all felt thoroughly awake and cheery. "Do you always travel so well provided, Mr. King?" the doctor asked.

"We always carry tea, preserved milk, and preserved cocoa, and two or three gallons of paraffin for cooking with. In case we can't find wood for a fire, it makes all the difference in the world in our comfort."

"Now, Mr. King, we must waste no more time; so please begin at once, or there will be no time to hear all your story. Tell us something about your expedition to Komati-poort. The other we shall hope to hear on another occasion in our camp, where we shall all be glad to see you at any time."

Chris then related the idea he had formed at Maritzburg, of blowing up the bridge, and how he had carried out the adventure. He passed very briefly over the journey, but described fully how they had been obliged to relinquish their original project, owing to the bridge being so strongly guarded at both ends; and how, failing in that respect, they had determined to do as much damage as possible to the great assemblage of waggons filled with arms and military stores; and fully detailed the manner in which this had been accomplished, and the aspect of the yard on the following morning.

"Splendidly planned and carried out!" the commander of the party exclaimed, and the others all echoed his words. It was astonishing indeed to think that such a plan should have been conceived and carried out by a lad no older than some of their junior midshipmen, and assisted by only three others of the same age.

"The day before we started," the doctor said, "I saw in one of the Durban papers a telegram from Lorenzo Marques saying that there had been an explosion at Komati-poort, where a few waggons had been injured and two natives killed, but that the Boers had suffered in any way, and that the damage would be repaired and the line opened for traffic in a few hours."

"There is only one word of truth in that, sir," Chris said smiling, "and that is that no Boers suffered. I am convinced that is strictly true, for the eight Boers at the bridge were certainly instantaneously killed; and of the natives, whom I am sorry for, there were certainly eighteen killed, together with some eight or ten Portuguese employés. If I could by any possibility have got the natives out of the way I would have done so. As to the Portuguese I do not feel any great regret, for I believe all the officials in the custom-house on the railway are bribed by the Boers to break the official orders they receive as to observing strict neutrality, and aid in every way in passing the materials of war into the Transvaal."

There was no time for further conversation, for they were now within a short distance of the Tugela, and the train was winding its way between steep hills which could have been held successfully by a handful of men.

"The only wonder to me is," another officer said, "that the Boers did not take up and drag away the rails all the way from here to Estcourt. If they had lifted them out of their sleepers, they had only to harness a rail behind each horse and trot off with it. I know that there is a considerable amount of railway material at Durban, but I doubt if there is anything like sufficient to make twenty miles of road. And the business would have been still more difficult if the Boers had collected the sleepers in great piles and burned them. Of course they have destroyed a good many culverts and the bridge at Estcourt. It is wonderful that the railway people should have managed to get up a temporary trestle bridge so soon, and to make a deviation of the line to carry the trains over. It does their engineers immense credit. This pass is widening," he added after putting his head out of the window. "I fancy we shall be at Chieveley in a few minutes."

The train came to a stand-still at a siding a short distance outside the station, which was crowded by a long line of waggons with stores of all kinds. A number of sailors were unloading shells for their guns, and a crowd of Kaffirs, under the orders of military officers, were getting out the stores. As they alighted, after hearty thanks to the officer whose kindness had been the means of their getting forward so promptly, and who now went to report his arrival to Captain Jones, who was superintending the operations of the sailors, Chris and his party hurried to the rear waggon. It was a work of considerable difficulty to get the horses out, and could not have been accomplished had there not been a stack of sleepers near the spot. A number of these were carried and piled so as to make a sloping gangway, by which the horses were brought down. The sleepers being returned to their places, Chris and his friends mounted and rode to the camp, which was placed behind a long, low ridge which screened it from the sight of the enemy on the opposite hills, although within easy range of their heavy guns.

Here before daybreak on the 12th, Major-general Barton's Fusilier brigade, with a thousand Colonial Cavalry, three field batteries, and the naval guns, had marched north, and were the following night joined by another brigade with some cavalry. The next day the big naval guns had opened fire; but although their shell had reached the lower entrenchments of the Boers, their batteries on the hill had proved to be beyond their range even with the greatest elevation that could be given to them, while the Boer guns carried far beyond the camp.

Chris had learned at Estcourt, where the train stopped a few minutes, that Captain Brookfield's troop formed part of the Colonial Horse that had advanced with General Barton's brigade, and they soon discovered their position. Leaving the horses with the natives, they went to his tent.

"I am delighted to see you back," he exclaimed as they entered. "I heard in confidence from one of your party, when they joined me a week back, that you had gone on a mad-brained adventure to try and blow up the Komati-poort bridge. I was horrified! I had, of course, given you leave to act on your own responsibility, but I never dreamt of your undertaking an expedition of that sort. Of course you found it impossible to get there. A lad told me that you had reckoned on being away six or seven weeks, and it is less than a month since the date on which he told me you left. Anyhow, I heartily congratulate you on all getting back."

"We got there, sir, but nothing could be done with the bridge, it was so safely guarded. However, we did blow up two big cannon and a battery of small ones, some ten thousand rifles, and an enormous quantity of ammunition."

"You don't say so, Chris? Then you had better luck than you deserved. One of the correspondents told me this morning that there was news in the town by a telegram from Lorenzo Marques that there had been an accidental explosion at Komati-poort, but it did not seem to be anything serious. Tell me all about it."

"I congratulate you most heartily," he said, when Chris had finished the story. "Of course you have written a report of it?"

"Here it is, sir. I have made it very brief, merely saying that I had the honour to report that, with Messrs. Peters, Brown, and Willesden, I succeeded in blowing up, with two hundredweight of dynamite, the things I have mentioned to you, destroying a large quantity of rolling stock, badly damaging five locomotives, and destroying roads and sidings to such an extent that traffic can hardly be resumed for a fortnight. Is the general here, sir?"

"No, but he will be here this afternoon. Now, I will not detain you from your friends. No doubt they saw you ride in, and will be most anxious to hear of your doings. You will hardly know them again. When they came up to join us they adopted the uniform of the corps, feeling that it would be uncomfortable going about in a large camp in civilian dress. They brought with them uniforms for you all, for they seemed very certain that you would return alive."

"I am very glad of that, sir, for the soldiers all stared at us as we came up here. I suppose they took us for sight-seers who had come up to witness the battle."

As they left the tent they found the rest of their party, gathered in a group twenty yards away, and the heartiest greeting was exchanged. The delight of the party knew no bounds when they found that their four friends had not had their journey in vain. They had two tents between them, and gathering in one of them they listened to Peters, who told the story, as Chris said he had told it twice, and should probably have to tell it again. The four lads at once exchanged their civilian clothes for the uniforms that had been brought up. They were, like those of the other Colonial corps, very simple, consisting of a loose jacket reaching down to the hip, with turned-down collar and pockets, breeches of the same light colour and material, loose to the knee and tighter below it; knee boots, and felt hats looped up on one side.

The first step when they were dressed was to mount an eminence some distance in rear of the camp, whence they had a view of the whole country. In front of them was a wide valley with a broad river running through it. Beyond it rose steep hills, range behind range. It was crossed by two bridges, that of the railway, which had been blown up and destroyed, and the road bridge, which was still intact; though, as Sankey, who had accompanied them, told them, it was known to be mined. To the left of the line of railway was a hill known as Grobler's Kloof, on the summit of which a line of heavy guns could be seen. There were other batteries on slopes at its foot commanding the bridge, to the right of which on another hill was Fort Wylie, and in a bend of the river by the railway could be seen the white roof of the church tower of Colenso. There was another battery behind this, and others still farther to the right on Mount Hlangwane. Heavy guns could be seen on other hills to the left of Grobler's Kloof; while far away behind Colenso was the crest of Mount Bulwana, from which a cannonade was being directed upon Ladysmith and an occasional white burst of smoke showed that the garrison were replying successfully. On all the lower slopes of the hills were lines, sometimes broken, sometimes connected, rising one above another. These were the Boer entrenchments, and Cairns said that he heard that they extended for nearly twenty miles both to the right and left.

"It is believed that we don't see anything like all of them," he went on, "but we really don't know much about them, for the Boers only answer occasionally from their great guns on the hilltops, and although yesterday the sailors fired lyddite shells at these lower trenches, there was no reply."

"It is an awful place to take," Chris said, after examining the hills for a quarter of an hour with his glasses. "We have seen that the Boers are no good in the open, but I have no doubt they will hold their entrenchments stubbornly, and it is certain that a great many of them are good shots. I have gone over the ground at Laing's Nek, and that was nothing at all in comparison to this position. Do you know how many there are supposed to be of them, Cairns?"

"They say that there are about twenty-five thousand of them, but no one knows exactly. Natives get through pretty often from Ladysmith, but they know no more there than we do here. They are all jolly and cheerful there, in the thought that they will soon be relieved."

"I hope that they are not counting their chickens before they are hatched," Chris said. "I doubt very greatly whether we shall carry those hills in front of us, and if we do the ranges behind are no doubt fortified. How about crossing the river?"

"There are several drifts. There is one about four miles to the left of the bridge, called Bridle Drift. Waggon Drift is about as much farther on. There is a drift just this side of where the Little Tugela runs into it, and one just farther on; there is Skeete Drift and Molen Drift, with a pontoon ferry; there is an important one called Potgieter's Drift, where the road from Springfield to Ladysmith crosses; and another, Trichardt's, where a road goes to Acton Homes. I know there are some to the right, but I don't know their names."

"Well, that is comforting, because even if we take Colenso there would be no crossing if the bridge is mined. And as the town will be commanded by a dozen batteries, we should not gain much by its capture. Well, I tell you fairly that I am well satisfied that we belong to a mounted corps and shall be only lookers-on, for even if we win we shall certainly lose a tremendous lot of men. Is there no way of marching round one way or the other?"

"I believe not. The only way at all open seems to be round by Acton Homes; that is a place about fifteen miles west of Ladysmith, and on the principal road from Van Reenen's Pass. From there down to Ladysmith the country is comparatively open, but it is a tremendously long way round. I don't know how far, but I should say forty or fifty miles; and certainly the road will in many places be commanded by Boer guns; and they will most likely have fortified strong positions at various points. But, of course, the great difficulty will be transport; I am sure we have nothing like enough to take stores for the army all that distance. Besides, Chris, I don't see that we should gain any advantage from going to Ladysmith that way, we should be as far as ever from thrashing the Boers, and certainly could not remain in Ladysmith; we should eat up all the provisions there in no time."

"I don't like the outlook at all," Peters said.

"Ah, there is a general officer with a staff riding into the camp. Most likely it is Buller. We had better go down, for if Brookfield gives in my report he may want to speak to me."

The party went down the hill. When they reached their camp they were at once sent for to Captain Brookfield's tent.

"I am glad that you are back," he said. "Sir Redvers Buller has just ridden up on to the ridge, I will speak to him as he comes down. You had better come with me and stand a short distance off. Bring your rifles with you, and stand in military order; you three in line, and Chris two paces in front of you."

Having got their rifles they followed Captain Brookfield till he stopped at the foot of the slope below the point where the general and his staff were standing. Their leader advanced some fifty yards ahead of them. In a quarter of an hour the party were seen descending the hill. Captain Brookfield stepped forward and saluted the general as he came along a horse's length in front of his staff. Sir Redvers checked his horse a little impatiently.

"What is it sir?" he said sharply. "I cannot attend to camp details now."

"I command the Maritzburg Scouts," Captain Brookfield said. "Three of my men, with Mr. King, who commands the section to which they belong, have just returned. I wish to hand you Mr. King's report; it contains news which is, I think, of importance."

"Give it to Lord Gerard," the general said briefly, motioning to one of the officers behind him. "Please see what it is about, Gerard." And he then moved forward again, briefly acknowledging Captain Brookfield's salute. He had gone, however, but twenty yards when Lord Gerard rode up to him and handed to him the open dispatch.

"It is of importance, sir."

Supposing that it was merely the report of four scouts who had gone out reconnoitring, and with his mind absorbed with weightier matters, the general had hardly given the matter a thought. Without checking his horse he glanced at the paper, and then abruptly reined in his charger and read it through attentively. Then he turned to where Captain Brookfield was still standing and called him up.

"I do not quite understand this report, sir," he said. "Is it possible that your men have been up to Komati-poort? I gathered from your words that they had merely returned from reconnoitring."

"No, sir; they only came in this morning by the train from Durban with the naval detachment with details."

"But how in the world did they get to Komati-poort?"

"They started from Maritzburg, sir, and rode up through Zululand and Swaziland. Their object was to blow up the bridge, and to stop supplies of munitions of war continuing to pass up through Lorenzo Marques. I may say that they acted on their own initiative. The section to which they belong is composed entirely of gentlemen's sons from Johannesburg; they provide their horses and equipment, and draw no pay or rations, and when they joined my corps made it a condition that so long as not required for regular work they should be allowed to scout on their own account."

Before calling up Captain Brookfield the general had handed back the despatch to Lord Gerard, with the words, "Pass it round."

"Are those your men?" the general said, pointing to the little squad.

"Yes, sir."

Sir Redvers rode up to them, and on returning their salute, said: "You have done well indeed, gentlemen; it was a most gallant action. Have you your own horse with you?" he asked Chris.

"Yes, sir."

"Then mount at once and join me as I leave camp. Then you can tell me about this matter on my way back."

Chris was soon on horseback. He waited at a short distance while the general talked with General Barton, and as soon as he saw him turn to ride off cantered up and joined the staff. The general looked round as he did so. He beckoned to him to come up to his side.

"Now, sir, let me hear more about this. The captain of the troop that you belong to, tells me that you and twenty other young fellows, all from Johannesburg, formed yourselves into a party of scouts, and are making war at your own expense, and that although in a certain way you joined his troop you really act independently when it so pleases you."

"Yes, sir. We and our families have received great indignities from the Boers; and although we are conscious that we should be of little use as troops, we thought that we could do service as scouts on our own account, and have been lucky in inflicting some blows on them. I was fortunate enough to attract Colonel Yule's attention at Dundee, and he furnished me with an open letter addressed to you, and to officers commanding stations, saying that we had done so."

"Have you it about you?"

"Yes, sir."

Sir Redvers held out his hand, and Chris handed him the letter. "So you went into the Boer camp! Do you speak Dutch well?"

"Yes, sir; we all speak Dutch fairly, and most of us Kaffir also, that was why we thought that we should be more useful scouting; until now we have all been dressed as young Boers, and could, I think, pass without suspicion anywhere."

"Now as to this other affair," Sir Redvers said, returning Colonel Yule's letter. "You had better take this, it will be useful to you another time. Now tell me all about it. Was it entirely your own idea?"

"I first thought of it, sir, and my three friends agreed to go with me. I did not want a large number. We started from Maritzburg with our own Kaffir servant, and two Zulus and two Swazis to act as guides, two ponies, each of which carried a hundredweight of dynamite; we had also a spare riding horse."

He then related their proceedings from the time of their start to their arrival at Komati-poort; their failure at the bridge in consequence of the strong guard that the Boers had set over it; and how, finding that the main object of their journey could not be carried out, they proceeded to wreck the station yard and its contents.

"Thank you, Mr. King," the general said, when Chris concluded by mentioning briefly how they had ridden down to Lorenzo Marques, and taken a ship to Durban, and come up by train. "I saw the telegram of the accident at Komati-poort. I imagined that it was probably more severe than was stated, but certainly had no idea that such wholesale damage had been effected, or that it was the work of any of our people. I think that it would be unwise for me to take any public notice of it at present; possibly there may be another attempt made to destroy that bridge. If nothing more is said about it, the Boers may in time cease to be careful, and a few determined men landed at Lorenzo Marques may manage to succeed where you were unable to do so. It would be worth any money to us to put a stop to the constant flow of arms and ammunition that is going on via Lorenzo Marques. I consider your expedition to have been in the highest degree praiseworthy, and to have been conducted with great skill."

"My father is a mining engineer, and managing-director of several mines round Johannesburg, general. I have been working there under him and learning the business, and therefore know a good deal about dynamite, and what a certain quantity would effect."

"Have you thought of going into the army? because if so, I will appoint you and your three friends to regiments at once, and you will be gazetted as soon as my report goes home."

"I am very much obliged to you, general, but I have no thought of entering the army. I will, of course, mention it to my friends. I have never heard them say anything on the subject. We are fighting because we hate the Boers. No one can say, unless he has been resident there, what we have all had to put up with, for the past year especially. On the way down the Boers not only threatened to strike us, but struck many of the ladies, my mother among them, besides robbing everyone of watches and all other valuables. If it had not been for that, some of us might have changed our minds before we got down here. That settled the matter. And besides, sir, I hope that we shall be able to do more good in our own way than if we became regular officers, as we know nothing about drill and should be of very little good, whereas we do understand our own way of fighting. I can say so without boasting, for we have twice thrashed the Boers; once when they were twice our number, and the other time when they were nearly four times as strong as we were."

"Go on doing so, Mr. King; go on doing so, you cannot do better. However, if any of your three friends, or all of them, choose to accept my offer, it is open to them."

They were by this time close to Frere, and the general went on: "I am sorry that I cannot ask you to dine with me this evening, as we shall all be too busy for anything like a regular meal, for in a few hours there will be a general advance. Good-evening. When I am less busy I shall be glad to hear about those two fights that you speak of. You colonists have taught us a few lessons already."

Chris saluted, wheeled his horse round, and cantered back to Chieveley. There was much satisfaction among the whole of the party when Chris related what General Buller had said. None of his three companions had any desire to accept a commission. Willesden's father was a doctor with a large practice in Johannesburg, and the lad himself was going home after the war was over to study for the profession and to take his medical degree; while Brown and Peters were both sons of very wealthy capitalists.

"If I could not have done any fighting any other way I should have liked a commission very much. Of course I could have thrown it up at the end of the war. But I would a great deal rather be on horseback than on foot, and I own I have no inclination to fight my way across those hills. Talana was a pretty serious business, but it was child's play to what this will be."

"Very well," Chris said; "I did not think that any of you would care for it, although I could not answer for you. There is no need for hurry in sending in a reply; there will be time to do that when we get into Ladysmith. Then I will get Captain Brookfield to draw up the kind of letter that ought to be sent, for I have not the least idea how I should address a commander-in-chief. Of course, a thing of this sort ought to be done in a formal sort of way; I could not very well say, 'My dear general, my three friends don't care to accept your kind offer. Yours very truly.'" There was a general laugh, and then they talked over the coming fight, for it was now generally known that the attack was to be made in a couple of days at latest. The next morning General Buller's column started before daybreak, and were by nine o'clock encamped on the open veldt three miles north of Chieveley; Barton's brigade having already marched out to the site of a new camp, some five thousand yards south of Colenso. Although well within reach of their guns, the Boers made no effort to hinder the operation, or to shell the camp after it was formed. It was evidently their policy to conceal their guns until the last moment, and although a very heavy bombardment of their positions was maintained all day by the naval guns, no reply whatever was elicited, though through the glasses it could be seen that much damage was being done to the entrenchments.

"I don't like this silence," Chris said, as he and some of the others were standing watching the hills in front of them. "It does not seem natural when you are being pelted like that not to shy something back. I am afraid it will be a terribly hot business when they do open fire tomorrow."

There had been a discussion that morning whether the four natives Chris had engaged for his expedition should be taken on permanently, and they unanimously agreed that they should be. It was quite possible that all the colonial corps would at some time be called upon to act as infantry, and it would be a good thing to have six men to look after the twenty-five horses while they were away. Then, too, it would be very handy to have a stretcher party of their own. On the question being put to them, the four men had willingly agreed to follow the party whenever they went into a fight, to take two stretchers with which they could at once carry any who might be wounded back to camp. They were all strong fellows belonging to fighting peoples, and would, the boys had no doubt, show as much courage as the Indian bearers had displayed at Dundee and Elandslaagte. In the evening Captain Brookfield sent for Chris.

"The orders for to-morrow are out," he said, "as far as we are concerned. A thousand mounted infantry and one battery are to move in the direction of Hlangwane -- that is the hill, you know, this side of the river to the right of Colenso. We shall cover the right flank of the general movement and endeavour to take up a position on the hill, where the battery will pepper the Boers on the kopjes north of the bridge. Two mounted troops of three and five hundred men will cover the right and left flanks respectively and protect the baggage. Half my troop are to accompany Dundonald, the other half will form a part of the force guarding the left wing. Your party will be with this force. You have had your share of fighting, and none of the others have yet had a chance."

"Very well, sir, I shall not be sorry to be on this duty; for naturally we shall have a good view of the whole fight, while if we were engaged we should see nothing except what was going on close to us."

"Yes, it will be something to see, Chris, and something to hear, for I doubt whether there has been so heavy a fire as that which will be kept up to-morrow, ever since war began. We have some twenty-three thousand men, and the Boers more than as many, and what with magazine-guns, machine-guns, and fast-firing cannon of all sizes, it will be an inferno."



Chapter XII

The Battle Of Colenso


By daybreak next morning the whole force was under arms. General Hildyard in the centre was to attack the iron bridge at Colenso. General Hart's Irish brigade was to march towards Bridle Drift, and after crossing to move along the left bank of the river towards the kopjes north of the iron bridge. General Barton was to move forward east of the railway towards Hlangwane Hill, and to support General Hildyard, or the Colonial troops moving against that hill as might appear necessary, while General Lyttleton's brigade, half-way between those of Hildyard and Hart, were to be prepared to render assistance to either as might be required. One division of the artillery was to follow Lyttleton's brigade. The six naval guns were to advance on his right. The sixth brigade were to aid General Hart, and three batteries of Royal Artillery to move east of the railway, under cover of the sixth brigade, to a point from which they could prepare the way for Hildyard's brigade to cross the bridge.

The action began before six o'clock, the naval guns opening with lyddite on the trenches on Grobler's Hill, and those between it and Fort Wylie. No reply whatever was made by the Boers, and the troopers standing by their horses' heads in readiness to mount should any party of Boers make a raid on the camp, began to wonder whether the enemy had not retreated. Hildyard's men advanced in open order close to the railway; the Queen's own, with the West York in support, on the right of the railway; and the Devons, with East Surrey behind them, on the left. They marched as steadily and in as perfect alignment as if on parade, eight paces apart. Hart's Irish brigade, far away to the left, were in close order. The cavalry could be seen proceeding at a trot towards Hlangwane, General Barton's brigade still bearing to the east; and Colonel Long and Colonel Hunt with their batteries, without waiting for their protection, galloped straight forward, and, taking up a position almost facing Fort Wylie, a few hundred yards beyond the river, opened a heavy fire; the six naval guns, which were drawn by bullocks, being still a considerable distance behind them.

Still the Boer guns remained silent. But at half past six their musketry opened suddenly upon the Queen's Own, the Devons, and the guns, in one continuous roar. It came not only from the entrenchments on the face of the hill, but from trenches close down by the river, and from the houses of Colenso, from some railway huts, and from the bushes that fringed the south bank of the river, which had been believed to be wholly unoccupied. Five minutes later their cannon joined in the roar, with machine-guns, one-pounder Maxims, and the great Creusots and Krupps. And yet through this storm of lead and iron our soldiers went on quietly and steadily. The very ground round them was torn up by bullet and ball. Many fell, but there was no flinching; while on their right, Long's batteries, though swept by a hail of missiles from unseen foes, maintained a continuous fire at Fort Wylie.

"It is awful!" Peters exclaimed as he lowered his glasses. "I thought it would be dreadful, but I never dreamt of anything like this. Look at the bodies dotting the ground our men are passing over, and yet the others go on as if it was a shower of rain through which they were passing. I can't look at it any longer."

"It is as bad for the artillery," Chris said, with his glasses still riveted upon them. "I saw a lot of the horses go down before they were unlimbered, and I can see the men are falling fast. Surely they can never have been meant to go within five or six hundred yards of magazine rifles. I thought everyone had agreed that artillery could not live within range of breech-loaders. Why doesn't Barton's brigade move down towards them, and try and keep down the fire? How is Hart getting on?"

But it was not easy to see this even with glasses. They had not become engaged until a little later than the others, but as they approached the river an equally terrible fire opened upon them. Being in comparatively close order, they suffered more heavily than Hildyard had done. Presently they came upon a spruit which they took to be the main river, and under a tremendous fire from the Mausers and guns, dashed across it, and swinging round their left made for the drift, sweeping before them a number of Boers who had been hidden in the long grass. Trenches were there line after line, but over these the four regiments -- the Connaught Rangers, the Border regiment, the Inniskilling and Dublin Fusiliers -- dashed forward with such fury that the Boers did not stop to meet their bayonets. By a quarter-past seven the enemy had been driven across the Tugela. Without hesitation the Irish dashed into the river. Many fell headlong, for along the bottom barbed wires had been stretched. Worse still, it was found that instead of being two feet deep, as was expected, it was eight feet; for the Boers had erected a dyke across the river a little lower down, and had dammed the water back.

Some swam across with their rifles and ammunition, but it was a feat beyond all except the strongest swimmers, and after maintaining themselves for some time they were forced to retire. The naval guns did their best to assist them, and silenced some of the Boer cannon that were pounding them, but they failed to draw the Boer fire upon themselves. It was only in the centre that even partial success was gained. Hildyard's men had reached but not captured Colenso bridge. In spite of the tremendous fire, some of the soldiers tried to make their way along it, but were recalled; for they were deprived of the support of the artillery that should have covered their passage, had no hope of Hart bringing his brigade round to clear the enemy out from the kloofs on the opposite side, and but little of aid from Lyttleton, who had been obliged to move farther to the left to lend assistance to Hart. Some of the Scottish Fusiliers had joined them from Barton's brigade, but the brigade itself was far away.

Terrible as the fighting was at all points, it was the batteries down by the river that most engaged the attention of the anxious spectators. Desperate attempts were being made to get the guns back. Almost all the horses had been killed, but the drivers of the teams of the ammunition waggons, the few survivors of the officers, and several of the general's staff dashed recklessly forward under a hail of fire. Horse and man went over, but two of the guns were carried off. Fortunately, the naval battery and the third field battery had not been taken so far forward, and were withdrawn with comparatively little loss; and the ten guns stood alone and deserted by the last of the party as it seemed. Then, to the surprise of the watchers, one of them spoke out, for four of the men who worked it had stood to their charge to the last. Again and again it sent its shrapnel among the Boer trenches. One fell and then another, but two remained. They continued to fire until the last round of reserve ammunition was finished. Then those who were near enough to make out their figures saw them take their stand, one on each side of the gun, at attention, until both fell dead by the side of the piece they had served so well. Even on the right, where success might really have been hoped for, everything had gone badly. The dismounted Colonials had fought their way gallantly up the slopes of the Hlangwane, and nearly reached the crest. But they were not seconded by Lord Dundonald's cavalry; Barton's brigade, which was charged with aiding them, were kept at a distance, and the Colonials were at last forced to fall back.

Great as was the loss at other points, the failure to capture this hill was really the greatest misfortune of the day. From its position on the south of the river, and in a loop, batteries erected on its summit would have taken all the Boer defences on the lower slopes of the hills in flank, and it would have covered the crossing of the river at Colenso. Cut off by the river from the rest of the Boer position it could hardly have been retaken, and its fire would have searched the valley up which the roadway ran almost as far as Mount Bulwana.

Renewed attempts were made for some time to carry off the guns, but early in the afternoon the general saw that it was but a waste of life to persevere further, and orders were despatched for the troops to retire. It had been a day of misfortunes, and yet a day of glory, for never had the fighting power of British troops been more splendidly exhibited, never were greater deeds of individual daring performed; never had troops supported with heroic indifference so terrible a fire. Undoubtedly the English general had greatly underrated the fighting powers of the Boers and the amount of artillery to which he was exposed. Had he not done so, he would scarcely have distributed his force over so wide a face, or attacked at three points nearly four miles apart, but would have prepared for the grand assault by seizing Hlangwane and firmly establishing some of his batteries there, even at the cost of two or three days' labour, and only attempted to cross the river when the movement would have been covered by their fire.

The Boers were quick in discovering the importance of the hill, and speedily covered its face with such entrenchments, that not until after long weeks of effort and failure was an attack again attempted against it; and the success of that attack opened the way to Ladysmith. But had the general's orders been carried out at all points it would probably have been captured. Hart's brigade was to have begun the attack, but owing to the map with which he was furnished being defective, his troops losing their way in the spruit, and their being led in far too close a formation under the enemy's fire, its attempt failed; this being, however, largely due to the astuteness of the Boers in damming back the river and rendering the ford impracticable. The impetuosity of the officers commanding two of the batteries of artillery, in pushing their guns forward unattended by infantry as ordered, not only caused the loss of ten guns and of nearly all the men who worked them, but deprived Hildyard's column of the protection they would have had in crossing the bridge, and rendered the undertaking impossible; while the failure of Barton's brigade to give assistance either to Hildyard or to the assailants of Hlangwane, contributed to the one failure, and entirely brought about the other.

General Buller and General Clery had been wherever the shots were flying the thickest. Three of the former's staff, Captains Schofield and Congreve, and Lieutenant Roberts, son of Lord Roberts, had ridden forward as volunteers to try and get the guns off. Roberts was fatally wounded, Congreve was wounded and taken prisoner, and Schofield alone escaped unharmed with the two guns that were saved.

The day had been almost more terrible for the troops who remained unoccupied near the baggage than for those actually engaged in the terrible light. The latter, animated by excitement and anger at their inability to get at the foe, had scarce time to think of their danger, and even laughed and joked in the midst of the hail of bullets, but the watchers had nothing to distract them during the long hours. With their glasses they could plainly see that no advance had been made at any point. To them it seemed incredible that any could come back from that storm of fire. From time to time they learned from wounded men brought up by the bearers, who fearlessly went down into the thick of the fire to do their duty, news of how matters were going on in the front.

Gladly, had they received orders to do so, would they have dashed down to try and carry off the guns. Many shed tears of rage as they heard how the Irish strove in vain to cross the deep river, and how many were drowned in their attempts to swim it. They expected, when in the afternoon the troops came in, that they would see an utterly dispirited body of men, and were surprised when the Irish, who were the first to return to camp, marched along smoking their pipes and joking as if they had returned from a day of triumph rather than of failure. They were animated by a knowledge that they had done all that men could do, had proved they were worthy successors of their countrymen who had won glory in so many hard-fought fields, and that no shadow of reproach could fall upon them for their share in the day's work. Although they had suffered far more heavily than the other brigade, they returned more cheerfully. And yet there was no depression anywhere evinced, although there was anger, fierce anger, that they had not been able to get at the enemy, and a grim determination that next time they met, things should go differently.

A good many prisoners had been lost. Parties had spread along among the bushes that lined the river, and maintained a steady fire against the Boer entrenchments facing them. Some of these had not heard the bugle sounding the retire. When they were aware what was being done some had left their shelter and rushed across the open ground to join the columns, the majority being shot down as they did so. Others had waited among the bushes, intending to try after nightfall; but as soon as we fell back the Boers had again crossed the river and spread along its banks, and had thus made prisoners those who were in hiding there or in the little dongas. Among those so captured were fourteen of the Devons and as many gunners, with Colonel Hunt, Colonel Bullock, Major MacWalter, and Captains Goodwin, Vigors, and Congreve; the total loss in killed, wounded, and prisoners amounted to about one thousand five hundred, of whom nearly half belonged to the Irish brigade. That evening the searchlight, which had been placed on a lofty hill visible from one end of the high kopjes held by the garrison of Ladysmith, flashed the news that the attack had failed, and that the garrison must be prepared to hold out for some time yet.

The news of the reverse created a tremendous sensation throughout Natal, where it had been confidently anticipated that the army would brush aside without difficulty the opposition of the Boers, relieve Ladysmith and, advancing sweep the invaders out of the colony. In England, too, the sensation was scarcely less pronounced, and for the first time the gravity of the war in which we were engaged was recognized. Hitherto it had been thought that fifty thousand men would suffice to bring it to a successful conclusion; now it was perceived that at least double that number would be required. The offers of the colonies to aid the mother country with troops had hitherto been coldly received, but these were now accepted thankfully, and although our military authorities would not as yet recognize that the volunteers could be relied upon as a real fighting force, there was a talk that some of the militia regiments might be embodied, and a large number of reservists were at once summoned back to the ranks.

At the front matters went on as before. It was now known how it was that the guns had advanced so far. Colonel Long had sent forward some of his mounted men with two officers. The Boers allowed them to approach the river bank without firing a shot. One of the scouts actually rode across the bridge to the other side, and returning to the battery they reported that there were no Boers about, and it was only after receiving this message that Colonel Long took the guns forward to within six hundred yards of the river, and twelve hundred of Fort Wylie.

The wounded were all taken to Frere or Estcourt, where hospitals had been prepared. Hart and Lyttleton's brigades were sent back to Frere, and the camp at Chieveley was moved nearer to the station, both for convenience of supply, and because the position now taken up was a more defensible one, and was less exposed to the fire of the big Boer guns; large numbers of transport animals and waggons were brought up country. It was known that a newly-landed division under General Sir Charles Warren was now coming up, one regiment, the Somersets, arrived in camp two or three days after the battle, and the loss of the cannon was to some extent retrieved by the arrival of a 50-lbs. howitzer battery.

It was but dull work in camp. The more impetuous spirits were longing to be employed in annoying the Boers by frequent surprises at night; but as these could have achieved no permanent advantage, and must have been attended with considerable loss of life, Sir Redvers Buller set his face against any such attacks, and went steadily on with his preparations. As troops came up anticipations of a certain success when the next forward movement was made were generally entertained. Chris and his companions passed the time pleasantly enough. Being old friends they had plenty to talk about, and occasional scouting expeditions to the east gave them a certain amount of employment. Not having been engaged in the attack on Hlangwane, they did not participate in the soreness felt by the rest of the colonials at their failure to capture the hill, owing to the want of support from Lord Dundonald's cavalry or Barton's brigade.

The chagrin felt at the mistake that had been made in not making this the prime object of attack was general, for the Boers could be seen working unceasingly at their entrenchments. They had not only made a ford by throwing great quantities of rock and stones into the channel, but had also built a bridge, so that the force on the hill could be speedily reinforced to any extent, and what could have been effected on the day of the attack by half a battalion of infantry would now be a very serious undertaking even by a whole division.

The lads were chatting one day over the chances of the next fight, most of them taking a very sanguine view.

"What do you say, Chris?" one of them said after the discussion had gone on for some time. "You have not given us your opinion."

"My opinion does not agree with yours," Chris replied. "After what I saw the other day, I think the difficulties of fighting our way over those mountains are so enormous that I doubt whether we shall ever do it."

There was a chorus of dissent.

"Well, we shall see," he said. "I hope that we shall do it just as much as you do, but it is tremendous business. I have no doubt Sir Redvers will go on trying, but I should not be surprised if at heart he has doubts that it can be done. The Boers have more guns that we have, and any number of those Maxims and Hotchkiss that keep up a stream of balls. The Boers' trenches enable them to fire at us without showing anything but a head, except when they stand up or have to move across the open. If we drive them out of one position they have others to fall back upon. It is not one natural fortress that we have to take, but a dozen of them. They know every foot of the country they occupy, while we know nothing but just what we can see at a distance."

"Well, if Sir Redvers thought as you do, why should he go on hammering at it?"

"For several reasons, Peters. In the first place, if Ladysmith saw that there was no chance of rescue it would at last give in; and in the second place, if there was an end of all attempts to relieve the place England would go wild with indignation; and in the third place, and by far the most important, Sir Redvers knows that he is keeping from twenty-five thousand to thirty thousand of the Boers inactive here, and so relieving the pressure on our troops on the other side. We know regiments are arriving from England at the Cape every day. When they get strong enough to invade the Orange Free State and take Bloemfontein, and march north, the Boers here will be hurrying away to defend their homes. Of course the Free Staters will go first, but the Transvaalers will have to follow. We hear that Methuen has been beaten at Magersfontein, and that he has been brought to a stand-still within the sound of the guns round Kimberley, just as we are here, and that the Boers have a very strong position there also. So at present the advance is as much checked there as it is here. Gatacre has had a misfortune too, so that we are all in the same boat. I saw a Pietermaritzburg paper in the naval camp just now; there are about twenty thousand men on the sea at the present moment, besides those in the colony, and two more divisions are being formed. So it is safe to come right in the long run. But at present, if those twenty-five thousand Boers opposite to us were not there now, they would be riding all over Cape Colony, and if Buller were not to keep on hammering away here a good many of them would be off at once. They say Ladysmith can hold out for another three months. By that time there ought to be such a big force in the Orange State that the Boers won't dare to stop here any longer, and no end of loss of life will be avoided.

"I never thought that you were a croaker before," Field said, "except just before the last fight; but certainly things have gone very badly lately. Three disasters in seven or eight days are a facer; but I cannot think that we shall not succeed next time. When Warren's division is up Buller will have over thirty thousand men with him, in spite of our losses the other day, and we ought to be able to do it with that."

"Well, we shall see, Field. I hope you are right."

The news of Methuen's repulse and the terrible losses in the Highland brigade, and of Gatacre's disaster, cast a greater gloom over Buller's army than their own failure had done. The one topic of conversation among the officers was, what would be the feeling in England, and whether there would be any inclination to patch up another dishonourable peace like that after Majuba. But the feeling wore off as day after day the news came that the misfortunes had but raised the spirit and determination of the people of Great Britain to carry the war through to the bitter end; that recruiting was going on with extraordinary rapidity; that fresh regiments had been ordered out; that Lord Roberts had been appointed to the supreme command in South Africa, and that Lord Kitchener was coming out as chief of his staff. The fact, too, that the volunteers had been asked to send companies to the regiments to which they were attached, that the City had undertaken to raise a strong battalion at its own expense, that the Yeomanry were to furnish ten thousand men, and that public, spirit had risen to fever heat, soon showed that these apprehensions were without foundation, and that Britain was still true to herself, and was showing the same indomitable spirit that had carried her through many periods of national depression, and brought her out triumphant at the end.

Christmas passed cheerily; no gun was fired on either side, although the Boers worked diligently at their trenches; and our men feasted as they had not done since they landed at Durban. Bacon, milk, fresh bread, beef, and a quart of beer were served out for each man, and on these men and officers made a memorable meal; the latter producing the last bottles of wine and spirits that had been specially sent up to them from Maritzburg. And on that and the following day there were sports -- lemon-cutting, tent pegging, races for the cavalry; athletic sports, tugs-of-war, mule and donkey races for the infantry. The drums and fifes played national airs, and the sailors bore their full share in the fun. As time went on the preparations for the next move advanced. None were more pleased at the prospect of active work again than the Colonial Volunteers, who had several times entreated to be allowed to get out and drive back the bands of plundering Boers, who were still wasting the farms and destroying the farmhouses and furniture of the loyalists.

On the 27th a small party of Captain Brookfield's scouts had been sent out to reconnoitre the windings and turnings of the Tugela to the east, to ascertain as far as possible what the Boer positions were on that side, and whether they had placed bodies of skirmishers on the south side of the river as they did opposite Fort Wylie. Included in the party, which was a hundred strong, was the Johannesburg section. When well away from the camp they were broken up into small parties, the better to escape the observation of the Boers on the Hlangwane and other heights. The instructions given by their commander were that they should take every advantage of ground to conceal their movements from the enemy, but where the ground near the river was level and fit for galloping they should dash across it, and, if not fired at, should skirt along the banks, mark if there were any tracks by which horses or cattle had at some time come down to the water, and observe if similar tracks were to be seen on the opposite bank, as this would show that, though possibly only in dry weather, the river was fordable there. Where the ground was too broken and rock-covered to permit of horses passing rapidly across it, they were to dismount and crawl down the river to make their observations.

Only a small portion of the troop had been engaged on this work, the main body were to keep along on the hills, maintaining a vigilant watch over the country to the south and east as well as that around them, as many parties of marauding Boers were known to be still across the river. Knowing the sharpness of the lads, Captain Brookfield had told off their section to explore the river bank, a choice which excited no jealousy among the rest, as these were hoping for a brush with some wandering party of Boers, and the satisfaction of rescuing cattle and goods they might be carrying off. His instructions to Chris were that he was to detach two of his party at each mile, choosing points where they could best make their way to the river unobserved. As he himself with the main body would go up considerably farther, each pair, when they had searched their section, were to ride a mile or so back from the river and fall in with the main body on its return.

Riding rapidly along, Chris carried out his instructions, until, when some twelve miles from the camp, he remained with only Sankey with him. The country they had passed was rolling, and from time to time he had caught sight of small parties of Captain Brookfield's scouts. Arriving at a spot where there was a slight depression running down towards the river, he said, "We may as well follow it, Sankey. It will deepen into a donga presently, no doubt, and we can leave our horses there and go on on foot. It looks to me as if this had been used as a path. Of course it may only have been made by cattle going down to the water, but it may lead to a drift. If it is, we must be all the more careful, for it is just at these points that the Boers are very likely to be on the look-out."

They rode for some distance and then dismounted, knee-haltered their horses and moved forward cautiously. Chris still believed they were on a track, but the heavy rains of the week before had sent the water rushing down it in a torrent, which would have destroyed any marks there might have been. When they could see the opening to the river in front of them they climbed the side of the donga. All seemed quiet, and stopping and taking advantage of the bushes, they crept forward to the edge of the water. There was no sign of a break in the opposite bank.

"There is no drift here," Chris said. "If there had been there would be a pass cut or worn down on the other side. Now let us push on, but don't show yourself more than you can help, any Boer lurking on the other side could hardly miss us. A hundred and fifty yards, I should say, is about the width."

After walking some little distance along they suddenly came upon another break in the bank.

"There is a break opposite, Sankey. Ten to one this is a drift. The question is, how deep is it? You can see the river is not as high as it was by four feet, and I dare say that it will be lower yet if we get another week of fine weather. It's very important to find out. I will try to ford it; it's hardly likely there are any Boers so far down, but have your rifle ready, and keep a sharp look-out on the opposite side."

A minute later they went down the slope. "Keep back under the shelter of these bushes as soon as I go in, Sankey." Then he stepped into the water and waded out. In a few yards it was up to his waist; then it deepened slowly. He was a third of the distance across when two rifles cracked out from some bushes on the opposite bank. Chris felt a sudden smart pain in his ear. He instantly threw himself down in the water, and diving, made for the shore, allowing the stream to take him down. Swimming as hard and as long as he could, he came for a moment to the surface, turning on his back before he did so, and only raising his mouth and nose above water. He took a long breath and then sank again, swimming this time towards the shore. His breath lasted until he was in water too shallow to swim farther, and, leaping to his feet, he dashed up the bank and threw himself down. He heard two bullets hum close to him, but the Boers had not been looking in his direction, and only caught sight of him in time to take a snap shot. He crawled along through the high, coarse grass, feeling very anxious as to what had become of Sankey. He had heard the report of the Boer rifles, but there came no reply from his friend, who would assuredly have been lying in shelter in readiness to shoot as soon as he saw a flash on the opposite bank. Could he have forgotten to take cover the instant he himself entered the water, could he possibly have remained standing there watching him? Two shots had been fired: one had certainly hit his ear; had the other been aimed at Sankey? He crawled along until he came to the point where he could see down on to the road. To his horror Sankey was lying there on his back.



Chapter XIII

Prisoners


The exclamation that burst from Chris's lips as he saw Sankey on the ground was answered by another from his friend.

"Thank God that you are there, Chris. I have been in an awful state about you. I saw you go down into the water just as I was bowled over. I made sure that you were killed, and I was in a state, as you may imagine, till I heard two more shots. That gave me a little hope; for as you had not been killed in the first, you might have escaped the others."

"But what is the matter with you, Sankey. Where are you hit?"

"I am hit in the arm. I can't tell much about it. I only know that I went slap down; and there is certainly something the matter with my shoulder. Like an idiot I did not take shelter as you told me, but I was watching you so anxiously I never thought about it. If I had not been a fool I should have jumped up and got under cover at once; but I fancy I must have knocked my head as I fell. At any rate, I did not think about moving till I heard those two shots."

"It is just as well that you didn't," Chris said. "They could have put half a dozen bullets in you with their Mausers before you had moved a foot. The question is, what is to be done?"

"Have you got your rifle, Chris?"

"Yes, I stuck to that, and I expect it is all right; these cartridges are quite water-tight. The question is how to get you out of their line of sight."

"The best plan will be for me to roll over and over," Sankey said. "I expect it will hurt a bit, but that is no odds."

"No, no; don't do that yet. Let us think if we can't contrive some plan of attracting their attention."

"Don't do anything foolish, Chris," Sankey said earnestly. "I would rather jump up and make a run for it than that anything should happen to you."

"I will be careful, Sankey. The first thing to do is to find out whether there are only two of these fellows or half a dozen. Where I am lying now the ground is a foot lower than it is just at the edge of the bank. I will put my cap on my rifle and raise it so as just to show."

The instant he did so three or four rifles cracked and two bullets passed through the cap. As it dropped a shout of triumph rose from the Boers. He at once crawled forward, and as he did so five of them ran down the bank and as many more stood up, believing that both the scouts had been killed.

Throwing the magazine into play Chris fired three shots in close succession, and then rolled over two or three yards, half a dozen bullets cutting the grass at the spot he had just left. Peering cautiously out again he saw that the Boers had all disappeared except two, one of whom lay apparently dead just at the edge of the water; the other was sitting down, but was waving a white handkerchief.

"I am not going to shoot you," Chris muttered, "though I know the fellows with you would put a bullet at once into Sankey if they thought that he was alive. Hullo, there!" he shouted in Dutch; "I will let you carry off your wounded man and the dead one if you will let me carry off my dead comrade." The answer was three bullets, but he had drawn back a yard or two before he spoke and was in shelter. The thought of firing again at the wounded man did not enter Chris's mind, and he crawled back to the spot where he had before spoken to Sankey. The latter was looking anxiously up.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Well, I wish you would not do it," Sankey said angrily. "If you do I will get up, and they can either pot me or take me prisoner."

"Don't be an ass, Sankey. I am going on all right. I have shot two of them; there are about a dozen of them over there, I should say. Now let us talk reasonably. Of course, if I was sure they would not cross, I would make off to where the horses are, ride out, and meet Brookfield and the others as they come back. The orders were that we were to join them in about an hour and a half, which would give them time to go seven or eight miles farther, and for us to do our work thoroughly. But I am afraid that if I went away the Boers would presently guess I had done so, and would come across and carry you off. But though it would be no joke for you to be taken prisoner to Pretoria, it would be a good deal better than for you to have two or three more rifle bullets in your body, which I am sure you would have were you to move. So we must risk it. Anyhow, I will stop for another hour. There will be plenty of time then for me to make off and meet the others."

Chris crept forward again and watched the opportunity. Half an hour later he saw what he thought was a head appear, and at once fired, rolling over as before the instant he had pulled the trigger. Three or four shots answered his own almost instantly and there was a laugh that told him that they had practised the same trick that he had done, and had only raised a hat to draw his shot. Again there was silence for some time. Then he went back and told Sankey that he was about to start.

"All right, Chris; I shall be very glad when you have gone. You will get hit sooner or later if you go on firing, and I shall be a great deal more comfortable when you are once off. I don't believe they will venture across the drift; they know how straight you shoot."

Chris crawled back for some distance, and then got down into the road. He had scarcely done so when a shot rung out fifty yards away. His right leg gave way and he fell, and with a shout of triumph two Boers ran up to him. Chris did not attempt to move. The rifle had flown from his hand as he fell, and lay some five or six yards away.

"I surrender," he said when they ran up to him.

"Well, rooinek," they exclaimed, "you are a brave young fellow to make a fight alone against a dozen of us. It would have been wiser if you had gone away when you were lucky enough to get up the bank without being hit. What was the use of staying by your dead comrade?"

"He is not dead," Chris said. "He is hit in the arm or shoulder, but he knew if he moved he would be hit again to a certainty."

"But where are you hurt?"

"In the calf of my leg."

"It is lucky for you," the Boer said, "that I stumbled just as I fired. Now, get up and I will carry you across the drift."

They helped him up, and the other assisted him on to his shoulders. The man's clothes were wet.

"Did you swim the river?" Chris asked.

"No, there is a drift a mile lower down. It is a bad one, but we managed to get across. We knew that you were alone, and as you seemed determined to remain here, we made sure of getting you."

As they came near to Sankey, Chris called out, "You can get up, Sankey; they have beaten us."

"I am very glad to hear your voice," Sankey replied as he raised himself into a sitting position. "When I heard that shot behind me I made sure it was all up with you. Where are you hit?"

"Only in my calf. Luckily this gentleman who is carrying me stumbled just as he fired, and I got the ball there instead of through my head. It serves me right for not having thought before that some of them might cross somewhere else and take us in rear. Well, it can't be helped; it might have been a good deal worse."

The other Boer had picked up the two rifles. They now entered the river. The stream in the middle was breast-high, and the Boer with the rifles told Sankey to hold on to him, which he was glad to do, for the force of the stream almost took him off his feet. The other Boers had now left their hiding-places, and received them when they reached the opposite bank. The one who seemed to be their leader said not unkindly, "You have given us a great deal of trouble, young fellows, and killed one of our comrades and badly wounded another."

"If you had left us alone we should have been very glad to have let you alone," Chris said.

The Boers laughed at the light-heartedness of their prisoner, and then examined their wounds. Chris had, as he said, been hit in the calf. The ball had entered behind, and had come out close to the bone. Chris believed that he could walk, but thought it best to affect not to be able to do so. The wound had bled very little, and the two holes were no larger than would be made by an ordinary slate-pencil. Sankey had been hit just below the shoulder. The ball had in his case also gone right through, and from the position of the two holes it was evident that it must have passed through the bone. The Boers bandaged the wounds, and told them to lie down under the shade of a bush, and then took their places near the bank to watch the drift again.

"I suppose we have a journey to Pretoria before us," Sankey said. "I don't care so much about myself, because that is only the fortune of war, but I am awfully sorry that you are taken, Chris, and all through my beastly folly in not taking shelter as you told me."

"Oh, we may just as well be together, Sankey. Besides, I don't mean to go to Pretoria, I can assure you. I believe I could walk now if I tried; but you may be sure I don't mean to try. I should advise you to avoid making any movement with your arm; make them put it in a sling. When they start with us, we had better be sent up with wounded prisoners rather than with the others. They won't look so sharply after the wounded, and it will be very hard if we cannot manage to slip away somehow. I hope the others will find the horses all right, or that if they don't the horses will find their own way back."

"Oh, they are safe to find them," Sankey said confidently. "There will be a hunt for us when it is found that we have not joined the others. Anyhow, they will search to-morrow. I am quite sure that some of our fellows will be out the first thing in the morning, and I dare say they will take a couple of the natives with them. If they start at the point where we turned off they will track the horses down that donga without any difficulty, and even if they have strayed away they will soon have them."

"Yes, I suppose they will be all right," Chris agreed. "Of course we have got the spare horses, but we should miss our own, and I think they are as fond of us as we are of them."

As the sun got low two of the Boers brought up four ponies which were grazing some little distance from the river. They lifted Chris on to one, and helped Sankey to mount another, and then taking their seats on the other horses, rode off at a walk, and arrived an hour and a half later at a camp in a hollow behind Fort Wylie. Here they were put into a large tent, where some thirty wounded prisoners were lying. A German surgeon at once examined and again bandaged their wounds.

"You are neither of you hurt badly," he said in English. "A fortnight and you will have little to complain of. These Mauser bullets make very slight wounds, except when they hit a vital spot. You are a good deal better off than most of your comrades here."

As it was now dark they lay down at once, after taking a basin of excellent soup. The German ambulance was scrupulously clean. The more serious cases were put in beds, those less severely wounded lay on the ground between them; for the number of wounded to be dealt with was very large, and in the tents in which the Boers were treated were many terribly mangled by fragments of shrapnel and lyddite shells. The boys were some time before they went off to sleep, for their wounds smarted a good deal. However, they presently fell off, and it was broad daylight when they woke. Chris lay where he was, while Sankey got up and went round the tent. The men all belonged to either the Devon or the Queen's Own regiment. Most of them were awake, and all asked anxiously for news from Chieveley, and looked disappointed when they heard that it was likely to be some time before a fresh attempt was made to relieve Ladysmith.

"They are all right there. Of course they were disappointed that we did not get in, but they have provisions enough to last for some time yet."

"The Boers don't seem to think so," one of the men said. "As they were carrying us in here I heard one of them say that they had certainly got Ladysmith now, for the provisions there were pretty nearly exhausted, and in a few days they would have to surrender. If they did not, they meant to carry it by assault."

"I don't think they will do that," Sankey said confidently.

"Not they," the soldier replied scornfully. "They will find that it is a very different thing meeting our chaps in the open to what it is squatting in a trench, and blazing away without giving us as much as a sight of them. It is a beastly cowardly way of fighting, I calls it. I was not hit till just the end of the day, and I had been blazing away from six in the morning, and I never caught sight of one of them. I should not have minded being hit if I could have bowled two or three of them over first."

After breakfast the surgeon said to the two lads: "You will be sent off in half an hour; all the slight cases are to go on. There may be another battle any day, and room must be made for a fresh batch of wounded."

"Very well, sir," Chris replied, "as we have to go, it makes no difference to us whether it is to-day or next week."

"You are colonists, I suppose, as you have not the name of any regiment on your shoulder-straps?"

"Yes, sir; we belong to Johannesburg. I know your face. You are Dr. Muller, are you not?"

"Yes; I do not recognize you."

"I am the son of Mr. King, sir; and my comrade is the son of Dr. Sankey."

"I know them both," the doctor said. "I am not one of those who think that the Uitlanders have no grievances, and I am not here by my own choice. But I was commandeered, and had no option in the matter. Well, I am sorry for you lads. For though I believe that in the long run your people will certainly win, I think it will be a good many months before they are in Pretoria. They fight splendidly. I watched the battle until the wounded began to come in, and the way those regiments by the railway advanced under a fire that seemed as if nothing could live for a minute, was marvellous. But brave as they are, they will never force their way through these hills. They will never get to Ladysmith. Well, perhaps we shall meet some day in Johannesburg again."

"Yes, doctor. I suppose we shall be taken up in waggons?"

"You will, for a time, certainly. But I don't know about your friend."

"Oh, do order him to be sent up with me, doctor, that is, if it will not hurt him too much. You see, his wound is really more serious than mine, as the ball has gone through the bone."

"Yes. I have a good many cases of that sort, but all seem to be healing rapidly. However, I will strain a point and give instructions that he is to be among those who must go in the waggons."

"Thank you, sir," both boys said; and Sankey added: "We are great friends, sir. Though I don't care for myself, it would be a great comfort to us to be together, and my wound really hurts me a good deal."

"I have no doubt it does," the surgeon said. "You can't expect a ball to pass through muscle and bone without causing pain."

Half an hour later some natives came into the tent, and under the directions of the surgeon carried out Chris and three others whose wounds were all comparatively slight, and placed them in a waggon which already contained eight other wounded prisoners. Sankey, with his arm in a sling, walked out and was lifted into the waggon, into which he could indeed scarcely have climbed without assistance. Seven more were collected at other tents, and the waggons then moved off and joined a long line that were waiting on the road. Some more presently came up, and when the number was complete, the native drivers cracked their whips with reports like pistols, and the oxen got into motion. Some twenty mounted Boers kept by the side of the waggons. They followed the road until within four or five miles of Ladysmith, then turned off, crossed the Klip river, and came to a spot where a hospital camp had been erected; here they halted for the night.

The wounded were provided with soup and bread, and such as were able to walk were allowed to get out and stroll about. The surgeon who accompanied the train and the doctor in charge of the hospital attended to all the serious cases, and these were carried into the tent for the night thus making room for the others to lie at length in the waggons. Only three of these contained British wounded, the others were all occupied by Boers. Chris and Sankey excited the admiration of the wounded soldiers by conversing with the Boers and the natives in their own languages. Most of the Boers, indeed, could speak English perfectly, but did not now condescend to use it. Some even refused to speak in Dutch to the lads, as their dislike to the colonists who had taken up arms against them was even more bitter than that which they felt for the soldiers.

For six days they travelled on, at the end of that time Chris felt sure that he could walk without difficulty. He had, at very considerable pain to himself, each night undone his bandage, and had with his finger scratched at the two tiny wounds until they were red and inflamed, so that on the two occasions on which they were examined by the doctor, they appeared to be making but little progress towards healing. The inflammation was, however, only on the surface, and after several furtive trials, Chris declared that he was ready for a start. A move was generally made before daylight, in order that a considerable portion of the day's journey should be got over before the heat became very great.

"Are you quite sure, Chris?"

"I am as sure as anybody can be who has not actually tried it. I may be a little stiff at the start, but I believe that once off, I shall be right for eight or ten miles; and after the first day, ought to be able to do double that."

They had been travelling at the rate of about twelve miles a day, and halted that night near Newcastle. Chris heard from the guards that they would only go as far as Volksrust, and there be put in a train. The reason why this had not been done before was that the railway was fully occupied in taking down ammunition and stores, and that no carriages or trucks were available. The watch at night was always of the slightest kind. The Boers had no thought whatever that any of the wounded would try to escape. Two were posted at the leading waggon, which contained stores and medical comforts that might, if unguarded, be looted by the native drivers. The rest either slept wrapped up in their blankets, or in any empty houses that might be near.

At nine o'clock the boys told the others in the waggon that they were going to escape. They had before informed them of their intention to do so, somewhere along the road, and had taken down the names and regiments of all of them, with a note as to their condition, and the addresses of their friends. These they had promised to give to the commanding officers if they got safely back. They had filled their pockets with bread, all those in the waggon having contributed a portion of their ration that evening. After a hearty shake of the hand all round, and many low-muttered good wishes, they stepped out at the rear of the waggon, with their boots in their hands. It was a light night, and the figures of the two men on sentry over the store waggon could just be made out. There was no thought of any regular sentry duty, no marching up and down among the Boers; the two men had simply sat down together to smoke their pipes and chat until their turn came to lie down. The lads therefore struck off on the opposite side of the waggon, and making their way with great caution to avoid running against any of the Boers, they were soon far enough away to be able to put on their boots and walk erect.

"How does your leg feel, Chris?"

"It feels stiffer than I expected, certainly, but I have no doubt it will soon wear off. We must take it quietly till it warms up a bit."

Gradually the feeling of stiffness passed off, and going at a steady but quiet pace they made their way along the road, to which they had returned after they had gone far enough to be sure that they were beyond the hearing of the Boers and Kaffirs. From time to time they stopped to listen for the tread of horses, which could have been heard a long way in the still night air, but they were neither met nor overtaken. After walking for five hours they came upon a stream that, as they knew, crossed the line at Ingagone station and ran into the Buffalo. They had gone but ten miles, and decided to leave the road here, follow the stream up half a mile, and then lie up. Chris admitted that he could not go much farther, and as they would not cross another stream for some distance they could not, even putting his wound aside, do better than stop here. Sankey was equally contented to rest, for his arm, which he still carried in a sling, was aching badly.

"It does not feel sore," he said, "or inflamed, or anything of that sort; it just aches as if I had got rheumatism in it. I dare say I shall have that for some time; I have heard my father say that injuries to the bones were often felt that way for years after they were apparently well, the pain coming on with changes of weather. However, it is no great odds."

Neither wanted anything to eat, but had taken long draughts when they first struck the stream, and as soon as they found a snug spot among some bushes a short distance from the water they lay down and were soon asleep. They remained quiet all the day, only going out once after a careful look round to get a drink of water. Starting again as soon as darkness closed in they walked on, with occasional rests, until within a few miles of Glencoe, having followed the line of the railway, where they had no chance whatever of meeting anyone. Here they again halted at a stream. They had agreed that they would on the following night cross the line between Glencoe and Dundee, and take the southern road by which the British force retired after the battle there. By that route they would be altogether out of the line of Boers coming from Utrecht or Vryheid towards the Boer camps round Ladysmith. Their stock of food was, however, now running very short, and they ate their last crust before starting that evening. This they did earlier than usual, as they were determined if possible to get some bread at Dundee. They knew that a few of the residents had remained there, and probably there would not be many Boers about, for as Dundee lay off the direct line from Ladysmith to the north there would be no reason for their stopping there. Sankey had insisted on undertaking this business alone.

"It is of no use your talking, Chris," he said positively; "I can run and you can't. I may not be able to run quite as fast as I could; but I don't suppose this arm will make much difference, and anyhow, I could swing it for a bit, and I would match myself against any Boer on foot. We will cross the line, as we agreed, about a mile from Dundee. When we strike the southern road you can sit down close to it, and I will go in."

"I don't like it," Chris said, "but I see that it would be the best thing. I wish we had our farmer's suits with us, then I should not fear at all."

"I don't think that makes much odds, Chris, lots of the Boers have taken to clothes of very much the same colour; really, the only noticeable thing about us is our caps. If I come upon a loyalist I will see if I can get a couple of hats for us, either of straw or felt would be all right. Well, don't worry yourself; it will be a rum thing if I can't bring you out something for breakfast and dinner to-morrow."

"Don't forget a little bit extra for supper to-night, Sankey," Chris laughed; "that crust went a very short distance, and I feel game for at least a good-sized loaf."

Although he said good-bye to his friend cheerfully, Chris felt more down-hearted than he had done since he had said farewell to his mother more than two months before, as Sankey disappeared in the darkness, leaving him sitting among some bushes close to the road. His last words had been, "It is somewhere about nine o'clock now; if I am not back by twelve don't wait any longer. But don't worry about me; if I am caught, I have no doubt sooner or later I shall give them the slip again, but I don't think there is any real occasion for you to bother. Unless by some unlucky fluke, I am safe to get through all right." Then with a wave of his hand he started confidently along the road.

He met no one until he was close to the town. The first thing he had determined upon was to get hold of a hat somehow. The houses were scattered irregularly about in the outskirts of the town; but very few lights were to be seen in the windows.

"Of course they have all been plundered," he said to himself; "but if I only had a light I have no doubt I should be able to find an old hat somewhere among the rubbish, but in the dark there is no chance whatever." Presently he saw a light in a window in a detached house of some size. He made his way noiselessly up and looked in. A party of five or six Boers were sitting smoking round a table. "The place has not been sacked," he said to himself; "therefore there is no doubt the owner is a traitor. It is a beastly custom these Boers have of wearing their hats indoors as well as out, still there are almost sure to be some spare ones in the hall. A Boer out on the veldt would not be likely to possess more than the hat he wears, but a fellow living in such a house as this would be safe to have a variety for different sorts of weather. At any rate I must try."

He took off his boots, and then stole up to the front door and turned the handle noiselessly. As he expected, no light was burning there, but the door of the room in which the men were sitting was not quite closed, and after he had stood still for a minute, his eyes, accustomed to the greater darkness outside, took in his surroundings. To his great delight he saw that four or five hats of different shapes and materials were hanging there, and a heap of long warm coats were thrown together on a bench. Looking round still more closely he saw five or six rifles in the corner by the door, and to these were hanging as many bandoliers. He first took down two felt hats of different sizes, and picked out two of the coats; then, with great care to avoid any noise, he took two rifles with their bandoliers from the corner and crept out through the door, which he closed behind him carefully; for if they found it open the Boers might look round and discover that some of their goods were missing, whereas any one of them coming casually out, even with a light, would not be likely to notice it. He put on one of the bandoliers, then a coat, and then slung one of the rifles behind him; then, after putting on his boots he went out with the other articles and hid them inside the gate of an evidently deserted house a hundred yards from the other. He felt sure that even when the loss was discovered there would be no great search made for the thief. It would be supposed that some passing Kaffir had come in and stolen the things, and they would consider that, until the following morning, it would be useless to look for him. Feeling now perfectly confident that he could pass unsuspected, he entered the principal street. Here there were a good many Boers about, but none paid the slightest attention to him. Presently he came to a store that was still open. The owner was of course Dutch. He had been a pronounced loyalist when Sankey was last in Dundee, but had evidently thought it prudent to change sides when the British left. Sankey had been in the shop twice with Willesden, and had found the man very civil, and, as he thought, an honest fellow, but with so much at stake he dared not trust him now. Food he must have, that was certain, but if he had to obtain it by threats, he must do it at one of the outlying houses. It would be dangerous anyhow, for, though he could frighten a man into giving him what he required, he could not prevent him from giving the alarm afterwards. While he was looking on a mounted Boer stopped at the shop door. He dismounted at once, and lifted a large bundle from his saddle.

"Look here!" he said to the shopkeeper. "I have just come into the town, having ridden up from near Greytown. I picked up some loot at a house that had been deserted. Here are twenty bottles of wine and a lot of tea -- I don't know how much. There was a chest half-full, and I emptied it into a cloth. What will you give me for them? I am riding home to Volksrust. I want three loaves and a couple of bottles of dop [Footnote: The common country spirit.], and the rest in money." The bargaining lasted for some minutes, the storekeeper saying that the wine was of no use to him, for no Boer ever spent money on wine; the tea of course was worth money, but he had now a large stock on hand, and could give but little for it. However, the bargain was at last struck. The Boer brought out the bread and two bottles of spirits and placed them in his saddle-bag, then he went back into the shop to get the money. The moment he entered Sankey moved quietly up to the other side of his horse, transferred the bottles of spirits to his own pocket, and then, thrusting the loaves under his coat, crossed the street, and turned down a lane some twenty yards farther on. He had gone but a few steps when he heard a loud exclamation followed by a torrent of Dutch oaths. He stood up for a moment in a doorway, and heard the sound of heavy feet running along the street he had left, with loud shouts to stop a thief who had robbed him. The instant that he had passed Sankey walked on again, and in five minutes was in the outskirts of the town. He made his way to the place where he had hidden the other things, and taking them up, walked briskly on until he came to the bushes where his friend was anxiously expecting him. As he uttered his name Chris sprang out.

"I had not even begun to expect you back, Sankey. How have you done? I see that you have got on another hat and a coat."

"That is only a part of it. I have got three loaves and two bottles of dop, and a coat and a hat for you, and a rifle and ammunition, as well as clothes for myself and the gun that you see over my shoulder."

"But how on earth did you do it, Sankey?"

"Honestly, my dear Chris, perfectly honestly. The rifles and clothes were fairly spoils of war, the loaves and spirits were stolen from a thief, which I consider to be a good action; but let us go on, I will tell you about it as we walk. Here is your bandolier, slip that on first; there is your coat and hat. Now I will put the sling of the rifle over your shoulder. There you are, complete, a Boer of the first water! I will carry the bottles and the bread. Now, let's be going on."

Then he told Chris how he had obtained his spoil, and they both had a hearty laugh over the thought of the enraged Dutchman rushing down the street shouting for the eatables of which he had been bereaved.

"It was splendidly managed, Sankey. I shall have to appoint you as caterer instead of Willesden. He pays honestly for all he wants for the mess, but I see that if we entrust the charge to you, we shall not have to draw for a farthing upon our treasure chest. And how is your arm feeling?"

"I have almost forgotten that I have an arm," Sankey said. "I suppose the excitement of the thing drove out the rheumatics."

"We might have some supper," Chris suggested.

"No, no, we must wait till we can get water. I can't take dop neat."

"But how are you going to mix it when you do get water?"

"I had not thought of that, Chris," Sankey said in a tone of disgust. "Well, I suppose we shall be reduced to taking a mouthful of this poison, and then a long drink of water to dilute it. We shall not have very far to go, because, if you remember, we crossed a little stream three or four miles after we rode out from Dundee. I am as hungry as a hunter, but it would destroy all the pleasure of the banquet if we had to munch dry bread with nothing to wash it down." After walking two miles farther they came upon the stream and going fifty yards up it, so as to run no risk of being disturbed, they sat down and enjoyed a hearty meal.



Chapter XIV

Spion Kop


"It is almost a pity that you did not commandeer two ponies and saddles while you were about it," Chris laughed, as they set off again feeling all the better for their meal. "We only want that to complete our outfit."

"You should have mentioned it before I started, Chris. There is no saying what I might not have done; and really, without joking, a pony is one of the easiest things going to steal when there are Boers about. They always leave them standing just where they dismount, and will be in a store or a drinking-place for an hour at a time without attending to them."

"It is not the difficulty, but the risk; for even if a thief gets off with a pony, he is almost sure to be hunted down. It is regarded as a sort of offence against the community, and a man, whether a native or a mean white, would get a very short shrift if he were caught on a stolen horse."

"Yes, I know. Still, for all that, if I could come upon a saddled pony, and there was a chance of getting off with it, I should take it without hesitation as a fair spoil of war."

"Yes, so should I, for the betting would be very strongly against our running across its owner; and in the next place, it would greatly increase our chance of getting safely through. It is the fact of our being on foot that will attract attention. We could walk about a camp full of Boers without anyone noticing it, but to walk into the camp would seem so extraordinary, that we should be questioned at once. A Boer travelling across the country on foot would be a sight hitherto unknown."

"There I agree with you; and I do think that when we get to Helpmakaar, which we can do to-morrow evening if we make a good long march to-night, we had better see if we can't appropriate a couple of ponies. We can walk boldly into the place, and no one would notice we were new-comers. There are sure to be ponies standing about, and it will be hard if we cannot bag a couple. Then we can ride by the road south from there to Greytown, and after crossing the Tugela, strike off by the place where we had the fight near Umbala mountain, which would be a good landmark for us, and from there follow our old line back to Estcourt. It would be rather shorter to go through Weenen, but there may be Boers about, and the few miles we should save would not be worth the risk."

They made a long journey that night, slept within seven or eight miles of Helpmakaar, and started late in the afternoon. When near the town they left the main road, passed through some fields, and came into the place that way, as had they entered by the road they were likely to be questioned. Once in the little town, they walked about at their ease. It did not seem that there were any great number of Boers there, but the town was well within the district held by them, and such loyalists as remained were sure to be keeping as much as possible without their houses. In front of the principal inn were nearly a score of Boer ponies, but the lads considered it would be altogether too risky to attempt to take a couple of these, as their owners might issue out while they were doing it; however, they stood watching. For some time there was a sound of singing and merriment within, and for a quarter of an hour no one came out.

"If we had taken a couple of ponies at first," Sankey said savagely, "we might have been two miles away by this time."

"Yes; I don't know that it is too late now. Wait till they strike up another song with a chorus, none of them are likely to leave the room while that is going on, and it will drown the sound of hoofs."

There were few people about in the streets; and even had anyone passed as they were mounting, he could not tell that they were not the legitimate owners.

"If anyone should come out," Chris said, "don't try to ride away. We should have the whole lot after us in a minute, and it is not likely we should have got hold of the fastest ponies. Besides, they would shoot us before we got far. So if anyone does come out and raises an alarm, jump off at once and run round the nearest corner, and then into the first garden we come to. We should be in one before they could come out, mount their ponies, and give chase. Once among the gardens we should be safe. If the man who comes out does not shout we would pay no attention to him, but ride away quietly. If the ponies don't happen to belong to him or some friend of his, he would not be likely to interfere, for he would suppose that we were two of the party who had left the place without his noticing them. But if he gives a shout, jump off at once, and rush round the corner of the nearest house."

They waited for a minute or two, and then two Boers came out, mounted a couple of the ponies, and rode quietly down the street. At that moment another song was struck up. "That is lucky. If anyone comes out and sees us mounting he will take us for the two men who have just ridden off." Then they strolled leisurely across the street, took the reins of two of the ponies, sprang into the saddles, and started at a walk, which, twenty yards farther, was quickened into a trot. The two men had fortunately gone in the other direction. Once fairly beyond the town, they quickened their pace. "Now we are Boers all over," Chris said exultantly; "but there is one thing, Sankey, we must be careful not to go near any solitary farmhouse. There must still be some loyal men left in these parts, and if we fell in with a small party of them the temptation to pay off what they have suffered might be irresistible."

"Yes, Chris; but they certainly would not shoot unless certain of bringing us both down, for if one escaped, he would return with a party strong enough to wipe them out altogether. However, we need not trouble about that for the present, though no doubt it will be well to be careful when we are once across the Tugela."

"Well, we shall be there long before morning; it is not more than seven-or eight-and-twenty miles."

They rode fast, for it was possible that when the loss of the ponies was discovered someone who might have noticed them go down the street might set the Boers on the track, and in that case they would certainly be hotly pursued. The ponies, however, turned out to be good animals, and as the lads were at least a couple of stones lighter than the average Boer, they could not be overtaken unless some of the ponies happened to be a good deal better than these.

After riding at full speed for eight or nine miles, they broke into a walk, stopping every few minutes to listen. They knew that they would be able to hear the sound of pursuit at least a mile away, and as their ponies would start fresh again, they were able to take things quietly. So sometimes cantering sometimes walking, they reached the river at about one o'clock in the morning. On the opposite bank stood the little village of Tugela Ferry. Here there was a drift, and there was no occasion to use the ferry-boat except when the river was swollen by rain. It now reached only just up to the ponies' bellies; they therefore crossed without the least difficulty, and after passing through the village, left the road, and struck off across the country to the south-west. When four or five miles away they halted at a donga, and leading the ponies down, turned them loose to feed, ate their supper, and were soon asleep.

It was no longer necessary to travel by night, and at eight o'clock they started again. They kept a sharp look-out from every eminence, and once or twice saw parties of mounted men in the distance and made detours to avoid them. So far as they were aware, however, they were not observed. The distance to be ridden from their last halting-place was about thirty-five miles, and at one o'clock they were within five miles of Estcourt. On an eminence about a mile in front of them they saw a solitary horseman.

"That is evidently one of our scouts," Chris said. "I dare say there is a party of them somewhere behind him. If I am not mistaken I can see two or three heads against the sky-line -- they are either heads or stones. We should know more about it if the Boers hadn't bagged our glasses when they took us."

Two or three minutes later Sankey said, "Those little black spots have gone, so they were heads. I dare say they are wondering who we are, and put us down either as Boers or as loyal farmers, though there cannot be many of them left in this district."

Presently from behind the foot of the hill six horsemen dashed out. The lads had already taken the precaution of taking off their hats and putting on forage-caps again.

"It is always better to avoid accidents," Chris said. "It would have been awkward if they had begun to shoot before waiting to ask questions, especially as we could not shoot back. They are Colonials; one can see that by their looped-up hats, which are a good deal more becoming than those hideous khaki helmets of our men."

The horsemen had unslung their guns, but seeing that the strangers had their rifles still slung behind them with apparently no intention of firing, they dropped into a canter until they met the lads.

"Who are you?" the leader asked. "Do you surrender?"

"We will surrender if you want us to," Chris said; "though why we should do so I don't know. We belong to the Maritzburg Scouts, and were taken prisoners, being both wounded, eight or nine days ago; and, as you see, we have got away."

"I dare say it is all right," the officer said; "but at any rate we will ride with you to Estcourt."

"We shall be glad of your company, though I don't suppose we shall be identified until we get to Chieveley. Will you please tell us what has taken place since we left?"

"That, I think had better be deferred," the officer said dryly. "We don't tell our news to strangers."

"Quite right, sir."

"It is evident that you are not Dutch," the officer went on; "but there is more than one renegade Englishman fighting among the Boers, and except for your caps you certainly look as if you belonged to the other side rather than to ours."

"Yes, they are Boer coats, Boer ponies, and Boer guns," Chris said. "We have taken the liberty of borrowing them as they borrowed our guns and field-glasses. Whether they borrowed our horses we shall not know till we get back. You see," he went on, opening his coat, "we still have our uniforms underneath. Who is at Estcourt now? Ah, by the way, we are sure to find some officers in the hospital who know us."

The officer by this time began to feel that the account Chris had given him of himself was correct, and when they arrived at Estcourt it was rather as a matter of form than anything else that he accompanied him to the hospital. Upon enquiry Chris found that among the wounded there was one of the naval officers he had travelled with from Durban. Upon the surgeon in charge being told that he wished to see him, he was allowed to enter with the officer. The wounded man at once recognized him.

"Ah, King," he said, "I am glad to see you again. Have you brought me down a message from Captain Jones or any of our fellows?"

"No; I am very sorry to find you here, Devereux, but I am glad to see you are getting better. I have really come in order that you might satisfy this gentleman, who has taken me prisoner, that I am King of the Maritzburg Scouts."

"There is no doubt about that. Why, where have you been to be taken prisoner?"

"Oh, it was a fair capture. I was with one of my section caught while out scouting, and have got away in Boer attire, and as we were riding in we met this officer's party some five miles out, and not unnaturally they took us for the real thing instead of masqueraders."

"I can assure you that King is all right," the sailor said. "He came up in the train with three of his party from Durban."

"Thank you," the officer said with a smile. "I am perfectly satisfied, and was nearly so before I came in here. Well, I wish you good-day, sir, and hope we may meet again," and shaking hands with Chris he left the tent.

Chris remained chatting for a few minutes more with the sailor.

"I suppose there is no great chance of getting a bed here?" he said, as he rose to go. "We have had two pretty long days' ride, and I don't care about going on to Chieveley."

"Not a chance in the world, I should think."

"Well, it does not matter much. We have been sleeping in the open for the past five nights, and once more will make no difference. We are just back in time, Sankey," he said when he joined his friend outside. "Devereux tells me that there is a big movement going on, and that a severe fight is expected in a day or two. He hears that the baggage train has been moving to Springfield, so that it will be somewhere over in that direction; and I suppose we are going to move round to Acton Homes and force our way into Ladysmith through Dewdrop. You know, they say that it is comparatively flat that way."

They got rid of their long coats and fastened them to their saddles; then led their ponies to the station, and leaving them outside entered. An enterprising store-keeper had opened a refreshment stall for the benefit of the troops passing through, or officers coming down from the front to look after stores or to visit friends in hospital. Chris had explained their position to Devereux, and the latter had said: "Then I suppose they have eased you of all your money?"

"Yes; they did not leave us a penny."

"There is my purse with my watch in that little pocket over my bed," he said. "You must let me lend you a sovereign till I see you again." And Chris had thankfully taken the money.

They now had what to them was a gorgeous feast; some soup, cold ham, and a bottle of wine. They gave what little remains they had of bread to the ponies, and then led them a quarter of a mile out of the town and camped out with them there, the Boer coats coming in very useful. The next morning they started at daybreak, and arrived at their camp at Chieveley just as their friends were sitting down to breakfast. They were received with a shout of welcome, and a torrent of questions was poured upon them.

"I will leave Sankey to tell you all about it," Chris said. "I must go and report myself to Brookfield and get our names struck off the list of missing. I shall not be five minutes away."

The captain received Chris as heartily, though not so noisily, as his comrades had done.

"We have been very anxious about you," he said, after the first greeting. "When we came back to the point where you left us, and did not find you there, we thought there might be some mistake, and that you had ridden on. We picked up all the others, but were not uneasy until we got into camp, and found that you did not return. Then two of your friends took fresh horses and rode out again, taking two of your blacks with them. The blacks found the place where you had left us, and following your tracks down came on your horses. Then they went on till they saw the river in front of them. The blacks traced your footsteps along near the bank till they came to a spot where there was evidently a drift, as a road was cut down to the water on both sides. They then crawled along till they could look down into the road. They were some time away, and returned with the news that they had seen below them on the road a patch of blood and the mark of a body in the mud, another step they said had gone down to the water, and had not come back. Crawling along by the edge of the bank they found some empty cartridges. They said whoever had been up there had crawled once or twice to the edge above the sunken road where the other was lying, and that he had then gone back from the river and afterwards down into the road. A little farther there seemed to have been a fall, and then two men with big feet came to the spot, and, they asserted, carried the one who had fallen there down to the other; but they could not see what had happened then, for it was evident that the Boers were in force on the other side of the river, and they dared not go down farther to examine the tracks. Enough had been seen, however, to show that you must both have been wounded. It was pretty certain that you had not been killed, for if so the Boers would not have troubled to carry your bodies across the drift. Now, Chris, let us hear your story."

"If you don't mind, Captain Brookfield," Chris said with a smile, "I will put off telling it for another half-hour. The fact is, breakfast is ready, and I have only had one square meal since I went away, and that was yesterday at Estcourt."

"Go, by all means," the captain laughed. "I breakfasted half an hour before you came in, and forgot that it was possible that you had not done so." It was a full half-hour before Chris returned, and when he did so he left Sankey still telling the story of their adventures, which had made very little progress, as he had declared that he could not enjoy his breakfast if he was obliged to keep on talking all the time. When Chris, on his part, had told the story to Captain Brookfield, the latter said:

"I can't say that I am altogether surprised to see you back, though I certainly did not expect you for a long time, for I felt sure that if you and Sankey were not seriously wounded you would manage to give them the slip before you got to Pretoria; and I thought we should hear the first news of you at Durban, for it would be shorter and easier for you to make your way down again to Lorenzo Marques than to follow this line."

"We should certainly have gone that way if we had not escaped until we were near Pretoria, but it was a great deal easier to slip away from the waggons than it would have been if we had been once put into the train. I hope, sir, we have not been returned as missing, for it will have frightened our mothers terribly if we have been."

"No; I thought that there was no occasion to give your names until you had been away for a month. If you were not heard of by that time, I should consider it certain that you were dead or at Pretoria. I knew that, as you say, it would be a terrible shock to your mothers if they were to see your names among the missing; while it could do no harm to anyone if I kept it back for a month, and put you down as missing the first time after the corps were engaged. Well, you are just back in time for a big fight, though we are not likely to take any part in it. It is supposed to be a secret as to the precise position, but orders have been privately circulated this morning. Dundonald with the regular cavalry, the Natal Horse, and the South African Light Horse went on four days ago, with one or two other colonial corps, and occupied Springfield, and the baggage train followed them; and after occupying the place, instead of waiting for infantry to come up, he moved on to a river. Some of his men, with extraordinary pluck, swam across and managed to bring the ferry-boat over under a very heavy fire. Then a number of them crossed, scattered the Boers like chaff, and took possession of a rough hill called Swartz Kop, and held it till support came up. It was a capitally managed affair, and one cannot but regret that the same care was not shown at Hlangwane. We are to go on this afternoon, but as we are not in Dundonald's brigade I expect that our duty will be, as it was in the last fight, to guard the baggage."

"But what will Dundonald's brigade do?"

"The general opinion is, that they will push round to Acton Homes. I am not sure that the whole force is not going that way. It would be a grand thing if it could be done; but I doubt whether the train could carry enough stores, for it would be a long way round, and we should probably have to fight two or three times at least, and it might take us five or six days."

"Then most of the infantry have gone on already?"

"Yes, Hart's and Hildyard's brigades have marched straight from Frere. By the way, did you hear of the Boer attack on Ladysmith on the night of the 6th?"

"No; that was the night we were at Glencoe. On our way up we did hear some very heavy firing. At least, we were not certain that it was firing, and rather thought it was a distant thunder-storm."

"The firing began at two o'clock in the morning," Captain Brookfield said, "and was so heavy that everyone turned out. It lasted four hours, and there was no doubt that the Boers were making a determined attack. Everyone wondered that we did not at once make a diversion. When the day broke it could be seen that numbers of mounted Boers were hurrying off from their camps among the hills towards Ladysmith, but it was not until two in the afternoon that five battalions of infantry marched down towards Colenso, and the naval guns opened in earnest on their lines. It had the effect of bringing the Boers scurrying down again to their trenches. Our fellows marched in open order and worked their way nearly down to Colenso, which was more strongly garrisoned than it had been at the time of our last attack. No doubt they had seen us preparing to advance, and strongly reinforced the garrison. Our guns were taken a long way down, and at six o'clock their trenches were bombarded; then it came on to rain, and the Boers ceased to fire, and at seven o'clock our men turned into camp. The firing in Ladysmith had ceased some time before that."

"And what had taken place there?" Chris asked anxiously, "for I know the place has not fallen or we should have heard of it."

"No, they beat the Boers off splendidly. However, they had hard work to do it, for the heliograph flashed a signal at about nine o'clock in the morning to say that they had so far beaten off the enemy, but were much pressed. We heard the next day that this had indeed been the case. Caesar's Camp had been taken and retaken several times -- by our men at the point of the bayonet, by the Boers, by rushing up in overwhelming numbers. It is said that we have twelve hundred casualties, and the Boers at least fifteen hundred, of whom a large number were bayoneted. They say the loss fell chiefly upon the Free Staters, who were put in the front by the Transvaal people. They fought pluckily, and several of their commanders were among the killed. I should think that they would hardly try it again. A native got through two days afterwards with a despatch. We have not heard what it contained, but we fancy from what has leaked out that our defences were very weak."

"We ought to take a lesson from the Boers," Chris said. "I saw something of their trenches as we went up the railway valley, and they are wonderful."

"Yes, we must do the Boers the justice to say that they are not afraid of hard work. Ever since they first came here they have been at work everywhere every day in the week, including Sundays. Of course, as we are not standing on the defensive, there is no occasion for us to construct works to the same extent; but I cannot myself understand why we do not throw up batteries for our guns, pushing forward zigzags every night, and advancing the batteries until we can plant all our naval and field guns within a hundred yards of Colenso, when we should be able to smash their entrenchments in no time, and effectually cover an advance across the bridge or one of the drifts. When I was in the army it was always said that the next war would be fought with the spade as much as with the rifle, but so far we have seen nothing whatever of the spade, except just by the guns. We were also taught that strong positions held by steady troops armed with magazine guns and supported by good artillery were absolutely impregnable against direct attack. I grant that Dundee and Elandslaagte, and Belmont and Enslin on the other side, seemed to contradict that idea, but our experience here is all the other way; and if we keep on knocking our heads against those hills I suppose the axiom is likely to be finally confirmed."

"Then you don't think that we are going to fight our way into Ladysmith, Captain Brookfield?"

"Not direct into Ladysmith. Possibly we may work our way round; but after what we saw of the fire from their position, trench above trench, and miles upon miles in length, my own conviction is, that allowing to the utmost for the gallantry and devotion of our men, we shall never win our way across those hills."

"Then we move off at two o'clock, sir?"

"Yes, fresh batches of waggons are going on, and we are to escort them, and if we reach Springfield by to-morrow night we may think ourselves lucky, for some of the officers who went with the first lot have come back, and say that the roads are simply awful -- there are dongas to be passed where the waggons sink up to their axles -- and that at one point ninety oxen were fastened to a single waggon and could not pull it out from a hole in which it was sunk, and there it would be now if one of the Woolwich traction engines hadn't got hold of it and drawn it out. They are doing splendid work, and if the War Office authorities can but take a lesson to heart, the next war we go into we shall have five hundred of them and not a single transport animal. They would cost money, no doubt, but they would eat nothing and drink nothing; they would only require to be oiled and cleaned occasionally to keep them in order, and when they were wanted they would do the work without our having to hunt the world over for transport animals. They would save their cost in one war; there would be a thousand drivers and stokers instead of twenty thousand camp followers; it would not matter whether the country was burnt up dry or deep in grass, they would drag their fuel with them; and would save the artillery horses by dragging the guns till they were in the neighbourhood of an enemy. It might not look so pretty or picturesque as the present system, but it would be enormously more useful, and in the long run vastly more economical. I should like to see Kitchener put at the War Office with authority to sweep it out; Hercules in the Augean stable would be nothing to it."

Chris laughed at the earnestness and vehemence with which the commander spoke.

He went on. "I am an old army man, and have been as staunch a believer in army traditions as any man, but I tell you fairly that I am disgusted at the amount of routine work, delay, and, if I may use the word, priggism, that I see going on. I am not surprised that the Colonials to a man are convinced that they would manage matters infinitely better if they were left to themselves. They would harass the Boers night and day, sweep their plundering parties out of the land, make a circuit no matter how far into Zululand, and come down behind and cut the line of railway, and blow up the bridges, and worry them out of the colony. I don't say they would succeed, but I am sure they would try, and I believe firmly that five thousand mounted Colonials fighting in their own way would relieve Ladysmith and clear Natal sooner than we with thirty thousand shall do. I am not saying that they would succeed in a Continental war, though they would certainly harass and bother any regular force four times their own strength. To succeed they would require guns and a greater degree of discipline than they have got, but such a force would be absolutely invaluable as an assistant to a regular army. Don't repeat what I say, Chris; there is a good deal of soreness of feeling on both sides already, and I don't want any utterance of mine to add to it. Still, I can assure you it has been a relief to me to let the steam off."

At the appointed hour the Maritzburg Scouts and another Colonial corps started with a train of two hundred waggons, and with immense exertion made eight miles before it became dark. The men were more often on foot than in their saddles, sometimes roping their horses to the sides of the waggons to aid the oxen, sometimes putting their shoulders to the wheels, or working with a score of others with railway sleepers that had been brought for the purpose, to lever the axles out of deep holes into which the wheels had sunk.

"I don't think I ever knew what it was to be really dirty before," Field said, as they finally dismounted and prepared to camp. "I thought I did know something about mud, but I can see that I did not. I feel that I am a sort of animated pie, and could be cooked comfortably in an oven. If we could but get a big fire and stand round it, our crust might peel off; and I really don't see any other way. There is one advantage in it, and that is that we shall be able to skirmish, if necessary, across either a sandy or muddy country, without the possibility of our being made out more than fifty yards away by the keenest-sighted Boer. What do you propose, Captain Chris? If there were running water near, the course would be clear. We would lie down by turns, and be rolled over and over, and thumped with stones, and rubbed with anything that came handy till we were in a state of comparative cleanliness."

"Why running water?" Chris asked. "Why not a pond?"

"A pond!" Field said, contemptuously. "Why, sir, before our section alone was washed, the water of anything short of a lake would be solid."

There was a general burst of laughter.

"Well, Field, you do us almost as much good as a wash," Peters said. "Anyhow, we are better off than the others. We have got our tents and our spirit-lamp, and can have our tea with some degree of comfort, which is more than the others will be able to do. Now, as we have not running water, I think we might as well scrape as much of this mud off as we can."

"I would almost rather remain as we are," Field said. "Hitherto I have felt rather proud of our appearance. As we only got our uniforms when we came up here, and have always had our tents to sleep in, we looked a great deal cleaner than the average. Now we shall be conspicuous for our dirtiness."

"In spite of what Field says, I will adopt your suggestion, Peters. We had better help the Kaffirs to get up our tents first," Chris said, "then we can do the scraping while they are getting our supper ready. It is very lucky that we had the water-skins filled before starting. We should hardly taste the tea if it had been made from water from any of these spruits."

The tents were erected, and then jack-knives were taken out; and giving mutual aid to each other, they succeeded in removing at least the main portion of the mud. That done, they sat down to supper. Fortunately, the rain that had come down steadily the greater portion of the day had now ceased, and with a tin of cocoa and milk, and some fried ham and biscuits, they made an excellent meal. Their less fortunate comrades brought their kettles, which were boiled for them one after another, until all who had waited up in hopes of their turn coming had been served. As they carried tea and their ration bread, they were able to make a fairly comfortable meal, instead of going supperless to bed, which they would otherwise have done, as few would have cared after their hard work to go out into the veldt to gather soaked sticks, which they would hardly have been able to light had they found them. A small ration of spirits and water was given to each of the five natives, and then the lads crept into their tents feeling that after all, things might have been much worse.



Chapter XV

Spion Kop


The country immediately round Springfield was level and well cultivated, with pretty farmhouses and orchards scattered about. Some little distance to the west rose two hills, Swartz Kop, which had been occupied by the mounted infantry, and Spearman's Hill, named from a farm near its base. Here General Buller had established his head-quarters. Spearman's Hill, which was generally called Mount Alice, was a very important position, and here the naval guns were placed, their fire commanding the greater portion of the hills on the other side of the Tugela, and also Potgieter's Drift, where it was intended the passage of the river should be made. Swartz Kop was a less important position, though it also dominated a wide extent of country; but as ridges on the other side covered some important points from its fire, Mount Alice was selected as the position for the naval battery, and also for the signallers, as from here a direct communication could be kept up by heliograph and flash-light with one of the hills held by the defenders of Ladysmith.

It was late on the 16th when the convoy which the Maritzburg Scouts were escorting arrived at Springfield. All day they had heard the boom of artillery and the rattle of machine-guns and musketry along the line of hills on the other side of the Tugela and from the heights of Mount Alice, and groaned in spirit as they laboured at their work of assisting the waggons, that they were thus employed when hard fighting was going on within eight miles of them.

At half-past two that day Lyttleton's brigade had moved forward along the foot of Mount Alice to force the passage of the river at Potgieter's drift. As soon as the Boers caught sight of them, they could be seen galloping forward to take their places in the trenches.

A thunder-storm that burst and a torrent of rain screened the movements of the advancing troops from view for some time, and enabled them to near the river without having to pass through any shell fire from the Boer batteries on the hilltops. Between Mount Alice and the river the brigade passed across meadows and ploughed fields. They reached the ferry, but the boat was stuck fast, and an hour was lost at this point before a party of sailors and colonial troops accustomed to such work came forward to the aid of the Engineers, and speedily got it into working order. But in the meantime the Scottish Rifles and the Rifle Brigade had moved along the banks to the drift. Although usually almost dry, the water was now coming down it breast-deep. Two gallant fellows went across, and when they found the line of shallow water they returned and guided their comrades over. The rush of the water was so great that many would have been swept away; but, joining hands, they crossed in a line, and although this was broken several times, it was always reformed, and not many lives were lost.

As soon as some of the troops had passed, they lined the bank until the two battalions were over, and then advanced over some low hills, clearing out a few Boers who occupied some advanced trenches. By six o'clock the ferry-boat began to carry the main body across, taking over half a company at a time; but it was not until half-past three in the morning that the horses, waggons, the guns of the brigade, and a howitzer battery were on the northern bank, and the whole brigade established on a ridge a mile beyond the river.

The Maritzburg Scouts were delighted at receiving orders on the morning after their arrival at Springfield that they were to move forward at once and encamp close to Spearman's Farm, and to furnish orderlies for carrying messages for the general. They started at once, and after an hour's fast riding arrived at the point assigned to them.

Twenty men and an officer were at once sent to the farmhouse. They took with them three tents which they had brought in the regimental waggon, and erected these some fifty yards from the house; the rest of the troop established their camp at a point indicated by a staff officer a quarter of a mile away. It had been two o'clock in the morning before the convoy had reached Springfield, and horses and men were alike tired out; and as soon as breakfast had been prepared and eaten most of the troopers turned in to sleep. Chris and half a dozen of his party, however, obtained leave from Captain Brookfield to ascend Mount Alice and see what was going on. From half-past five a tremendous fire had been kept up on the Boer positions. The naval guns were distributing their heavy lyddite shells among the entrenchments distant from three to six miles, and occasionally throwing up a missile on to the summit of the lofty hill known as Spion Kop away to the left front. Not less steadily or effectively the howitzer battery was pounding the Boer position.

At eight o'clock the lads reached the top of Mount Alice, and watched with intense interest the picturesque and exciting scene. Here they were far better able than they had been when at Chieveley to see the general aspect of the country. On the right from Grobler's Kloof hill after hill, separated apparently by shallow depressions, rose, and from the higher points occasional flashes of fire burst out as the guns tried their range against those on Mount Alice, whose heights, however, they failed to reach. Spion Kop stood out steep and threatening, its summit being some hundred feet higher than that of Mount Alice. They could now see that it was not, as it had appeared from the distance, an isolated and almost conical hill, but was, in fact, connected with hills farther to the left by a ridge of which it was the termination.

Immediately behind it was a deep valley, and the ascent from this side was to some extent commanded by the guns on Mount Alice and Swartz Kop. Between Spion Kop and the river there was a flat belt of country, and it was along this that Lord Dundonald had ridden with his brigade of cavalry to Acton Homes, where he was still stationed. The point of greatest interest, however, was at Trichardt's Drift, lying six miles west of Mount Alice. From their look-out they could make out the division under the command of Sir Charles Warren advancing to the ford. As far as they could see, no serious opposition was being offered; they could, however, in the intervals of silence of the guns, hear a dropping musketry fire in that direction, and a few rounds of shot from Warren's field-guns, but it was evident that only a small party of the enemy could be disputing the passage.

Peters, who was intently watching what was going on through his glasses, said: "They are at work at two points on the river. I think they are building bridges."

The naval guns dropped a few shells among the farm buildings and orchards facing the spot where the troops were gathered, as a hint to the Boers that it was well within their range, and that they had best abstain from interfering with what was going on. In an hour from the time the troops reached the bank two bridges had been thrown across the river, and the passage began. By ten o'clock the whole were across, the firing soon after ceased, and Warren's troops bivouacked quietly. It was all over for the day, and the lads returned to their camp. The next day passed quietly, except that in the afternoon the Boer entrenchments near Spion Kop and Brakfontein, a hill facing the position occupied by Lyttleton's brigade, were pounded by the naval guns and howitzers. A message was heliographed from Ladysmith that two thousand Boers were seen moving towards Acton Homes, and as the occupation of that village was of no value until the infantry arrived there, the cavalry were recalled to a position where they could protect Warren's left flank from attack.

On the 19th, Warren pushed forward a portion of his force with a view to driving back the Boers' right and gaining the main road leading through Dewdrop to Ladysmith, while Woodgate's brigade watched Spion Kop. Fighting went on all day, the British forcing the enemy back step by step. On the 20th it began early and continued the whole day. Every inch of the ground was contested stubbornly by the Boers, but the Irish Brigade, who were in the hottest position, pressed them back fiercely with sudden rushes, and, had the rest of the division kept up with their advance, might have cleared the way through the enemy's centre. But the cannonade to which the advancing troops were exposed was terrible. Maxims and Nordenfeldts, the heavy cannon, and the field-pieces captured from us a month before, hurled shot and shell incessantly among them, while the rattle of the Boer rifles was continuous. Still, fair progress was made, and with less loss than might have been expected in such strife. Two officers only were killed, Captain Hensley of the Dublin Fusiliers, and Major Childe, who was a most popular officer. He had a presentiment that he would fall, and actually asked a friend the evening before to have a tablet placed over his grave with the inscription, "Is it well with the child? It is well."

At three o'clock the fighting slackened, and a heavy thunderstorm seemed to be the signal for firing to cease. Later Sir Charles Warren summoned all the officers commanding corps, and pointed out that there was not sufficient food remaining to allow of the wide circuit by Acton Homes to be carried out, and gave his opinion that now they had won so much ground, it was better to continue to advance by the shorter line on which they were pushing, but that in order to do this it was necessary that Spion Kop, whose fire would take them in the rear, should be captured. This was unanimously agreed to, and General Warren then saw the commander-in-chief, and obtained his consent to the change of plans. It was not, however, considered necessary to take Spion Kop until the troops had farther advanced. All Sunday, fighting was continued as before, but the progress made was slower, as the Boers were largely reinforced and fresh guns brought up.

The 22nd was comparatively quiet. The situation was not improving. Five miles of rough ground had been won in as many days' fighting, but the force was becoming lengthened out and the line weaker. Lyttleton's force had to guard the line from Potgieter's Drift to Warren's right against any attempt of the Boers to cut the lines of communication. Woodgate was similarly employed in keeping the line from Trichardt's Drift to Warren's left, and it became increasingly evident that not much further progress could be made until the left of the advance was protected by the establishment of guns on the great hill. It was then, on the 23rd, decided that Woodgate's brigade should assault Spion Hop that night. It was known that it was not strongly held.

Starting at six o'clock, the column made its way slowly and with vast difficulty up the ascent. This was everywhere rugged and rocky, and in many places so precipitous that men had to be pushed or pulled up by their comrades.

Colonel Thorneycroft led the way with a few men, finding out the spots at which an ascent was practicable, and scouting on either side to discover if Boers were hidden; behind him followed Woodgate leading his men. He was in bad health and quite unfit for such a climb, but in spite of remonstrances he had insisted upon going, although he was obliged to be assisted at the more difficult places. The distance was not more than six miles, but it was not until nearly ten hours after starting that the summit was gained. The hilltop was enveloped in mist, and they were unseen until the Lancashire Fusiliers, who were leading, were within fifty yards of the top. Then a Boer challenged them, and directly fired his rifle. Almost instantly a dozen of his comrades joined him, and bringing their magazines into play opened a fierce fusillade. But the aim was hurried, they could scarce see their foes, and the Lancashire men, cheering loudly, rushed up to the crest without loss.

The Boers did not await their arrival; only one of them was bayoneted before he turned to fly, and but two or three were overtaken by the eager soldiers. As soon as the Boers had gone, the troops set to work to construct breastworks to hold the spot they had gained against any attempts of the Boers to recapture. The ground was too rocky for digging, and the stones that were scattered thickly about were used for the purpose; but long before the breastwork could be completed a dropping fire was opened by the enemy. The morning was gray and misty, and the clouds hung heavily on the hilltop. As these cleared off slowly, it could be seen that the position was less favourable than it had seemed, for the flat crest extended some distance beyond the point they had entrenched, and from the rocks and low ridges a hot fire broke out. Before the mist cleared off, the Boers had crept up in considerable force, and were, it was evident, preparing to retake the position that had been wrested from them.

By six o'clock the scattered fire had grown into a continuous roar, the Boers occupying not only the nek itself, but the flanks of the hill. Several times our men made rushes to endeavour to clear off the foe, but these proved too costly, and they were now lying or kneeling behind the unfinished barricade. In a very short time the clouds had lifted sufficiently for the Boer artillery to discover the exact position, and from the hills on three sides a terrible fire of shot and shell, from cannon great and small and machine-guns, rained upon them. Again and again parties of men started to their feet and dashed forward to drive the hidden Boers facing them from their hiding-places. Sometimes they succeeded for a time, but their numbers thinned so fast that the survivors were forced to fall back again. To add to the horror of the situation, the shot from our own guns also fell among the defenders, the officers commanding the batteries not having been informed of the intention to occupy the hill, and knowing nothing of the situation. Scores of men were killed or wounded, but the position was held unflinchingly.

At ten o'clock General Woodgate was mortally wounded by the fragment of a shell that struck him in the eye, and Colonel Crofton took the command. He at once flashed a message to General Warren, stating that Woodgate was killed, and that reinforcements must be sent at once; General Coke was therefore ordered to take the Middlesex and Dorset regiments, and assume the command. Immediately afterwards Warren received an order from General Buller to appoint Lieutenant-colonel Thorneycroft, who was colonel of a colonial force, to take the command. It was now hoped that all was well there. Unfortunately, neither Buller nor Warren was able to give his undivided attention to the struggle on the mountain, for Lyttleton's brigade had advanced before daybreak against the eastern slopes of the hills running north from Spion Kop. They advanced briskly, their Maxims clearing out the Boers, from whose fire they suffered but little; but they sustained some loss from the shell fire from Mount Alice, the sailors having been as uninformed of the advance the brigade were to make as they were of the capture of Spion Kop. The Scottish Rifles and the 3rd King's Royal Rifles pushed on rapidly and gained the spur farthest north. Had there been guns on Spion Kop the object of the movement would have been attained, and the advance by direct road on Ladysmith have become a possibility; but no guns had reached the summit, and the troops there were so far from being able to render assistance that they were with difficulty maintaining their desperate resistance. As the two rifle regiments were therefore exposed to a concentrated fire from the Boer batteries, and were without support, they were directed to withdraw, but the order had to be repeated three times before it was obeyed. The fire slackened at this point to some extent in the afternoon, no farther advance being attempted, but it raged as hotly as ever on the summit of Spion Kop.

As neither General Buller nor Warren had come up to see the state of things on the all-important position of Spion Kop, General Coke went down in the evening to explain the situation. He stated that unless the artillery could silence the enemy's guns the troops could not support another day's shelling. In the evening two naval twelve-pounders, the R. A. mountain battery, and one thousand two hundred men as reliefs, started to ascend the hill and to strengthen the entrenchments. On the way up they met Colonel Thorneycroft and the rest of the force coming down, that officer, who had displayed splendid gallantry throughout the day, having decided on his own responsibility that the position could not be longer held. Strangely enough, the news of the retirement was not communicated to General Buller, who, after reporting in his despatches written next morning that Spion Kop was firmly held, was riding to the front when he for the first time learned the news. Altogether it was a day of strange blunders, redeemed only by the splendid bravery of the troops engaged. The news came as a heavy blow to the army, but it was supposed that a fresh attempt would be made to capture the position by ascending the northern spurs that had been carried and held for a time by the two rifle battalions. But while soldiers think only of the chances of battle, and burn to engage the enemy, a feeling only accentuated by previous failures, generals in command have to take other matters into consideration. They may feel that they may conquer in the next fight, but what is to follow? In this case the chances of success would be smaller than before, the loss more serious, for the Boers from all parts had united to oppose us. Many of the cannon had been brought over from the positions from which Ladysmith was bombarded. The advantage of surprise gained by the long march from Chieveley had been lost; more serious still was it that a large proportion of the provisions, brought at the cost of so much labour and exhaustion of the transport animals, was consumed, and what remained would be insufficient had fresh battles to be fought to capture the positions, one behind another, held by the Boers.

General Buller was the last man to retire as long as there was a hope of success. He knew that not only at home, but all over the civilized world, men were anxiously awaiting the news of his second attempt to relieve Ladysmith, and it must have been hard indeed for him to have to acknowledge a second reverse; but in spite of this he sternly determined to fall back. The movement was admirably executed; every horse, waggon, gun, and soldier was taken safely across the Tugela without hindrance by the Boers, a fact that showed how deeply they had been impressed with the valour of our soldiers. Sullenly and angrily the troops marched away. Had they had their will they would have hurled themselves against the Boer entrenchments until the last man had fallen. To them the necessities of the situation were as nothing; to retreat seemed an acknowledgment that they had been beaten, a feeling that is seldom entertained by British soldiers. Their losses had been heavy, but there were still enough of them, they thought, for the work they had to do, and it was with a deep feeling of unmerited humiliation that they received the order to retire.

The feeling, however, was not of long endurance, for two days later, when they had settled down in camp near the Tugela and round Spearman's Farm, the general rode through the lines, congratulating the troops on the valour they had displayed, and promising them that ere long they would be in Ladysmith.

"I shall be heartily glad when we are there," Chris said when he heard what the general had promised, "not only for the sake of the town, but for our own. We are really doing no good here. It is hateful to look on when other fellows are fighting so desperately. If it were not that the orders were strict against the mounted Colonial corps going out over the country, to clear the scattered Boers out, we might be doing useful service; and as soon as Ladysmith is relieved -- that is to say, if we can hold out till we get there -- I should certainly vote that we come back here instead of staying with the army, and go on again on our own account."

"I quite agree with you," Carmichael said. "Still, it is something to have seen two big fights."

"Yes," Brown grumbled, "but if we tell anybody that we were there, naturally the first question will be, 'What part did you take in it', and we shall have to own that we took no part at all, and only looked on at a distance at the other fellows fighting. I call it sickening."

"Well, never mind, Brown," Chris said; "after all, during this business, we have killed twice our own number of Boers at the least, and if everyone had done as much the Boers would be pretty well extinct."

"Yes, there is certainly something in that," Brown admitted, "but if we had been allowed to scout on our own account it would be hard if we had not killed twice as many more by this time."

"We certainly might have done so, but you must remember, also, that a great many of us might have been killed too. One cannot always expect to have the luck we had in those two fights; and, I am sure, we should bitterly regret gaps being made in our number."

"That we should," Harris said warmly. "We were all good friends before, but nothing to what we are now after living so long together, roughing it and sharing each others' dangers. For my part I would rather go without any more fighting than that any of us should go down."

"I agree with you thoroughly, Harris," Chris said. "As most of us are likely to remain out here for life, we shall often meet, and I do hope that when we talk of these times we shan't have our pleasure marred by having to say how we miss so and so, and so and so. I should be sorry even to lose one of our blacks. They have stuck to their work well, and are always cheerful and willing in the worst of weather and under the most miserable conditions. I should really be very sorry if any of them were killed."

It needed but a day or two for the troops to recover their cheerfulness. It was certain that they would soon be launched against the enemy again, and it was known that General Buller would himself command. The ground was now more known than it was before, the plans could be better laid, and all looked forward confidently to the next engagement.

No thanks were due to the weather for the renewed spirits of the men. It rained almost unceasingly. The flat ground on which the troops were encamped was a sea of mud. There was one good effect in this: there was water in all the spruits, and the men were able to indulge in a wash-up of their clothes and an occasional bath; and although they had to put their clothes on wet, they were scarcely more damp than when they took them off. There was other work to be done. Two naval guns, a mountain battery, and some large cannon were with great labour got up on the top of Swartz Kop.

The lads had given up the two tents allotted to them to let the rest of the men have more room, and they now felt the full benefit of their little shelter tents. The allowance throughout the rest of the camp was sixteen men to a tent. On coming in and out, as the men were muddy up to the knees, it was impossible to keep these even tolerably clean, and the discomfort of so many men crowded together and obliged to live, eat, and sleep in such confined quarters was very great indeed.

The lads on the other hand, suffered from none of these inconveniences, and except that they could not stand up, and could only sit upright in the middle of the tent, they were perfectly comfortable. The tents were about seven feet wide on the ground, and as much long. Their natives had cut and brought in bundles of grass, which made them soft beds, one on each side of the tent. A blanket was stretched on each bed, another doubled lay over it. It was a strict rule that everyone should take off his boots on entering his tent, and leave them just inside the entrance. They had purchased at the sale of the effects of some of the officers killed in action some more blankets and rugs, and these were thrown over the entrance to the front of the tents at night, and made them perfectly warm and comfortable. A trench some eighteen inches deep was dug round each tent, and this kept the floor fairly dry.

Some blankets had been given to the Kaffirs, who constructed a little shelter, in which they squatted by day and slept at night, and in which cooking operations were carried on. The lads had no occasion to feel dull, for they now knew many officers in the line regiments, and among the Colonial troops, as well as the naval brigade; and "Brookfield's boys", as they were generally called, were always welcome, and it was seldom that more than half of them dined in their own camp. Chris could always have been an absentee, for the sailors had told to each other the story of his attempt to blow up the bridge at Komati-poort, and he received any number of invitations. But he by no means liked to have to retell the story, and generally made some excuse or other for remaining in camp.

Another battery of artillery arrived on the 31st of January, and on the 3rd of February there were sports in the camp of the South African Light Horse, and a camp-fire sing-song afterwards. The men were all now in high spirits, for it was certain that in a day or two another attack would be made. On Sunday, February 4th, it was known that the move would commence the next day.

General Buller's plan was to make a strong feint against Brakfontein, the highest hill of the ridge connected with the Spion Kop range, while the real attack was to be delivered against an isolated hill named Vaal Krantz, which, as viewed from Swartz Kop and Mount Alice, seemed to be the key to the whole position, and it was thought that its possession would open the way for a direct advance to Ladysmith. All was now in readiness for the attack, and the sailors had with steel hawsers, and the aid of the troops, got four more naval guns on to Swartz Kop.

Before daybreak the troops were ready to advance. The regular cavalry were near the base of Swartz Kop, while all the Colonial Horse, under Lord Dundonald, were near Potgieter's Drift. At six o'clock the cavalry went forward, but not far, for the morning was so misty that the artillery could not make out the Boer positions until an hour later, when a tremendous fire was opened from Mount Alice, Swartz Kop, and guns placed on a lower spur of Spion Kop. While this was going on, a bridge was thrown by the Engineers across another drift. Major-general Wynne led the Lancashire brigade in the direction of Brakfontein. They went forward in skirmishing order, supported by five field batteries and the howitzer battery, all of which kept up an incessant fire of lyddite, shell, and shot against the Boer position, their fire being guided by an engineer officer in a balloon, who was able from a lofty altitude to signal where the Boers were clustering most thickly.

When another bridge had been completed General Lyttleton advanced with his brigade across it, and as the feint against Brakfontein had succeeded in gathering the greater portion of the Boers at the spot they supposed to be most in danger, the Lancashire brigade was withdrawn, retiring in excellent order, the movement being covered by an incessant firing of the guns with them, which completely dominated those of the Boers. Lyttleton's brigade now pressed forward under a storm of musketry and shell from machine and other guns, which were answered even more thunderously by the British artillery. The din was tremendous -- greater even than any that had been previously heard. It seemed impossible that men could live for a moment in such a storm of missiles. But they pressed on unfalteringly, and the batteries with them as steadily maintained their fire, though shells fell continually round and among them. The batteries that had gone out with the Lancashire Brigade now directed their fire against Vaal Krantz, having moved across from Brakfontein under a tremendous fire. One of the waggons lost all its horses; but the five artillerymen with it manned the wheels and brought it safely out of fire.

At three o'clock Lyttleton's brigade advanced in earnest, and dashed forward at the double against Vaal Krantz, heedless of the rifle fire from the hills on both flanks and from the front. The defenders soon lost courage, as they saw the Durhams and 3rd King's Royal Rifles dashing up the hill with bayonets fixed, and scarce two hundred of them remained till the British gained the crest. These were speedily scattered or bayoneted.

The position when won was found to be unsatisfactory, for it was dominated by a hill beyond, which could not be seen from the British look-out stations, and the cannon of Spion Kop were able to sweep the plateau. At one time the Boers gathered and made an effort to retake the hill, but two more battalions were sent up to reinforce the defenders, and the enemy were driven back and the fire gradually languished. The troops remained on the ground they had won during the night. From prisoners they learned that four thousand Boers occupied Doornkloof, the hill on their flank, and that the whole of the Transvaalers under Joubert were gathering in their front.

The baggage waggons were all collected by the river in readiness to advance; but the way was not yet sufficiently cleared for them, and the Boer guns on Brakfontein and Spion Kop commanded the road which they would have to traverse. It was evident to all that no advance was possible until the guns on these heights had been silenced or captured. For the same reason the two brigades of cavalry had remained inactive. During the night the Boers set fire to the grass on Vaal Krantz, and by the assistance of the light kept up a shell and Maxim fire upon the troops holding it. By morning they had brought up one of their big hundred-pound Creusot guns on to Doornkloof, and it added its roar to the chaos of other sounds. Under the shelter of its fire and that of the other guns the Boers made several attempts to recapture the hill, but were smartly repulsed each time they advanced.

All day Tuesday and Wednesday the uproar of battle never ceased. We could advance no farther. The Boers could not drive us back, although they made a very determined night attack on Hildyard's brigade. That afternoon General Buller held a council of war, at which all the generals were present. Their opinions were unanimous that the Boer position could not be forced without terrible loss, and that when they arrived at Ladysmith they would but add to the number shut up in that town, as it might be found as difficult to force their way out as to arrive there. General Hart pleaded to be allowed to make an attempt on Doornkloof with his brigade; but, strongly held as that position was, it was deemed impossible that it could be captured by a single brigade. The original intention was that guns should be taken up on to Vaal Krantz, and that with their assistance a strong force would wheel round and take Doornkloof in the rear; but owing to the discovery that the former hill was dominated from several points, it was found impracticable to carry the plan into execution. Orders were therefore given for the supply column, which had advanced some distance, to retire.

As the movement was being carried out, the Boers kept up a heavy fire upon the waggons and on the hospital, which, relying upon the protection of the Red Cross flag, had advanced within range, but here, as upon almost every occasion, the enemy paid no respect whatever to the Geneva emblem, although when, as once or twice happened, one of our shells fell near an ambulance of theirs, they had sent in indignant protests against our conduct. All that night and the next day the movement to the rear continued, and not only were the infantry moved across the Tugela, but the guns on Swartz Kop and Mount Alice were removed, and orders were given for a general retirement to Springfield, a proof that the next attack would be made in an entirely different direction.



Chapter XVI

A Colonist's Adventure


In the morning after the battle orders were issued for the greater part of the troops to return to Chieveley, and among the first to leave were the Maritzburg Scouts. They were heartily glad to be off. During the three preceding days the position of the cavalry had been a galling one. They had seen nothing of the fighting, being kept down at Potgieter's Drift in readiness to advance the moment that orders came. They had nothing to do but to stand or sit down near their horses, watching the fire from the enemy's batteries on the hills, and the bursting of our lyddite shells among them, the outburst of brownish-yellow smoke rendering them easily distinguishable from the sudden puffs of white vapour caused by the explosion of the shrapnel shells of the artillery. How the battle was going was only known from the wounded men brought down from the front. The reports at first were encouraging, but it became evident on the following days that no progress was being made.

Each evening when the sun set both the colonial and regular cavalry returned to their camp, for it was certain that they could not act at night. When it became known on Wednesday evening that a retreat was ordered, the news came almost as a relief, for the suspense had been very trying.

After dinner Chris went into the tent where the officers of the troop were gathered. As usual, the talk was of the battle, but in a short time Captain Brookfield said:

"Let us try and get away from the subject. We have talked of nothing else for the past three days, and I defy anyone to say anything new about it; it is not a pleasant subject either. Richards, you were in the last war, I know, and took part in the defence of Standerton. Suppose you tell us about that; it is one of the few pleasant memories of that time."

"I don't know that there is much to tell you about it, but I will let you know how I came to take share in it. That was an exciting time for me, for I was never so near rubbed out in all my life. Just before the last business broke out I happened to be returning from Pretoria, intending to sell for anything that I could get a large farm that I owned in the Leydenburg district. Of late the Boers had been getting so offensive in their manner that I thought something would come of it, and made up my mind to sell out at any price and return to Natal. When I rode into Leydenburg I found that two hundred and fifty men of the 94th Regiment were starting next day with a large train of waggons for Pretoria. As I was frequently in the town, and had made the acquaintance of several of the officers, I thought it would be pleasant to ride down with them, as it made no difference whether I got into Pretoria a day or two earlier or later. The general idea was that war would come of it, but no one thought it would begin without the usual notice and warning.

"I told the officers that I would not trust the Boers further than I could see them, for that a more treacherous set of fellows are not to be found on the surface of the earth. Still, I must own that I had no more idea that an attack would be made upon us than they had. Well, you all know what came of it. We were going along a hollow with rising ground on either side when, without the slightest warning, a tremendous fire was opened from both flanks. It can hardly be said that there was any resistance. The troops were strung out along the line of waggons; numbers were shot down before a single musket was fired in defence. The main body, such as it was, fought stoutly, but as they could only catch an occasional glimpse of the heads of the enemy, while they were themselves altogether exposed, there could be but one end to it. A hundred and twenty men were killed or wounded in a few minutes, and to save the rest from a similar massacre the officer who commanded surrendered.

"I fired a few shots at first, but as soon as I saw how it would end I rode for it. I was with the rear-guard when the firing began, and so took the back track. As soon as the firing ceased I saw half a dozen Boers galloping after me. My blood was up, as you may imagine, and on getting to a dip I jumped off my horse, left it in shelter, and threw myself down on the crest of the hollow, and as they came within range I picked off the one who was nearest to me. That brought the others up with a round turn. They retired a little way, then dismounted and separated, and proceeded to stalk me. We exchanged shots for an hour or two. I killed another, and got, as you see by this scar on my cheek, a graze. However, I think they would have tired of the game first. But suddenly I saw a dozen Boers galloping across the country in our direction. They were doubtless a party who had arrived too late to take part in the fight, if you can call such a treacherous massacre a fight, and hearing the sound of shots were riding to see what was going on.

"I saw that things were getting too hot, and ran down to my horse again and rode along in the hollow, which fortunately hid me from the sight of either the men I had been fighting or those riding up. I had therefore about a quarter of a mile start when I heard a shout, and knew that they were after me. After what had happened I did not dare ride for Middleburg, as there was no saying whether that place might not have already risen; so there was nothing to depend upon but the speed and bottom of my horse. It was a fairly good animal, but nothing particular. It had had an easy time of it while on the march, for we had only done some fourteen or fifteen miles a day. I might have had hopes that I should outride the men in pursuit of me, but they would be joined by more men on fresh horses from any Boer farmhouse or village we came near. Besides, the news of this intended attack on the convoy must have been known far and wide. Occasionally a shot was fired, but as I was riding at a gallop, and the Boers were doing the same, I had no great fear of being hit. I gained a little at first, but after two hours' riding they were about the same distance behind as when they had first started on the chase.

"I felt that my horse was beginning to fag a bit, but the sun was setting, for the attack had taken place in the afternoon. I kept on till it was too dark for me to make out my pursuers, some of whom were not more than three hundred yards behind me; then, while my horse was going at full gallop I leapt of? without checking him, a trick that most hunters can do. I chose the spot because I could make out that there was some low scrub close to the road. Stooping among this I ran forward. I was glad to hear that my horse was still galloping at the top of his speed, and, deprived of my weight, would probably get a good bit farther before he was taken, if he did but keep on. This I hoped he would do, for he had evidently entered into the spirit of the chase, and had laid back his ears whenever the Boers raised their voices in a yell or a rifle was fired. They were yelling pretty hard when they passed me, urging their horses on in the belief that the chase was almost at an end. I heard no more of the Boers that time, for as soon as they had gone on I ran at the top of my speed for some distance, and then broke into a trot, and by the morning must have been thirty miles away.

"I decided to make for Standerton, for there I felt sure I should be safe, for at that place was a considerable English population, and they would certainly hold out. I had a Colt's rifle with me and a brace of revolvers, for even when I went down to Leydenburg I heard that several Englishmen had been maltreated, and one or two shot by Boers they met. I tramped for four days, and as the attack on our troops had been made on the 20th of December, it was now Christmas-eve. I had not ventured to go near a Boer farm, for fortunately I had shot a springbok, and was therefore under no trouble as to food; but on the previous day I had not come across water, and the heat was terrible, so I felt that whatever came of it I must go and ask for a drink. I saw a farmhouse about nine in the morning and made for it. As I approached, a woman came out of the door and, seeing me, re-entered, and two Boers with their guns in their hands ran out.

"Who are you?" they shouted. Of course I speak Dutch as well as English, and shouted back that I only wanted some water.

"'Are you an Englishman?' they shouted again.

"'Yes, I am,' I said; 'but what difference does that make?' I saw their guns go up to their shoulders, and flung myself down, and their shots went over my head. It was my turn now, and I fired twice, and the two Boers rolled over. I walked forward now ready to fire on an instant, as there might be more of them. Some women ran out but no man, and I went straight up. They were screaming over the bodies of the men, and heaped curses on me as I came up. I slung my rifle behind me, and taking out my pistols I said, 'Your men brought it on themselves. I only asked for water, and they fired at me. I don't want to hurt any of you, but if you attack me I must protect myself.' Several times I thought they would have done so, but the sight of my pistols cowed them, I walked straight into the house, dipped a pannikin into a pail of water, took a long drink, then I filled my water-bottle, and went out. Though they cursed me again, they did not attempt to stop me, as I rather feared they would; but I understood it when, before I had gone fifty yards, I heard a horse's hoofs, and looking round saw a girl riding at full speed across the veldt. She had no doubt gone to fetch the men who were away or to the next farm to summon assistance. The draught of water had done me a world of good, and I soon broke into a run, though I did not conceal from myself that I was in a bad fix. Once out of sight of the farm I changed my course, and did so several times in the course of the next two hours; then, on getting to the crest of high ground, I saw a river half a mile away. This, I felt sure, was Broot Spruit. Before starting to walk down I looked round, and a little over a mile away could see a party of some fifteen Boers. I ran at full speed down the slope, and could see no other place where I could make a fight of it; but many of the rivers have, like those here, steep banks, and I could at least sell my life dearly. It could only be for a time, for some of the Boers would cross the spruit and take me in rear. Still, there was nothing else to be done.

"When I reached the bank I gave a shout of satisfaction. The river was in flood; there must have been rain up in the hills, and you know how quickly the streams rise. Unless the Boers knew of some very shallow place, there would be no crossing it; for it was running like a mill-stream, and except at some waggon drift the banks were almost perpendicular. At any rate I could not hope to swim half across before the Boers came up, and so I must fight it out where I was. I had scarcely found a point where I could get a comfortable foothold on the bank, with my head just above the level, when the Boers appeared on the top of the hill. They stopped for a minute and then broke up, and scattering rode forward. They felt sure that I must have made for the river, as there was no other place where I could be concealed. When they came within a couple of hundred yards of it they dismounted, and three or four came forward on foot. When the nearest was within a hundred yards of me I fired.

"At so short a distance, and with so good a rest, I could not miss, and before the smoke cleared away I winged another, and the rest ran back hastily. I sent a shot or two among them as they were consulting, with the result that they rode off three or four hundred yards farther back. They did not attempt to return my fire, for, except when I raised my head for a moment, they could see nothing of me. They doubtless learned from the women that I had a Colt's rifle and a brace of revolvers, and that if they were to make a rush across the open not many of them were likely to reach me. After a talk two or three of them mounted their horses and rode so as to strike the river both above and below me, intending no doubt to cross if they found a place where there was a chance of doing so. I felt pretty sure that they would do nothing till it was dark, then they would crawl up and make a rush; I was certain, anyhow, that they would not give it up, as there were two of their number lying on the veldt besides the two at the farmhouse. There was, however, more pluck in them than I had given them credit for, for about mid-day they began to advance, crawling along the ground as if stalking a quarry. The men who had gone out on horseback had all returned, but just as the others started crawling up three of them galloped away down stream. I determined at once to shift my position a bit, so as to put off the evil hour. I pulled a stone as big as my head out of the clay of the bank and put it on the edge where my head had been, and then got down into the water. It was waist-deep at a couple of feet from the bank, which above was too steep to walk along. I had gone a hundred yards when I saw, seven or eight inches above the water-level, a hole, and pushing my arm in I found it was a place where a good bit of the bank had caved in. Laying my gun and pistols down on a ledge I felt about farther. At the top it went in nearly three feet, and was higher at the back than it was at the water's edge. At any rate it afforded a good chance of safety. Holding the revolvers, the chamber of the rifle, and my ammunition above water, I stooped until I could get into the hole, which was but just wide enough for the purpose; then I pushed myself back to the end. I found there was just height enough for me to sit with my mouth above water. The back sloped so that I had to dig my heels into the clay to prevent myself from slipping forward.

"It was not a comfortable position, but that was a secondary consideration. I had noticed as I came along that the river was already falling, so that I had no fear of being drowned as long as I kept my position. With some trouble I fastened my pistols and ammunition on the brim of my hat; the rifle I was holding between my knees. There I sat hour after hour. Fortunately, being pretty near midsummer day, the water was not cold. I had at least the consolation of knowing what a state of fury the Boers must be in. They would have seen by my footsteps where I had entered the river, just below where I had been standing. No doubt they would have gone along the top of the bank to see if I had come out of the water again, and when they reached their friends on horseback and heard that I had not swum down the river, they would have concluded that I must have been drowned. Had I managed to cross, they would have seen me climb the opposite bank.

"In an hour the water had fallen to my shoulders, and when it became dark it was but waist-deep where I was sitting. To make a long story short, by midnight the water was below my feet and still falling rapidly. I waited a couple of hours and then started to cross. It was about fifty yards wide, and I was fully half-way over before it reached my chin. The stream had lost much of its force, and I had no difficulty in swimming across the rest of the way, though the water was deep until I was within a couple of yards of the bank. Then I climbed the bank and made off. I saw nothing more of my pursuers, and three days later I arrived at Standerton, and remained there til the end of the war, for the gallant little town repulsed all attempts of the Boers to capture it."

"That was a narrow escape indeed, Richards," Captain Brookfield said. "If you hadn't had your wits about you the Boers would certainly have got you. It was a first-rate hiding-place, but I don't think many of us would have thought of adopting it. Now, will someone else give us a yarn?"

Two or three more stories were told, and then the party broke up, feeling all the better for having for an hour avoided the standing topic. Two days later all were settled at Chieveley again, and it was generally believed that the next attack would take place very shortly, and that it would probably be directed against Colenso. That evening a farmer came into camp. His horse had dropped dead a mile away. He stopped, as he passed through the tents of the scouts, and asked where he could find the general. Captain Brookfield, who heard the question, stepped out from his tent with Chris, to whom he had been talking.

"Why, Searle, is it you? I thought the voice was familiar to me. What is it?"

"I have ridden in to get help. The other day a raiding party of Boers came down through Inadi, and riding in between Dingley Dell and Botha's Castle -- you know the hill -- swept off a quantity of cattle. They have not penetrated so far before, and no one about thought that there was any danger while you were attacking them up here. One of the farmers rode to Greytown for help. Most of the young men there had joined one or other of the colonial troops, but fifteen of us said that we could go out. It seemed that there were not more than some fifteen or twenty Boers. Well, I can't tell you all about it, for, as it is a matter of life and death, I have not a moment to lose. However, we came up to them north of Botha's Castle. We had a sharp fight. Two of our men were killed and five of the Boers; the rest rode off. We set to work to bunch all the cattle, and as we were at it we were attacked suddenly by a party sixty or seventy strong. The fellows that we had driven off had evidently come across them and brought them down upon us. We made a running fight, but our horses were not so fresh as theirs; and seeing that they had the speed of us we made for an empty farmhouse, and as they rode up we brought down several of them.

"There was a wall round the yard, and the Boers drew off for a bit to consider. Then they dismounted and planted themselves round the house in such shelter as they could find within two or three hundred yards, and the affair began in earnest. The first day they kept up a heavy fire, to which we could make but little reply, for it was certain death to lift a head above the wall or to show one's self at a window even for a moment. We lost three men that way. During the night they tried to carry the place, but we were all at the wall; and had the best of it, as we had only to show our heads, while they were altogether exposed. There was not much firing next day, and it was evident that they meant to starve us out. There was not a scrap of food to be found in the place; but fortunately there was a small thatched kraal inside the yard which gave some forage for the horses. The next day we killed one of them for food.

"That night we agreed that when the Boers saw that we did not surrender in a day or two they would be sure that we must be eating the horses, as any food we brought with us must be exhausted, and they would then make a determined attack; for we knew we had killed eight or ten of them, and that they would not go away. So we decided that the only hope was for one of us to ride here; we tossed up who should try to get through the Boers, and the lot fell upon me. I took the best of the horses. We had agreed from the first that this would have to be done, and had given what scraps of bread we could spare to it; besides which, they were all in fair condition, as the yard was strewn with rubbish, and some party of Boers had ripped up all the beds and straw mattresses and scattered the contents about.

"Some of them were sure to be on watch, and I rode at a walk. I made for the north, as that side was less likely to be watched. I had gone about two hundred yards when a man jumped up just in front of me. My rifle was ready, and before he could lift his I shot him, and then clapped spurs to nay horse. There was a tremendous hubbub; shots were fired at random in all directions, but I doubt whether they could have seen me after I had gone fifty yards. I rode for a quarter of a mile due north, and then turned west. I had no fear of being overtaken, for although the Boers would all have their horses close, in readiness to mount if we should try to break out, I must have got a good quarter of a mile start, and they were not likely to keep up the chase long, as they could not tell which way I might have doubled, and if they pursued far, it would be in the direction of Greytown. It was about a seventy-mile ride, and as I started about twelve, I have done it in nine hours. I foundered the horse, but fortunately he did not drop till I was within half a mile of the camp. Now, where can I find the general?"

"You will find him at Frere, but I am afraid it will be of no use. We have tried him again and again -- at least, one or other of us have done so -- to let us go out scouting, but he will not hear of it, though the whole of us Colonials are terribly sore at leaving the whole country at the mercy of the Boer marauders; and now that we shall probably be at work here again directly, he is less likely than ever to let anyone go."

"You can't go without orders, I suppose?"

Captain Brookfield shook his head. "We are just as much under orders as the regular troops are, and it would be a serious matter indeed to fly in the face of his repeated orders on this subject." The farmer made a gesture of despair.

"Captain Brookfield," Chris said, speaking for the first time, "I think that by the terms of our enlistment in your corps we were to be allowed to take our discharge whenever we asked for it?"

"That was so, Chris, but -- "

"Then I beg now, sir, to tender our resignation from the present moment."

"But Chris, you have but twenty men, and by what Searle says, there are sixty or seventy of them."

"Of whom ten or so have been killed. Well, sir, we have fought against nearly a hundred before now, and got the best of it; besides, we shall have the help of the little party shut up. However, now that we have resigned, that is our affair. I suppose that if we rejoin you, you will have no objection to re-enlist us?"

Captain Brookfield smiled. "I should have no objection certainly, Chris, but General Buller might have."

"I don't suppose he will know of our having been away, sir; he has plenty more serious things to think of than the numerical strength of your troop, and as the news of a skirmish some thirty miles north of Greytown is not likely to be reported in the papers, or at any rate to attract his attention, I don't think you need trouble yourself on that score. Besides, if it was reported, it could only be said that one of the besieged party escaping, returned with a small body of volunteers he had collected; and the name of the Maritzburg Scouts would not be mentioned. I am sure that Mr. Searle would impress the necessity for silence about that point, on his friends."

"Well, I accept your resignation, Chris; a headstrong man will have his way; and indeed I have great faith in your accomplishing, somehow, the relief of this party."

The farmer had listened with surprise to this discussion between the lad and Captain Brookfield. The latter now turned to him and said:

"This young gentleman is the commander of twenty lads of about his own age. They have been in two serious fights, and in both cases against a Boer force much superior to themselves in numbers, and I have as much confidence in them as in any men in my troop. They are all good shots, and admirably mounted, and you can be perfectly sure of them, and can take my assurance that if any twenty men can relieve your friends, they will do so."

"Will you be able to ride back again with us, sir? I can mount you."

"Certainly I can, if my friend Captain Brookfield can furnish me with a meal before I start."

"That I will with much pleasure. How long will it be before you are ready, Chris?"

"Half an hour, sir. I left them all rubbing down their horses when I came in here a quarter of an hour ago, and it will take but a very short time to pack up and start."

"Very well; I dare say that Mr. Searle will be ready by that time. Breakfast shall be ready for you in ten minutes, Searle, and while you are eating it I will tell you enough of these gentlemen's doings to reassure you, for I see that you do not feel very confident that they will be able to tackle the Boers."

"After what you have said, Captain Brookfield, I can have no doubt that they will do all they can, but it seems to me that twenty men -- or twenty boys -- are no match for fifty or sixty Boers. While they were speaking, Chris had returned to his camp. The lads were all engaged in rubbing up their saddlery.

"You can knock off at once," Chris said; "I have need for you. You no longer belong to the Maritzburg Scouts."

There was a general exclamation of astonishment.

"What do you mean, Chris?"

"I mean that I have resigned in my own name and yours, and Captain Brookfield has accepted the resignation."

"Are you really in earnest, Chris?"

"Very much so; but I will not keep you in suspense. A small party of Greytown men are besieged near Botha's Castle; one of them has just ridden in for help. But you know well enough that Buller will not hear of detached parties going out all over the country; and Captain Brookfield told the farmer that it was of no use his going to the general, and that none of the Colonial troops could leave the camp without orders. As it was evident that there was nothing more to be done, and we could not leave the man's friends to be massacred, the only thing to do was to give in our resignation at once; and of course, now that it is done and accepted, we are at liberty to mount and ride off where we please. When we have done our work we will come back and reenlist, and no one will be any the wiser. We shall start in half an hour. We need not take the tent poles, or anything but a blanket and a waterproof sheet."

There was lively satisfaction at the news that they were again going to be employed in what they considered their proper work.

"What shall we do about the men and stores?" Willesden asked; "you know that those two big boxes of the things we ordered at Maritzburg arrived yesterday."

"I think, Willesden, we will take Jack and the two Zulus, and leave Japhet and the Swazis here in charge of the stores, and blankets, and other things we leave behind us. Captain Brookfield will keep an eye on them for us. The farmer is going to ride back with us on one of the spare horses, and the three natives can ride the others. There is a hundredweight of biscuits in the sack that came with the boxes; each of us can take five pounds in his saddle-bag, a tin of cocoa and milk, and a pound or two of bacon. Jack can take a kettle and frying-pan, and the natives their blankets and twenty pounds of mealie flour for themselves and five times as much mealies for the horses. We can get them at the stores that were opened a few days ago."

Some of the men from the other tents walked over on seeing the tents pulled down and the waterproof sheets and blankets rolled up, and asked: "Where are you fellows off to?"

"We have resigned; we are sick of doing nothing."

As it was known that they drew neither pay nor rations, the news did not create much surprise.

"You are lucky fellows," one said. "We get no share of the fighting and a full share of the hardships; still, I wonder you do not stop till we are in Ladysmith."

"When is that going to be?" Field asked innocently. "We have been told that we shall be in Ladysmith in a week many times since we first came up here in the middle of December, and we are no nearer now than when we arrived here. Do you think that you could guarantee that we should be there in another week? because, if so, we might put off going."

The trooper shook his head with a laugh. "That is a question no man in camp can answer," he said. "Perhaps in a week, perhaps in a fortnight, perhaps," he added more gravely, "never. We know by the messages they flash out that they are nearly at the end of their food, and if we don't get there in a fortnight or thereabout, our motive for going on may be at an end. In that case I suppose we shall wait here till Roberts has relieved Kimberley and marches on Bloemfontein. That will send all the Free Staters scurrying back in a hurry, and even the Transvaalers will begin to think that it is time to go. Then I suppose we shall advance and clear Natal out."

"Well, perhaps we may be back again to help you by that time," Field answered; "but we are heartily tired of this place, and of watching the Boers making their positions stronger and stronger every day."

"It is about the same with us all," the trooper grumbled, "and I for one wish that I could go down with you to Maritzburg and have a week off. It would be such a comfort to sleep in a dry bed and to dress in dry clothes, that I doubt whether I should ever have the strength of mind to come back again. I wish that the general would issue an order dismounting us all and filling up the gaps in the line regiments with us. Then at least we should have a chance of fighting, which does not seem likely ever to come to us here. You are not going to leave those big boxes behind you, are you?"

"Yes, we are going to leave them in the care of the captain, with a note saying that if we do not turn up again before Ladysmith is relieved, they are to be handed over to the poor beggars there."

"There is one thing I cannot say, and that is that we have been short of food, for the Army Service Corps has done splendidly, and no one has ever been hungry for an hour, except when on a long march or engaged in a battle. If everything had been worked as well, we should certainly have no reason whatever to complain. If I were my own master, and could afford it, I would go down to Durban and take a passage for myself and my horse for Port Elizabeth, and then go up and enlist in one of the yeomanry corps with Roberts. When he once starts there will be plenty of movement on that side; while here, even if we get to Ladysmith, we may be fixed there for no one can say how long. You see what it is here, and if the Boers don't lose heart, and defend the Biggarsberg and the Drakensberg, we shall find at least as much difficulty there as we shall here. It is quite certain that the Ladysmith men will take a long time to recover from what they have gone through; and as for the cavalry, I fancy their horses have been eaten. If they had been out here with us, instead of being cooped up in there, we should have been able to make it hot for the Boers when they retire, and to keep them on the run, but with so small a force as we have we should hardly be able to do so. Besides, they have so many lines of retreat. The Free Staters can go over to the left to Van Reenen and the other passes; another commando can go east; there are plenty of fords on the Buffalo; and they would retire on Vryheid, while the main body could make a stand at the Biggarsberg; and as they always seem able to carry their cannon off with them, our cavalry would do nothing without artillery and infantry."

There had been no pause in the work of preparation while they were talking, and the horses were now saddled, the food divided, the saddle-bags packed, and the blankets and waterproofs strapped on. Chris went across to Captain Brookfield's tent. "We are all ready for a start, sir."

The officer looked at his watch. "It is three minutes under the half-hour, Chris. How much ammunition are you taking with you?"

"A hundred and fifty rounds each, sir, of which I don't suppose we shall use above ten at the outside. Still, there is never any saying; and if we should get besieged we shall want it all. Your horse is ready for you, Mr. Searle."

"And I am ready too," the farmer said, getting up from the table and stretching himself. "I ought not to have sat down. I could ride as far as most at twenty, but I have not done so much for the last fifteen years, and I feel stiff in every limb. However, I shall be all right when I have gone a few miles, and that wash I had before breakfast has done me a world of good. Now, sir, I am ready, and whether we shall succeed or not, I thank you with all my heart for coming with me." "Good-bye, Chris!" Captain Brookfield said. "I expect you will all turn up again, like bad pennies, before many days have gone."

"I hope so, sir," Chris said. "I should be sorry to miss the end here after having seen it so far."



Chapter XVII

A Rescue.


When Chris went out with Captain Brookfield and the farmer, the lads had shaken hands with all their friends, and were standing by the side of their horses ready to mount. Jack and the two Zulus were standing a few yards behind them. Japhet had brought up the other spare horse.

"It is a nice piece of horse-flesh," the farmer said as he looked at it critically.

"Yes, it was bred by Duncan. We purchased pretty well the pick of those he brought down the country."

"That accounts for it. They are in good condition, too."

"Yes; our horses all get two feeds of mealies a day, or, when it is wet, one feed of mealies and a hot mash made of mealie flour, besides what they can pick up, for we don't draw horse rations. Now, sir, we will be off;" and he gave the word "Mount!"

The lads all in a second swung into their saddles.

"Good-bye, lads, and good luck!" Captain Brookfield said; and the men standing by broke into a hearty cheer.

There was a strong suspicion that the party were not going down to Maritzburg. It was felt that they were not the sort to throw it up before Ladysmith was relieved. And their suspicions were heightened when they saw the farmer mount and ride by the side of Chris.

"It is all gammon about their resigning, is it not, Brookfield?" one of the officers said, as they stood looking after them. "Why should they have left two of their men here with some of their traps and stores if they had not been coming back? They would naturally give them all away. Besides, I noticed that farmer come in on foot half an hour ago; there was no talk of their leaving before he arrived, and he has gone off with them on one of their horses."

Captain Brookfield smiled.

"All I know about it officially is that this morning Mr. King resigned in the name of himself and his party; and as you know, I told you when they first joined us, they did so on the explicit understanding that they should be allowed to resign when they chose, and that provision was inserted when they were sworn in."

"That is all you know officially?"

"Yes. If they are missed, and the question is asked me what has become of them, that is the answer I shall give. What else I know I must for the present keep to myself."

"I suppose we shall see them back soon?"

"Well, I consider that that is within the limits of possibility."

"I suppose that you have formed no plan yet, Mr. King?" the farmer said, when they had left the camp.

"No; my present idea is to follow the line half-way down to Frere. If we were to strike off towards the country at once, we should, of course, be noticed; so I would rather get three miles on. You say it is about seventy miles?"

"About that."

"Well, allowing for a halt, we can do it in twelve hours; that would be just as it is getting dark. Of course we shall not show ourselves till they begin to attack the house. I hope we shall find your friends still holding out."

"I hope so indeed. You see, the Boers were quiet when I started, and I should hardly think that they would make an attack again after I left. They seemed to have settled down to starve us out; but it is quite possible that now I have got away they will grow nervous lest I should bring help up, and are very likely to make another attempt this evening. They would be pretty sure to succeed this time, for there are only seven of us left there; and though they could make a good fight in daylight, they would have no real chance if the Boers went at them in earnest, which they are sure to do next time. We agreed before I started that it would not do to try to defend the yard. After I left they were going to pile everything movable against the doors and windows and fight hard to keep the Boers out, and would then go upstairs and sell their lives dearly."

"How far are the Boer horses out?"

"About five hundred yards away, in a dip. We know they always keep three or four men on guard there, for we have seen them come out of the hollow sometimes."

"And the cattle, have they driven them off yet?"

"Yes; four of the Boers and twenty or thirty natives went straight on with them as soon as they had driven us into the farmhouse. I am afraid there is no use thinking of getting them back."

"It depends upon how far they have gone," Chris said. "The rains have brought the grass up, and as likely as not they may halt when they get to some good pastures and wait till the others join them. It is not likely that all that gang came from one place."

"I expect that they have been gathered up from lonely farmhouses where they have escaped the commandos, and they will want to divide their plunder between them; they don't trust each other a bit, and each would cheat his fellows of his share if he could. So I should think that what you suggest is likely enough, and that it has been arranged to wait when they come to a good place till the others arrive. But you are not thinking of rescuing them, are you?"

"If we thrash the Boers at the farm I shall certainly have a try. We did carry off two or three thousand head about two months ago from the hands of at least as large a party as this, and I don't see why we should not do it again. It was near Mount Umhlumba."

"Was it your party that did that?" the farmer exclaimed. "Why, it was the talk of the whole district, and some of the cattle belonged to a friend of mine. He told me how he had been saved from ruin. Well, sir, after that I shall feel more confident than I acknowledge I have been up to now. Captain Brookfield told me about your going into the Boer camp in disguise, and to Komati-poort, and how you surprised a party of Boers looting a farm near Dundee; but he did not mention that. In fact, he had only just finished telling me the other affairs when you came in saying that you were ready to start. Well, well, it is wonderful that a party of young gentlemen like yours should have done such things!"

They did not hurry their horses, but for the most part went at the steady canter to which the animals were most accustomed; occasionally they would walk for a bit.

At Weenan, where they crossed the Bushman river, they halted for half an hour, and for double that time after crossing the Mooi at Intembeni; then as the sun began to lose its power they went fast, until, when they reached one of the farthest spurs of Botha's Castle, the farmer said:

"When we get over the next rise we shall see the house."

Chris gave the order to dismount, and, going forward on foot, they threw themselves down when close to the crest, and crawled forward until they obtained a fair view. Sankey and Chris were again provided with glasses, having bought them on the day before starting at the sale of the effects of several officers who had fallen in a fight at Vaal Krantz, and all gazed intently for some time at the house. "Thank God they are all right so far!" Chris said to the farmer. "I can see the Boers lying all round the house, and that dark clump is their horses; so our ride has not been in vain. I suppose it is about a mile and a half from here. I don't see the gate into the yard. Which side is it?"

"That corner of the house hides it. It is on the eastern side."

"It will be quite dark in an hour; when it is so, we will move down a bit farther, then we will halt till we hear them attacking. We must not go nearer, for the moon will be up by that time. If I had known that we should have got here before dark, we need not have troubled to bring the Zulus. I intended to send them forward to see how matters stood, then they could have guided us right up to the gate. However, as they have all got guns, and can shoot, it will add to the panic our attack will create, and they will all be pleased at the chance of at last getting a shot at the Boers. They were complaining to me the other day that they were very happy in all other respects, but they were very much disappointed at not having had a fight."

The natives were indeed delighted when, on Chris rejoining them, he told them that they should take their share in the attack on the Boers. Chris and his friends all threw themselves on the ground, after sending up Jack to the crest to keep watch. But the farmer said, "I dare not lie down; if I did, I should never get up again."

He had, indeed, to be lifted off his horse when they dismounted.

"I can quite understand that," Chris said. "I feel stiff and tired myself, and you must be almost made of iron to have ridden one hundred and forty miles almost without halting."

"If anyone had told me that I could do it, I should not have believed him. Of course one is on horseback a good many hours a day. Often, after going round the farm, I start at two or three o'clock and ride into Greytown and back; but that is only a matter of some fifteen miles each way. Still, when one has got seven men's lives depending upon one, one makes a big effort."

"I tell you what, Mr. Searle. The best thing you can do is to strip and lie down. I will set the two Zulus to knead you. You will find yourself quite a new man after it."

"That is a good idea, King, and I will adopt it."

For half an hour the two men rubbed and kneaded the farmer's muscles from head to foot, exerting themselves until the perspiration streamed from them. Then one of them brought up one of the water-skins and poured the contents over him.

"That has certainly done me a world of good," the farmer said when he had dressed himself. "I don't say the stiffness has all gone, but I certainly don't feel any worse than I did when I got to your camp. I should never have thought of it myself."

"It is what is done after a Turkish bath," Chris said. "I have had them often at Johannesburg. The natives do something of the same sort. They make a little hut of boughs, and fill a hole in the middle with hot stones and pour water over them, and steam themselves, and I believe get rubbed too."

As soon as they considered it dark enough to be perfectly safe, they led their horses down until they judged that they were within half a mile of the house, then dismounted and waited. Chris had already made all arrangements. Carmichael, who was the leader for the time being of one of the sections of five, was with his party to ride straight for the Boers' horses directly the attack began. The firing at the house would act as a guide to the spot where they were placed, and he was, if possible, to attack them from behind. He was to shoot down the guards, but not to pursue them if the horses bolted on hearing the attack on the house.

"What you have to do is to stampede them," Chris said. "As soon as you have got them on the run, keep them going, and if they scatter, do you scatter too. The Boers without their horses will be at our mercy. Don't stop till you have driven them five miles away. Then you can halt till morning. As you come back, you are likely enough to hear firing, and can then ride towards it and join us. But don't get within rifle-shot of the Boers. I don't want any lives thrown away. If you hear three shots at regular intervals during the night ride towards the sound. I may want you here."

It was just ten o'clock when there was a violent outburst of fire at the farmhouse, and all sprung into their saddles.

"Now, Carmichael, do you gallop on. Get as close as you can to the horses without being observed. Go at a walk the last hundred yards or so; the horse guards are not likely to hear you, they are sure to be up on the edge of the dip watching the farm. Stay quiet till you hear our yell, and then go straight in to them. In that case you may manage without their getting a shot at you, for as likely as not they will have strolled up without their rifles."

As soon as Carmichael's little party had started, Chris moved on with the rest at a walk.

"There is no occasion to hurry," he said. "It will take the Boers some time to force their way in, and the hotter they are at work the less likely they will be to hear us." In two or three minutes he ordered them to canter. "It is of no use charging; I expect that they are all inside the yard." It was, however, at a fast pace that they rode up towards the wall. Chris blew his whistle, and the cheer of the whites and the warcry of the two Zulus burst out at the top of their voices.

"Give it to them hot, lads!" Chris shouted, for the benefit of the Boers. "Kill every man-jack of the scoundrels!" And at once nineteen rifles opened upon the dark figures clustered round the house. "Use your magazines," Chris shouted again. "Don't let a man of them get off."

Appalled by the sudden attack, ignorant of the number of their assailants, and mown down by the terrible fire, the Boers on the two sides of the house exposed to it did not think of resistance, but all who could do so made a rush round to the other sides, and, joining their companions there, clambered over the wall and made for their horses; but these had already gone. As Chris had anticipated, the four guards were watching the farmhouse, and did not hear the approach of Carmichael's party. As Chris's whistle sounded these galloped forward, and at their volley three of the Boers fell, the other fled. At once with loud shouts they charged in among the ponies, who were already kicking and plunging at the sudden sound of firearms. A minute later they were all in full flight, followed by the five lads shouting and yelling. The firing had been unnoticed by the Boers round the house, and these, when on arriving at the hollow they found their horses gone, gave vent to their alarm and rage in many strange oaths, and then scattered in flight all over the country.

"It is of no use trying to pursue," Chris said, as soon as it was found that all the Boers, save those lying dying or dead, had escaped from the yard. "We should only ruin the horses, and they have done a big day's work already."

The besieged could be heard hastily removing the barricades against the door, and in two or three minutes ran out, almost bewildered at the suddenness of their relief, when they thought that nothing remained to be done but to sell their lives dearly. A few hurried words explained the position to them, and their gratitude to Chris and his party was unbounded. Their first step was to attend to the fallen Boers. Of these there were eighteen wounded and eleven killed, and as soon as all in their power had been done for the former, and they had been carried into the house, a blazing fire was lit in one of the rooms and the party all gathered there.

"Now, Mr. King," Searle said, "you are the baas of this party; what do you think had best be done?"

"I think the first thing," Chris said, "is to post half a dozen men, three or four hundred yards away, round the house. We must not run the risk of the tables being turned on us by the Boers crawling up and surprising us; they may still be hanging about in numbers. Peters, you take Harris, Bryan, and Capper, and the two Zulus, and post them round the house. The natives' ears are much sharper than yours are, and if either of them thinks he hears anything let them crawl out in that direction and reconnoitre. When I whistle, do you come in to me, leaving the others on guard, then I will tell you what we have decided upon."

The four named at once went outside, and, calling the natives, left the yard. Jack had already filled the kettles the colonists had brought with them, and placed them over the fire.

"While the tea is getting ready," Chris said, "we had better give a good feed of mealies to all the horses. How many of yours are there left?" he asked one of the colonists.

"All the twelve we had at first were unwounded this evening, but I can't say whether any of them have been hit since. The wall was too high for bullets to touch them as long as the Boers were outside, but most likely as we were firing through the window we may have hit some of them."

"I don't suppose you did so, because I fancy that directly the Boers began fighting here the horses bunched in one corner of the yard. Well, will you feed them also, and see how many are uninjured. That is a matter of importance, for our horses will scarcely be fit for work in the morning. Do you think yours may be?"

"Yes, I think so; we have only been shut up three days, and they have had a good deal of pickings, what with the beds and what was lying about in the yard before; and a good feed now will certainly set them up. What do you propose to do?"

"Well, I want in the first place to get enough of the Boer ponies in to mount us all, and in the second to overtake and cut the Boers off if possible, and lastly to rescue the cattle. Five of our party are away after the horses, but their object was to scatter them. They were to halt about five miles away, and if they heard three rifle shots at regular intervals they were to ride towards them."

"Do you want them in here? if so, I will go out and give the signal. We have taken it by turns to sleep, so we are all fairly fresh."

"Yes, I want them in, but I specially want them to collect and drive in a score of the Boer ponies."

"At daybreak we will all go," another of the farmers said, "and lend a hand."

"With this moon we ought to be able to find some of the men without waiting for daylight," Chris said. "It would be an immense thing if we could be after them before they have got too long a start."

"It would indeed. Well, we will feed our horses at once, and by the time we have had a cup of tea they will be ready to start. If we have luck, we ought not to be away more than a couple of hours."

"It would make our success pretty well a certainty if we could get the ponies by that time," Chris said.

In less than half an hour the seven farmers started. Only one of the horses had been killed, and they rode away at a rate that showed that the others were none the worse for their three days on somewhat short rations.

"Now," Chris said, after seeing them off, "we will get a couple of hours' sleep. I wish Peters and his party could do the same, but it would not do to trust to the Boers not coming back again."

All were asleep in a few minutes, but an hour later they heard a shot fired, followed by several others. They leapt to their feet, seized their rifles, and ran out into the yard. There was, however, no repetition of the firing, and a few minutes later Peters came in and reported that the Zulus had discovered a number of Boers making their way cautiously forward. Both had fired, and some shots had been returned, but the Boers had at once drawn off.

"I don't suppose we shall hear any more of them. They hoped they might catch us asleep. Now they find that we are on watch. I expect they will give up the idea and make off. It is a nuisance having been disturbed, but I am not sorry for it, for the Boers will have lost a couple of hours, and even if the horses do not come in we shall still have a chance of overtaking them. Now, Peters, you had better get forty winks; I will go out with Brown, Field, and Sankey, and relieve the three out there. I don't suppose they will come in, but they can take a nap where they are. You need not send out when the farmers come back; we shall see them."

Chris had been nearly two hours on watch when he made out in the bright moonlight a number of horses and mounted figures going towards the house. He at once woke the sleepers and called the others in, and by the time they reached the farm some thirty unmounted ponies, followed by Carmichael's party and the farmers, came up.

"We have been longer than we expected," one of the latter said as he dismounted, "but we were lucky at last in finding this lot together in a kloof. Have you seen anything of the Boers? We thought we heard a few shots."

"Yes, they came here and tried to turn the tables on us; but we had the Zulus and some of the scouts out. When they found that we were watchful they decamped. Now, Carmichael, go in with your party and get a cup of tea."

"What! are we going to start again?" Carmichael asked rather dismally; "we were only just getting off to sleep when Willesden, who was on watch, heard three shots."

"Some of us have only had an hour's sleep, Carmichael. But there is another day's work before us, and after that you may sleep for twenty-four hours if you like."

"Oh! I suppose I can do it if the others can; still, after seventy-five miles here, five miles out, and something like five miles chasing the horses, and five miles back again, I think we have done a pretty good day's work."

"No doubt you have," Chris said, "a thundering good day's work; but a fellow is not worth calling a fellow if he can't manage to do two days' work at a stretch for once in a way. At any rate, the horses will be fresh, which is of much more importance than our being so; they have had three days' perfect rest. Now, while you are having your tea we will see about the other arrangements. Of course Mr. Searle will stop here; he has done double the work that we have. His friends can do as they like. Naturally we shall be glad to have them with us, but that is as they choose."

"Of course we will go with you," one of the colonists said.

"Thank you! At any rate two of you had better stop with Mr. Searle. There are the wounded Boers to look after. I see there is a waggon in the yard; I should think they had better be put in that and carried to Greytown. If we recover the cattle, we will drive them down there."

None of the farmers was willing to stay, and at last they had to decide the question by lot.

"Now," Chris said, "you gentlemen know the country a great deal better than we do, and can tell us which way they are most likely to take their cattle."

"They are sure to go north, there is no other way for them to go. If the whole party were together and mounted, they might go up through Zululand; as it is, they would not venture to do that. They will cross the Tugela, I should say, between the point where the Mooi runs into it and its junction with the Buffalo, and go up through Colsie, and then either through Helpmakaar or Lazarath."

"Well, I hope we shall catch them long before they get to the Tugela."

"I expect the cattle will be somewhere near Inadi; there is some good grazing along there, and as all the loyalists have cleared off long ago they will have no fear of being disturbed."

The saddles were transferred from their own horses to the Boer ponies, and it was finally arranged that the waggon with the wounded should not start until their return. Jack and the two Zulus were left with them, and even should another party of Boers come along the six men would be able to defend themselves till the others returned. Half an hour after the arrival of Carmichael's party they started in pursuit, and directed their course for Inadi, as it would have been useless to search for the Boers, and it was certain that these would make for the point where it had been arranged that the cattle should cross. It was some fifteen miles away, and they were confident that they would arrive there before the Boers, who, bad walkers at the best of times, and disheartened by their failure, at the loss of many of their companions and of all their horses, would not have got more than half-way by the time they started.

It was half-past two when they left, and when they approached Inadi day was breaking. They had put on their Boer hats, and knew that the men in charge of the herd would take them to be some of their own party until they were quite close. To their satisfaction they saw the herd grazing half a mile south of the village, and it was not until they were within a hundred yards of the spot where the smoke of a fire showed that the guard were posted, that they saw any movement. Then a man rose to his feet, and, looking at them earnestly, gave a shout of alarm. The others leapt up at once and ran towards their ponies; these were fifty yards away, and before they could reach them Chris and his party dashed up, rifle in hand. "Surrender," he shouted in Dutch, "or we fire! Down with your rifles!"

Seeing that resistance was useless the Boers threw down their weapons, and in a minute were tied hand and foot with the ropes from their saddles. They were then lashed to bushes at some little distance from each other, so as to prevent their rolling together and loosening each other's cords. The natives with them had at the first alarm fled at full speed, and were already out of sight. Then the whole party rode to a ridge a quarter of a mile back, dismounted at its foot, and crawled up to the crest. A mile away some fifty men could be seen wearily making their way on foot towards them.

"We have done quite enough in the way of fighting," Chris said, "and I should think that they have had more than enough; we will get them to surrender if we can. We will wait till they are within forty or fifty yards and then fire a few shots over their heads, and see what comes of it. We have good cover here, and they are in the open. They will know very well that there is not a chance of their getting away, for, as we have horses and they have none, we could defend any eminence we chose to occupy, and ride off to another if they were likely to take it. Besides, they would never be able to cross the river under our fire."

When the Boers were within eighty yards half a dozen rifles were discharged. They at once threw themselves on the ground.

"I will give them a chance of talking it over," Chris said, "then I will hail them."

A pause ensued, and the Boers could be heard talking excitedly together. When he thought that he had given them time enough to appreciate their condition, Chris shouted in Dutch:

"Hullo, Boers! We don't want to have to kill you all, which we could certainly do. You must see that you are at our mercy. If you choose to surrender you may go home; if you don't, we shall let you lie there as long as you like, and shoot you down when you get on your feet. I will give you five minutes to make up your minds."

At the end of that time one of the Boers held up his rifle with a white flag tied to it.

"That is not good enough for us," Chris shouted. "That trick has been tried too often. If you surrender, you will take off your bandoliers and belts and leave them and your rifles behind you, and come forward unarmed."

There was a shout of fury among the Boers as they found that their treacherous design had failed in success.

"I will give you another five minutes," Chris shouted; "and if you don't do as I tell you we shall open fire on you."

Before that time was up the Boers were seen to be taking off their bandoliers, and one by one they rose and came forward in a body without their rifles. Chris allowed them to come half-way, so that they could not, when they found themselves in superior force, run back to their arms again. He gave the word, and his party rose to their feet.

"Now," he said, as the Boers came up, "you will turn all your pockets inside out. I have not the least doubt that you are all taking off mementos of your visit here."

Indeed, the pockets of the prisoners were all bulging out. Sullenly the Boers obeyed the order. The collection was a miscellaneous one. They had between them the spoil of a dozen farms. Women's finery formed a large proportion of their loot, and was evidently intended for their wives at home. Besides this were spoons, forks, and cutlery, chimney ornaments, children's clothes, several purses, and packets of spare cartridges.

"That will do very nicely," Chris said, when it had been ascertained that all the plunder had been disgorged. "Now, gentlemen, you are at liberty to go, and I wish you a pleasant walk home. It is only about a hundred miles. Your friends with the cattle shall join you at once. I have no doubt that you will be able to obtain food from your countrymen as you go along. You are sure to find friends at all the villages, and some of you may get ponies at Helpmakaar."

Then, paying no attention to the curses and threats of the Boers, the party rode forward and collected the Boer guns, emptied the bandoliers and belts, and then rode back to the cattle and released the four Boers with them, and, pointing to their comrades, told them to rejoin them. Then they collected the cattle, and, driving them before them, rode off. When they had gone five miles away they halted, and the farmers undertaking to keep watch by turns, the lads, throwing themselves down, were in a few minutes fast asleep.

In four hours they were roused, and continued their course till they reached the farm. Here they rested till the next morning, then at daybreak the wounded Boers were placed in a waggon; the ammunition was divided among the farmers; and the rifles taken from the Boers, and those that belonged to the killed and wounded, amounting in all to eighty-one, were, after the charges had been carefully drawn, also placed in the waggon, Chris saying, "They would be useless to us, and they may be useful to you, for they will arm all the people in Greytown; and with eighty magazine rifles you ought to be able to beat off any parties you may meet. As the cattle are all branded you will have no difficulty in returning them to their owners; as to the Boer ponies and saddles, no doubt there are many who have lost their horses who will be glad of them."

Then, after renewed expressions of gratitude from the farmers, the party separated, the colonists going south to Greytown, while the scouts rode west by the line they had come, and late that evening arrived at Chieveley. They had intended to halt after crossing the Bushman's river at Weenan, but they heard the sound of artillery and knew that Buller was again moving forward.

Their return created quite an excitement in the camp of the Maritzburg Scouts, and innumerable questions were asked.

"We have been on a little business of our own," Chris said. "Beyond the fact that it has been successful we have nothing to say. You know how strict the orders are against scouting, and therefore I can only say that we wanted to give our horses a change of food, and have taken them three days off."

"Your horses don't look any better for the change, anyhow," one of the troopers said. "They look as if they had been worked off their legs."

"Yes, they look a little drawn, but in a couple of days they will feel the benefit of it; they were getting too fat before. Some day we may be able to tell you more about it, but just at present we feel that it is as well to keep the matter to ourselves. What has been doing here? We heard the firing; that brought us in, or we should not have been back till to-morrow."

"Nothing particular, except that we have been battering them all along the line. No move has been made yet, but the general idea is that we shall this time make a try at Hlangwane to-morrow."

"I hope we shall take it," Chris said. "We shall have a good deal more trouble about it than we should have had at the attack in December, when it was virtually in our hands, whereas now it looks stronger than any point along the line."

Chris, however, was much more communicative to Captain Brookfield, who said as he entered his tent, "Well, Chris, did you get there in time?"

"Yes, sir; we caught them as they were attacking the house at ten o'clock that night. They were too busy to notice us, and we killed eleven and wounded eighteen, and stampeded their ponies. They bolted on foot, but came back in hopes of surprising us two hours later, which I need hardly say they failed to do. Then they made off for the place where the herds they had captured were waiting for them. We drove their ponies in, as our own were too much done up to go on, and intercepted the Boers close to Inadi, and made them surrender. We took their guns, ammunition, and loot from them, and let them go. There were forty-nine of them altogether, and we did not see what we were to do with them. We could not have brought them here without the whole thing being made public, and we were certainly not disposed to escort them down to Maritzburg. They will have at least a hundred miles to tramp home. We recovered all the cattle, about two thousand head. We gave them to the farmers to find their proper owners, and thirty of the Boer horses that we captured. I dare say they will pick up some more of them; for as we were in a hurry, we only drove in as many as we wanted. We have no casualties. It could hardly be called a fight, it was a sudden surprise, and they did not stop to count us."

"Bravo! bravo, Chris! And now I suppose you are going to enlist again?" "Yes, sir, if you will take us."

"Certainly I will. Fortunately Buller was at Frere until they moved on again yesterday, and nobody has missed your little camp as far as I know, so I don't think that there is any chance of questions being asked. I will swear you all in again if you will bring the others round."



Chapter XVIII

Railway Hill


There was little talking that evening. As soon as the tents had been erected, a cup of cocoa and a biscuit taken, all turned in, and even the constant booming of the artillery and the occasional sharp crack of musketry had no effect whatever on their slumbers. Just before Chris lay down, however, an orderly told him that Captain Brookfield wished to see him.

"I have just received orders, Chris, that our brigade of cavalry is to turn out tomorrow morning to support the infantry. Hildyard, Lyttleton, and Barton are going. Their object is to carry Cingola, which is the small peak at the end of the nek extending from it to the high peak of Monte Cristo. The duty of the mounted infantry will be to clear the eastern side of the southern end of the range, and to hold the nek separating it from the highest peak, and so prevent the Boers from their main position reinforcing the defenders of the lower peak. I think that your party had better remain in camp, for after doing over seventy miles today they won't be fit for work tomorrow."

"We should not like to be left behind here, sir, and the hill is not very far away, so that it would not be hard work for the horses. No doubt we should be dismounted a considerable part of the day."

"Then you would rather go, Chris?"

"Much rather, sir. We should all be terribly disappointed if we could not go out the first day that there has been a chance of our doing something."

"It is always as well to be on the right side, but I hardly think so many troops will really be required; and I think it is a symptom that a serious attack will be made in a day or two on Monte Cristo and Hlangwane. You see, the possession of Cingola and Monte Cristo will take us pretty well round its flank, and I do not expect the Boers will be so much prepared there as they are in front."

An hour before daylight all were out engaged in grooming their horses, which, having received a hot mash of mealie flour directly they came in on the previous evening, looked better than could have been expected after their hard work on two days out of three. By the time they had finished, the natives had breakfast ready, and they had scarcely eaten this when a trumpet sounded to horse. Five minutes later the mounted infantry belonging to the regular regiments and the Colonial Horse formed up, and, led by Lord Dundonald, marched north-east, followed by the three infantry brigades and some batteries of artillery. When within a couple of miles of the nek, the mounted infantry galloped forward, and selecting a spot where the ascent was gradual, pushed rapidly up the hill until they reached its brow. Here the horses were placed in a depression, and the men scattered themselves across the crest. They were but just in time, for a considerable force of Boers from Monte Cristo were hurrying along to assist the defenders of Cingola, it having now become evident to them that this was the point to which the infantry moving across the plain were making.

A brisk fire was opened as they approached, and the Boers at once stopped in surprise, for as they came along they had been unable to see that the cavalry had quitted the rest of the column, and had therefore no idea whatever that their way to Cingola was barred. As the rapid fire showed them that the nek was held in force, they did not think it prudent to advance farther, but after an exchange of fire fell back to Monte Cristo. The task of the infantry was now comparatively easy. Cingola was not held in any great force; and seeing that their retreat along the nek was cut off, and that they could not hope to resist the strong force that was approaching, the enemy contented themselves with keeping up a brisk fire for a time, and then retreated hastily down the northern face of the hill, and scattered among numerous kopjes between it and the river. Lyttleton and Hildyard's brigades occupied the peak, and Barton, with the Fusilier battalions, remained to the left of its base.

As the mounted infantry had, before opening fire, taken shelter behind bushes and rocks, there were only two or three casualties, and they were much disappointed that the affair had been so trifling. It was afternoon now, and for the rest of the day comparative quietude reigned, although Monte Cristo threw an occasional shell on to the crest of Cingola. The mounted infantry remained all night in their position, acting as an advanced guard to the infantry; but they had orders to descend the hill before daybreak and return to Chieveley, there being no water obtainable for their horses, and their services not being required for the succeeding operations. The next morning (Sunday) a battery of field-artillery, which had been taken half-way up Cingola, began to shell Monte Cristo, and as if this had been the signal, the whole of the artillery on the plain opened a terrific fire on the entrenchments of Monte Cristo, Hlangwane, and Green Hill, which was close to Monte Cristo.

On the morning of the 18th, Lyttleton and Hildyard's brigades moved forward to storm the precipitous peak, and Barton's brigade marched against the tangled and difficult ground that surrounded Green Hill. The Queen's on the right and the Scotch Fusiliers on the left led the attack against the peak. The hillside was partly wooded, but although the smokeless powder gave little indication as to the progress the troops were making, occasional glimpses of the Boers flitting among the trees showed that these were falling back. The roar of musketry was continuous, as Hildyard's brigade and Lyttleton's were both engaged. For a short time there was a pause, and then Lyttleton's men, having gathered at the edge of a wood some couple of hundred yards from the summit, advanced with a rush up the terribly steep rocks. The Boers fired hurriedly, but the bullets flew for the most part far over the heads of the Queen's, and then, fearful of being caught by Hildyard's men, who were also rapidly coming up, they fled hastily.

The opposition had finally been trifling. The vast majority of the Boers had cleared off, and the rest, after emptying their magazines, had followed their example before the troops gained the summit, upon which a heavy cannonade was at once opened from Grobler's Hill, Fort Wylie, and other Boer positions. This, however, gradually slackened under the storm of lyddite shells with which they were pelted by the naval guns, and the important position of Hlangwane was at last secured, and no time was lost in getting up guns and preparing for a farther advance. Barton's brigade had been equally successful in their attack, and half an hour after the capture of Monte Cristo the Fusiliers crowned the summit of the wood-covered Green Hill.

The Boers' defences were now examined, and proved to be of a most formidable nature. On the south face of the hill the trenches were in tiers, line behind line. Most of them were fully six feet deep, and in many cases provided with shelter from the weather by sheets of corrugated iron, taken from the roofs of the houses in Colenso. In some cases these were supported by props, and covered with six feet of earth. These had evidently been used for sleeping and living places. The ground was strewn with straw, empty tins, fragments of food, bones, cartridge-cases, old bandoliers, and large quantities of unopened tinned food and sacks of mealie flour. Here and there were patches of dried blood, showing where the wounded by our shell had been brought in, and laid down until they could be removed to the hospital under cover of night. On the plateau the scene was similar. Here every irregularity of ground had been utilized, and long lines of trenches intersected it, showing that the Boers had intended to make a desperate resistance even after we had won our way up the hill. These were in a similar state of litter and disorder.

Although they had saved their guns, they had left behind them large quantities of ammunition and provisions in the hurried flight, necessitated by our attack being delivered in a direction from which no danger had been apprehended, Four waggons full of ammunition had been left by them in a kloof near the river. These had been observed by the Engineers in the balloon, and their position had been signalled to the naval brigade, who, turning their guns upon them, before long succeeded in blowing them up.

When the infantry prepared for their final rush the Boers appeared, indeed, to be entirely disconcerted at an attack from an altogether unexpected direction. While for weeks they had been working incessantly to render the hill impregnable, they had prepared it only on the face against which they made sure the British infantry would dash itself. Nevertheless, in this, as in every action, the Boers, as soon as they saw that there was a risk of the position being taken, began early to make preparations for retreat. While keeping up a very heavy musketry fire on the woods through which the British infantry were advancing, they began to withdraw their guns.

The speed and skill with which on every occasion throughout the war they shifted heavy pieces of artillery from one point to another, or withdrew them altogether, was a new feature in warfare. Except when the garrison of Ladysmith, on two occasions of night sorties, surprised and destroyed three of their guns, they scarcely lost a piece either in the numerous actions during our advance to Ladysmith, or in their final retreat from that town. And similarly on the other side, of the very large number of guns employed at the fight on the Modder, at Magersfontein, and in the siege of Kimberley the whole were, with the exception of a few pieces captured when Cronje was surrounded, withdrawn in spite of the hurried evacuation of their position, a feat almost unparalleled even in an army accompanied only by field-artillery, and extraordinary indeed in the case of works mounting heavy siege-guns.

No farther advance was made till the afternoon, when General Buller arrived on the summit of Green Hill, and seeing that Hlangwane was not entrenched on its northern side, which was completely turned by our advance, sent Barton's brigade against it. But the loss of Monte Cristo had for the time quite taken the fight out of the Boers, and after maintaining a brisk fire for a short period, they evacuated the position as soon as the infantry neared the summit, and, hurrying down the western slope, crossed the Tugela. Three camps full of provisions, blankets, and the necessaries of Boer life fell into the hands of the captors, together with a large amount of rifle and Maxim ammunition. The place had been turned into a fortress. Trenches and some breastworks covered all the approaches by which the Boers might look for an attack, and as the whole mountain was covered with huge boulders, they were able to withstand even the storm of lyddite shell that was poured upon them.

On the following day Hart's brigade received orders to advance towards Colenso. This was still held in force by the Boers, but was now commanded by guns that had been got up the slopes of Hlangwane, and on Tuesday morning General Hart captured the position without serious loss, the Boers suffering severely from our shrapnel fire as they retreated, some by the iron bridge and others by a ford. Thorneycroft's Mounted Infantry, which was called up in the evening, took advantage of the discovery that a drift existed there, and a squadron forded the river in spite of a scattered fire from the Boers on the opposite bank. Another portion of the colonial force occupied Fort Wylie, a redoubt that had been thrown up by our troops when they occupied Colenso, but had been abandoned when the advance of the Boers to cut the line between Colenso and Frere forced them to retire.

The next morning Thorneycroft's regiment crossed, and, moving to the left, seized the kopjes facing Grobler's Kloof; the Boers, still suffering from the effect of their unexpected reverses, offered no resistance, but, abandoning all their camps, trenches, and redoubts, retired at once to the hill. The Scouts had followed Thorneycroft's Horse in support, and now, placing their horses under shelter in the abandoned entrenchments, prepared to act as infantry should the Boers take the offensive. This, however, they showed no intention of doing, and in the afternoon the troops who had crossed were able to examine the deserted camps. They presented very much the same appearance as those on Monte Cristo and Hlangwane. Many of them appeared to have been occupied by men of a better position, as many articles of luxury, choicer food, wearing apparel, newspapers, Bibles, fruit, and other signs of comfort littered the places; but even here dirt had reigned supreme. Although they must have been inhabited for a long time, it could be seen that no attempts had been made to clear away the refuse, or to make them in any degree tidy. As was natural, the effect of the heat of the sun on scraps of food, vegetables, and refuse of all kinds caused a sickening stench, and the soldiers spent as short a time as possible over their investigations. One article which would have been found in a British camp was altogether absent from those of the enemy, and it was a joke among our troops that the only piece of soap ever captured was found in the pocket of a dead Boer, and that its wrapper was still unopened.

The strength of the position was, however, even more surprising than the state of filth; every trench was enfiladed by another, great boulders were connected by walls of massive construction, this being specially the case where guns had been placed in position. Colenso itself had been in a similar manner rendered almost impregnable to a frontal attack, and could hardly have been captured by an assaulting force until Hlangwane had been taken.

The hills beyond the railway still covered the road bridge by their fire, and had the troops marched across it they would have suffered severely. Accordingly a pontoon train was sent through an opening in the Hlangwane range, and a bridge thrown over the Tugela north of Fort Wylie. The Dorsets, Middlesex, and Somersets crossed at once, and, ascending the kopjes, extended their line south until they were in communication with Thorneycroft's men, holding therefore the railway line along the river bank nearly half the distance between Colenso and Pieters station. Other regiments and artillery followed.

It was now six days since the advance had commenced, and for the past four fighting had been almost continuous. On Wednesday the three regiments advanced towards Grobler's Hill in order to ascertain what force was occupying it. They met with no opposition until they reached the lower slopes, nor could any Boers be seen moving. Then suddenly a heavy fire broke out from the boulders which covered the whole face of the hill, and afforded such perfect shelter that it had not been considered necessary to form entrenchments. As only a reconnaissance, and not an attack, had been ordered, the force retired, the Somersets, who were the leading regiment, having nearly a hundred casualties. The other regiments had as many more between them. The next day a continuous fire from all the points held by the Boers showed that large reinforcements had reached them. The Lancashire Brigade, under Colonel Wynne, started at two o'clock that afternoon to carry the kopjes up the Brook Spruit, which ran in the rear of Grobler's Kloof. The Royal Lancasters led the way, but as soon as they left the shelter of the ridges by the side of the railway they were exposed to a terrible fire, both in front and from Grobler's Kloof. The artillery on Hlangwane, and those still on the plain, endeavoured to silence the enemy's guns, but though they poured numbers of lyddite and shrapnel shells among them they were unable to do so. The Lancasters advanced with the greatest coolness up the spruit, followed by the South Lancasters. As they pressed forward they were met by a heavy rifle fire both from the kopjes in front and on the left. The Boers stuck to the hill until the Lancasters were within a hundred yards, then most of them slunk off. Not knowing this, the Lancasters lay under shelter for a few minutes until their ammunition pouches had been replenished, then, being joined by the South Lancasters and King's Royal Rifles, they rushed to the crest.

For the past two days the Dublin Fusiliers had been lying near Colenso. They had suffered very heavily in the first attack at Potgieter's Drift, but they now volunteered to take Grobler's Hill; and this, aided with the fire of the artillery and Colonel Wynne's brigade, they did in gallant style, the Boers being evidently nervous that they might find their retreat cut off should the Lancasters advance farther up the spruit.

On Friday afternoon the Irish Brigade advanced along the line, and then turned off towards Railway Hill, a steep jagged eminence almost triangular in shape, with one angle pointing towards the river. The sides were broken with sharp ledges covered with boulders. The railway passed through this, separating the last jagged ledge from the higher portion of the hill, which rises almost precipitously. Running back several hundred yards at the base of this line was a dip full of thorn trees. This deep winds round the rear of the hill, and here there was a large Boer Camp.

A little farther to the rear was another steep hill, on which the enemy's Creusot guns were now mounted. Several trenches were cut alongside the hillsides, and on the crest were some strong redoubts. It was a most formidable position, but as it seemed to bar all progress farther up the line, it was necessary to carry it at all costs. The mounted infantry had, after the skirmish towards Grobler's Kloof, returned to the camp, as the country was so terribly broken as to be altogether impracticable for mounted men.

On Thursday, Captain Brookfield had obtained a pass for himself and three other officers to go to Hlangwane to view the operations, but one of these being unwell, Captain Brook-field invited Chris to take his place. After inspecting the plateau, they made their way down to the left. Hearing that an attack was about to be made on Railway Hill, they clambered down until they reached a point where, seated in an open spot among the trees, they could command a view of what was passing.

"It is an awful place," Chris said, "and it seems to me almost impossible to be carried."

"It is an awful place," Captain Brookfield agreed. "This is one of the times, Chris, when one feels the advantage of belonging to a mounted corps, for without being less brave than other men, I should regard it as an order to meet certain death were I told to attack that rugged hill. Ah, there are the Irish Brigade!"

The storming party consisted of the Inniskillings, with companies of the Dublins, the Connaught Bangers, and the Imperial Light Infantry. From a building called Platelayer's House at the mouth of the spruit, to the foot of the hill, the ground was perfectly open to the point where the left face of Railway Hill rose steeply up, and across this open ground, a distance of half a mile, the assailants had to march.

"Here they come!"

As, in open order, with their rifles at the trail, the Inniskillings appeared in view, a terrible fire broke out from every ledge of Railway Hill, while the cannon joined in the roar. The guns on Hlangwane, and those on the slopes nearer the river, with Maxims and quick-firing guns, replied on our side.

"It is awful," Chris said, speaking to himself rather than to the captain who was standing beside him. "I don't think that even at Badajos, British soldiers were ever sent on a more desperate enterprise. It looks as if nothing could live under that fire even now; what will it be when they get closer?"

Not a shot was fired by the advancing infantry in reply to the storm of bullets from the Boer marksmen. Every round of ammunition might be wanted yet, and it would only be wasted on an invisible foe. They took advantage of what little shelter could be obtained, sometimes close to the river bank, sometimes following some slight depression which afforded at least a partial protection. At last they reached a deep donga running into the river; this was crossed by a small bridge, and in passing over it they had to run the gauntlet of the Boer fire. Many fell here, but the stream of men passed on, and then at a double rushed to a sheltered spot close to the foot of the ascent, where they had been ordered to gather. Here they had a breathing space. Their real work was yet to begin, but already their casualties had been numerous. The Inniskillings alone had lost thirty-eight killed and wounded. Not a word had been spoken among the little group on the hill, for the last ten minutes; they stood with tightly-pressed lips, breath coming hard, and pale faces looking at the scene. Occasionally a short gasp broke from one or other as a shell burst in the thick of the men crossing the little bridge, a cry as if they themselves had been struck. When the troops gained their shelter there was a sigh of relief.

"They will never do it," Captain Brookfield said decidedly. "It would need ten times as many men to give them a chance."

This was the opinion of them all, and they hoped even now that this was but the advance party, and that ere long they would see a far larger body of men coming up. But there were no signs of reinforcements, and at five o'clock the troops were re-formed and the advance began. They dashed forward up the hill under a heavy fire, to which the supporting line replied. The boulders afforded a certain amount of shelter, and of this the Inniskillings took every advantage, until they reached the last ledge with comparatively little loss. But the work was still before them. Leaping over, they rushed down on to the railway line. Here a wire-fence arrested their course for a moment, and many fell while getting through or over it. Then they ran across the line, passed through a fence on the other side, and dashed up the steep angle of the hill to the first trench. Hitherto the fire of the Boers had been far less destructive than might have been expected, their attention being confused and their aim flurried by the constant explosion of lyddite shell from the British batteries. They had but one eye for their assailants, the other for the guns, and as each of the heavy pieces was fired, they ducked down for shelter, only to get up again to take a hasty shot before having to hide again.

Thus, then, they were in no condition to reckon the comparatively small numbers of their assailants, and as they saw the Irishmen dashing forward, cheering loudly, with pointed bayonets, they hesitated, and then bolted up the hill to the next trench. Instead of waiting until the supports had come up for another rush, the Irishmen with a cheer dashed across the trench in hot pursuit. But the next line was far more strongly manned, and a storm of bullets swept among them. Still, for a time they kept on, but wasting so rapidly that even the most desperate saw that it could not be done; and, turning, the survivors retreated to the trench that they had already won, while the supports fell back to the railway, both suffering heavily in the retreat. No fewer than two hundred of the Inniskillings had fallen in that desperate charge, their colonel and ten officers being either killed or wounded, while the Dublins also lost their colonel.

All through the night the trench was held sternly, in spite of repeated and desperate efforts of the Boers to dislodge its defenders. Nothing could be done for those who lay wounded on the hill above. Morning broke, and the fight still continued. At nine o'clock another desperate charge was made; but the Boers were unable to face the steady fire that was maintained by the defenders of the trench, and they again turned and ran for their shelters. Just as this attack was repulsed, Lyttleton's brigade arrived on the scene, exchanging a hearty cheer with the men who had so long borne the brunt of this terrible conflict. The Durham Light Infantry at once relieved those in the trenches, and these descended the hill for the rest that was so much needed. All that day the fighting continued, and while Lyttleton's men held to the position on Railway Hill, there was fierce fighting away to the left, where the Welsh Fusiliers and other regiments were hotly engaged. The roar of artillery and musketry never ceased all day, but towards evening white flags were hoisted on both sides, and a truce was agreed upon for twelve hours to bury the dead.

The scene of the conflict presented a terrible sight. The hillside between the two trenches was strewn with dead and wounded. The sufferings of the latter had been terrible. For six-and-thirty hours they had lain where they fell, their only relief being a little water, that in the short intervals during the fighting some kindly Boers had crept down to give them. The truce began at four o'clock in the morning of Sunday the 25th, and the foes of the previous day mingled with each other in the sad work, conversing freely with each other. The Boers expressed their astonishment that such an attempt should ever have been made, and their stupefaction at the manner in which the Irish had pressed on through a fire in which it had seemed that no human being could have existed for a minute. When informed of the relief of Kimberley, and the fact that Cronje was hopelessly surrounded, they scoffed at the news as a fable, and were so honestly amused that it was evident they had been kept absolutely in the dark by their leaders. Captain Brookfield and his party had remained at the lookout until darkness set in. After the first exclamation of pain and grief as they saw the attack fail, and the fearfully thinned ranks run back to shelter, there had been little said. "It was impossible from the first," Captain Brookfield sighed as they turned. "If the relief of Ladysmith depends on our carrying that hill, Ladysmith is doomed to fall."

They returned to the spot where they had left their horses in charge of two of the blacks, and rode back to Chieveley. It was a sorrowful evening. The men's hopes had risen daily as position after position had been carried, and now it seemed that once again the enterprise had hopelessly failed. On Monday there was a continuation of the lull of firing. Many of the officers in camp who were off duty rode up to examine the scene of the fight, and they were not surprised when they saw the infantry recrossing the pontoon bridge. All wore a dejected aspect, but especially the men who had fought so heroically and, as it now seemed, in vain. They sat watching until the last soldier had crossed, and then rode to the top of Hlangwane. All Chris's party had come out, and those who had not before seen the view waited there for a couple of hours, ate some refreshment they had brought with them, discussed the difficulties that lay in the way of farther advance, and the probable point against which General Buller would next direct his attack.

"Hullo!" Chris exclaimed suddenly, "that pontoon train is not coming back to camp. Do you see, after moving to the point where it passed through this range, it has turned to the north again and not to the south. Hurrah! Buller is not going to throw up the sponge this time. The Boers have not done with us yet." This indeed was the case. The general, seeing that Railway Hill was too strong to be carried by assault, unless with an enormous loss of life, had caused the river to be reconnoitred some distance farther up, and this had resulted in the discovery of a spot where, with some little labour, the troops could get down to the river and a pontoon bridge be again thrown. Such a spot was found by Colonel Sandbach of the Royal Engineers, and a strong working party was at once set to work to make a practicable approach. The point lay some three or four miles below Railway Hill, and the most formidable of the obstacles would therefore be turned. That night the troops crossed, and the Boers -- who were in ignorance of what had been going on, the point chosen for the passage being at the bend of the river and hidden by an intervening eminence from their positions -- were astonished at finding a strong force again across the river.

As soon as the news reached the camp that the army was again crossing, satisfaction took the place of the deep depression that had reigned during the past two days, and the situation was eagerly discussed. Those who at all knew the country were eagerly questioned as to the ground farther on near the line of railway. All these agreed that the hill called Pieter's was a formidable position, almost, though not perhaps quite, as strong as Railway Hill, but that beyond it the line ran through a comparatively open country, and that if this hill could be captured the relief of Ladysmith would be ensured. The Scouts had not escaped altogether scatheless. At the reconnaissance towards Grobler's Hill, Brown, Harris, and Willesden had all been wounded, but none very seriously, although at first it was thought that Willesden's was a mortal injury, for he had been hit in the stomach. The doctors, however, assured his anxious comrades that there was every ground for hope, for very many of those who had been so injured had made a speedy recovery.

"Poor old Willesden!" Field had said as they talked it over; "it is hard that he should have been hit in the stomach, for he was a capital hand at taking care of it."

"And of ours too, Field. He has been a first-rate caterer. I do hope he will pull through it." The lad himself had not seemed to suffer much pain, and three days later the surgeon had been able to assure his friends that as no fever had set in they had little fear of serious consequences ensuing. The boys had not been allowed to see him. Captain Brookfield, however, reported that he was going on capitally, but was in a very bad temper because he was allowed to eat nothing but a piece of bread and a sip of milk, while he declared himself desperately hungry, and capable of devouring a good-sized leg of mutton.

"I don't think you need worry about him," he said to Chris; "the doctor told me that in a fortnight he would be very likely to be about again, and none the worse for the wound, the bullet having evidently missed any vital point, in which case its passage would heal as quickly as the little wounds where the bullet enters and passes out usually do."

Harris had his arm broken just above the elbow, and Brown a flesh wound below the hip. He was the stoutest of the party, and jokingly said, as he was carried back, that the bullet had passed through the largest amount of flesh in the company. Chris once or twice went into the hospitals with a doctor whose acquaintance he had made. They offered a strong contrast to the scene that had taken place after the battle of Elandslaagte, as in the hospitals at Chieveley and Frere everything was as admirably arranged as they would have been in one of a large town. In the daytime the sides of the marquees were lifted to allow of a free passage of air. The nurses in their neat dresses moved quietly among the patients with medicines, soups, jellies, and other refreshments ordered for them. There were books for those sufficiently convalescent to be able to read them, and those who wished to send a letter home always found one of the nurses ready to write at their dictation. By some of the bedsides stood bouquets of flowers sent by the ladies of Maritzburg, and all had an abundance of delicious fruit from the same source.



Chapter XIX

Majuba Day


"Did you hear of that plucky action of Captain Philips, of the Royal Engineers, last night?" an officer who had just ridden in from the front asked Chris that evening.

"No; I heard that the Boers set up a tremendous musketry fire in the evening after the truce was over, but no one that I have spoken to knew what it was about."

"Well, we ourselves didn't know till next morning. The general idea was that it was a Boer scare. They thought that we were crawling up to make a night attack, and so blazed away for all they were worth. We found out afterwards that Philips had conceived the idea that it was possible to destroy that search-light of the Boers. He had learned from prisoners that it was the last they had with them, and although we have not made any night attacks yet, it was possible we might do so in the future, and so he made up his mind to have a try to smash it up. He took with him eight blue-jackets, crawled along in the dark beyond our lines, and got in among the Boers. He had taken particular notice of points he should have to pass, boulders and so on, and he found his way there without making a blunder. There were plenty of Boers round, but no one just at the search-light. The blue-jackets all understood the working of their own search-lights; but the Boers have no electric lights, you know, and work their signals with acetylene, and so they stood on guard while Philips opened the lamp, took out the working parts, whatever they are, and shut the lamp again. Just as they had done so they heard four Boers who had been sitting talking together get up. He and his party dropped among the bushes and lay there quiet while the Boers came up to the lamp.

"'We are to keep it going to-night,' one of them said, 'for they may take it into their heads to make an attack, thinking that after having had a truce all day we shall not be expecting trouble, and they may catch us unprepared. I expect our German officer in a few minutes; he said he would be here about ten o'clock, for the rooineks are not likely to move until they think we are asleep.'

"They moved away again, and Philips and his men stole quietly off, but before they rejoined our fellows they heard a sudden shot, and in a minute a tremendous rifle fire broke out. Evidently the German had arrived and found the search-light would not act, and they concluded at once that we were marching against them, and for twenty minutes every man in the trenches blazed away at random as fast as he could load. I should say that they must have wasted a hundred thousand cartridges. As there was no reply they began to think that they had been fooled. Our fellows were just as much puzzled at the row, and fell in, thinking that the Boers might possibly be going to attack them. However, matters quieted down, and it was not until the next morning that anyone knew what it had all been about."

"That was a plucky thing indeed," Chris said; "though, as I should hardly think we should attack at night, it may not be of much service, for the Boers have long since given up trying with their feeble flash-lights to interrupt our night signalling with Ladysmith, especially as, now the weather is finer, we can talk all day if we like with our heliograph."

Chris was just turning in when Captain Brookfield came to the entrance of his tent. "I have just heard, Chris, that the pontoon bridge has been successfully thrown across just below the cataract, and that the troops are all crossing. I just mention it to you. I cannot get away myself, but if I find you and your boys are -- not here in the morning, I shall say nothing about it. We certainly shall not be wanted. The orders are out, and there is no mention of our corps nor any of the mounted colonials."

"Thank you, sir! I am very much obliged." Chris went round to the tents and told the others that they must be up an hour before daybreak and be ready to start at once, as there would probably be another very big fight. Then he told the natives, who were, as usual, still talking together in their tent, that they were all going off very early, and that chocolate must be ready at daybreak, and the water-skins filled, as the horses would probably be out all day.

"Will you want anything cooked, baas?" Jack asked.

"No; we will take some tins with us. There is going to be another big fight to-morrow; as we are all going, you can go too if you like. We shall want you for the horses. Three of you can stop with them at a time, and the others can go and see what is doing, and then change about, you know, so that you can all see something. The spare horses must have plenty of food left them, and must have a good drink before we start."

They were all astir in good time. The natives had made some hot cakes, and these they ate with their chocolate. Then they saw that the horses had a good feed, and a stock of biscuit and tinned meat for themselves was put into the saddle-bags, and when daylight broke they were across the plain and arrived at the dip in the hills through which the pontoon train had gone. Knowing where the cataract was, they were able to calculate pretty accurately where they had best dismount. This they did in a small clump of trees. Then each took a tin of meat and a couple of pounds of biscuit in his pocket. "Now," Chris said to the natives, "you had better all stay here quietly till you hear firing begin; then, Jack, you can go with the two Zulus. You can stay and look on till the middle of the day. When the sun is at its highest you must come back and let Japhet and the Swazis go. At sunset you must all be here again, and wait till we come. Perhaps we may be back sooner, and if so we shall ride away at once; and those of you who are away when we start must go back to camp at once if you find that the horses have gone when you get here. Now let's be off."

They made their way up the hills, well pleased that there were enough trees and bushes to shield them from observation. The roar of artillery and the rattle of musketry had been going on for some time, but not with the fury that marked the commencement of an attack. A fortnight before it would have seemed to them that a great battle was in progress, but by this time they were accustomed to the almost incessant fire, and knew that although the cannonade was heavier than usual, no actual fighting was going on. They met no officers as they went along, nor did they expect to do so, for none of these would be able to leave their regiments, as even were these not included in the force told off to assault, they might be called upon later in the day. At last they reached the top of a hill whose face sloped steeply down to the river, and from here they could obtain a view of the Boer position, and of the line of railway up and down.

To the right was Pieter's station, with a steep hill of the same name rising close to it. To the left of this was another strongly-posted hill, while beyond it was the scene of the fighting on Friday and Saturday, Railway Hill, which had been rechristened Hart's Hill, in honour of the commander of the brigade that had fought so valiantly. It was evident that at these three points the whole of the fighting force of the Boers had gathered. A heavy rifle fire was being kept up against the British infantry, whose passage of the river had now been discovered, and who were lying crouched behind boulders and other shelter.

They now saw that the guns had all been brought forward during the night, had taken up commanding positions, and were pouring a terrible fire into the enemy's encampment at a distance of little over a mile. The enemy's guns were replying, but at this short range the naval guns were able to fire point-blank, and their shells ripped the defences erected to shelter the Boer camp into fragments, and carried destruction everywhere.

On a kopje about a quarter of a mile behind and above them General Buller and his staff had taken up their position, and the lads kept themselves well within the trees to avoid observation.

"See, Chris, there are some of our fellows creeping along by the side of the river. They must be hidden from the sight of the Boers. I expect they will be the first to begin."

All their glasses were turned upon the column of men. They were two battalions of the eth Brigade and the Dublin Fusiliers, and these, under General Barton's command, made their way down the river bank for a mile and a half. Then the lads saw that they were leaving the river and crossing the line of railway.

"They have evidently gone down there," Sankey said, "because that spur just this side must hide them from the Boers on Pieter's Hill."

The column were lost sight of for upwards of an hour, and then they appeared on the opposite crest, five hundred feet above the line; then they were lost sight of again as they passed beyond the crest.

"That is a splendid move!" Chris exclaimed. "By working round there they will gain the top of Pieter's Hill, and come down like a thunderbolt upon the Boers."

The roar of artillery continued unabated. Clouds of yellowish-brown smoke floated over the Boer entrenchments, lit up occasionally by a vivid flash of a bursting lyddite shell. So terrible was the bombardment that the rifle fire of the Boers against the troops crouching behind their shelters was feeble and intermittent, as they dared not merge from their shelter-places to lift a head above their line of trenches. It was a long time before Barton's troops were again seen. Doubtless they had orders to wait for a time when they had gained their desired position, in order to allow the bombardment to do its work, and prepare the way for the assault of the other positions by the fourth and eleventh brigades. It was not, indeed, until the afternoon that the lads saw Barton's brigade sweeping along to the attack of Pieter's Hill.

The Boers saw them now, and could be seen leaping out of their entrenchments, regardless of the redoubled fire of the artillery now concentrated upon them, and climbing up the hill to oppose this unexpected attack. But before they could gather in sufficient numbers the British were upon them, keeping up a terrible fire as they advanced. The Boers, however, fought sturdily. Many, indeed, had already begun to make their way along the southern face of the hill, either to join their comrades on the hill between Pieter's and Hart's, or to escape up the valleys between them, and so make their way to Bulwana, where a large force was still encamped.

"We may as well help," Chris said; "the general can but blow us up."

Delighted to be able to do even a little towards the success of the day, the party at once picked up their rifles lying beside them.

"It is about a thousand yards, I should say, to the middle of the hill. Take steady aim and try and pick them off as they leave their trenches."

The firing began at once slowly and steadily, and occasionally there was an exclamation of satisfaction when a bullet found its mark. Five minutes later a dismounted staff-officer came down to the trees behind them.

"What men are these?" he asked; "the general wishes to know."

"We are the Johannesburg Scouts," Chris said.

"Are you in command, sir?"

"Yes."

"Then, will you please to accompany me at once to the general."

On arriving at the spot where the general was standing a little in advance of his staff, the latter at once recognized Chris. "Oh, it is you, Mr. King!" he said. "I was afraid some of the men had left their stations. And what are you doing here?"

"We are trying to lend a hand to the troops over there, and as we are all good shots, I think we are being of some assistance."

"You had no right to leave the camp, sir. I suppose you call this independent service?"

"I do, general. I hope that we are affording some help here, and we should not be doing any good in camp; and as we have been nearly out of it through all this fighting, and there were no orders for the corps to do anything to-day, we thought we might be of use."

"You did wrong, sir," the general said, his face relaxing into a smile at the lad's defence of himself. "Well, as you are there, you may as well stop."

"Thank you, sir!" Chris said, saluting, and then hurried off to rejoin his comrades.

"He is a plucky boy," the general said to his staff. "I heard the other day -- though not officially, so I was not obliged to take notice of it -- that he, with the twenty lads with him, rode out to a place seventy miles away, and rescued some farmers who were besieged by Boers, defeated their assailants, killed and wounded more than their own number, made the rest of them, still double their own strength, lay down their arms, and recaptured nearly two thousand head of cattle they had driven off. The news came to me from the mayor of Maritzburg, who had heard of it from a friend who had ridden in from Grey town. He wrote to me expressing his admiration at the exploit. I sent privately to their captain and questioned him about it, intending to reprimand him severely for letting them go; but he said that they had all resigned, as they had a right to do, for they are all sons of gentlemen, and draw no pay or provisions, and that he had therefore no control whatever over their actions after they left camp. I told him not to say anything about his having seen me, for that, as they had returned, I should be obliged to take notice of the matter if it came to be talked about. That young fellow who came here is the one who, with three of the others, tried to blow up the bridge at Komati-poort. He could not do that, but he played havoc with a large store of rifles, ammunition, and six or eight guns. After that I could not very well scold him." And he again turned his glass on the opposite hill.

Here the fighting was almost over, and in a very short time all resistance had ceased. Some of the Boer guns on the next hill had now been turned round, and opened upon the captured position, which took their own in flank. An aide-de-camp was sent off to order some of the guns to be taken, if possible, up to the top of Pieter's Hill, and after immense exertions two batteries were placed there. As soon as this was accomplished, orders were sent for the rest of the infantry to advance. General Warren was in command, and the fourth brigade, under Colonel Norcott, and the eleventh, under Colonel Kitchener, now moved forward, taking advantage of what shelter could be obtained as they advanced. At the same time a strong force of colonial infantry moved to the right to attack the Boer trenches farther up the line of railway, and were soon hotly engaged. The defenders of Hart's Hill, and the position between that and Pieter's, opened a heavy fire as soon as the British infantry showed themselves; but their morale was so shaken by the terrific bombardment to which they had been subjected, by the loss of Pieter's Hill, and by the rifle fire now opened by its captors, that their fire was singularly ineffective. Many men dropped, but the loss was comparatively much smaller than that suffered by the Irish division when moving across the open on the 23rd.

Taking advantage of every shelter, the troops moved steadily forward, maintaining a heavy fire whenever they did so, and winning their way steadily. Colonel Kitchener's Brigade pressed on towards Hart's Hill, which on the side by which they now attacked was far less formidable than that against which the Irish had dashed themselves. It had never entered the Boer's minds that they would be attacked from this side, and their most formidable entrenchments had all been placed to resist an assault from Colenso. Arrived at its foot, the troops were in comparative shelter among the boulders that covered the slopes. Foot by foot they made their way upwards, until at last they gathered for a final assault, and then with a loud cheer scrambled up the last slope and with fixed bayonets drove the Boers in headlong flight. A similar success attended the eleventh brigade, who just at sunset carried the centre position, and a mighty cheer broke out all along the line at the capture of what all felt to be the last serious obstacle to their advance to Ladysmith. On the right, the Colonial troops had driven the Boers in front of them for nearly three miles, capturing entrenchment after entrenchment, until they arrived at Nelthorpe station. The three camps of the Boers contained an even larger amount of spoil than had been discovered in those of Monte Cristo and Hlangwane. It seemed that they had been perfectly confident that the positions were impregnable, and had accumulated stores sufficient for a prolonged residence. It was evident, too, that the wealthier men with them had preferred this situation to the more exposed camps on the summit of the hills. The amount of provisions and stores of all kinds was large, Great quantities of rifle ammunition were found in every trench. Clothes of a superior kind proved that their owners had been residents of Johannesburg or Pretoria, and of a different class altogether from the farm-labourers and herdsmen who formed the majority of the Boer army. The haste with which they had fled, when to their astonishment they discovered that the British attack could not be repulsed, was shown by the fact that a good many watches were found on bed-places and rough tables where they had been left when the Boers rushed to arms, and in the hurry of flight had been forgotten.

The number of rifles that had been thrown away was very large. Among the dead bodies found were those of two women, one quite young and the other over sixty. It was notorious that women had more than once been seen in the firing ranks of the Boers, and there were reports that Amazon corps were in course of formation in the Transvaal, the Boers, perhaps, remembering how sturdily the women of Haarlem had fought against the Spaniards in defence of their city.

So complete had been the panic evinced by the headlong fight of the enemy that the general opinion was that it would be some time before they would again attempt a stand against our men, and that unless any entrenchments higher up the valley were held by men who had not witnessed what had taken place, and were commanded by leaders of the most determined character, Ladysmith would almost certainly be relieved within a couple of days, and the rescuing army would be thus rewarded for its toils and sacrifices.

In a state of the wildest delight the lads returned to the spot where they had left their horses, where they found that Japhet and the two Swazis had arrived just before them. They and the Zulus were exhibiting their intense satisfaction at the defeat of the Boers by a wild war-dance. The party rode fast back to camp, for their spirits did not admit of a leisurely pace, and they left the natives to follow them more deliberately. The news had already been received in camp by the return of officers who witnessed the scene from a point near to that which the lads had attained, and its occupants were in a frenzy of delight. The Colonial corps were especially jubilant. This was the anniversary of Majuba Hill, the blackest in the history of the Colony, and one that the Boers in the Transvaal and Orange State always celebrated with great rejoicings, to the humiliation of the British Colonists. Now that disgrace was wiped out. A position even stronger than that of Majuba, fortified with enormous pains, defended by artillery and by thousands of Boers, had been captured by a British force, and although it was as yet unknown in camp, the old reverse had been doubly avenged by the surrender on that day of Cronje and his army.

Late that evening an order was issued that Lord Dundonald with a squadron of Lancers and some Colonial corps, in which the Maritzburg Scouts were included, were to reconnoitre along the line of railway. All felt sure that no serious opposition was likely to be met with; the defeat of the Boers had been so crushing and complete that assuredly few of the fugitives would be found willing to again encounter the terrible artillery fire, followed by the irresistible onslaught of the infantry. That evening, in spite of the scarcity of wood, bonfires were lighted, and the Scouts gathered round them. Every bottle of spirits and wine that remained in the camp was broached, and a most joyous evening was spent.

"I shall be able to breathe freely;" one of the colonists, a man from Johannesburg, said, "on Majuba Day in future. I have made a point for years, whenever I wanted to do any business in Natal, to put it off till that date, so that I could get out of the Transvaal. When I could not manage it, I shut myself up and stopped in bed all day, though even there I used to grind my teeth when I heard the brutes shouting and singing in the streets. Still, to me it was not half such a humiliation as surrender day. The one was a piece of carelessness, a military blunder, no doubt; the other was a national disgrace. And though I saw Majuba myself, it did not affect me half as much as did the abject backing down of the British Government after they had collected an army at Newcastle in readiness to avenge Majuba. We could not believe the news when it came. The fury of the troops was unbounded, and I would not have given a farthing for the lives of any of the men who were the authors of the surrender, had they been in the camp that day."

"What were you doing there?" Chris asked.

"I had a farm near Newcastle at that time, and two of my waggons had been taken up by the military for transport purposes. I was not on the hill, as you may suppose, or I might not be here to tell the story. I went forward with Colley. It was just the same then as it was at the beginning here. There were plenty of colonists ready to take up arms, but the military authorities would have none of them; they could manage the thing themselves without any aid from civilians. They knew that the natives had over and over again beaten the Boers, and what natives could do would be, merely child's play to British soldiers. Sir George Colley was a brave officer, and I believe had proved himself a skilful one, but he knew nothing whatever of the Boer style of fighting, while we colonists understood it perfectly, and could match them at their own game. As it turned out, the British soldiers on that occasion did not, and it made all the difference. If Sir George Colley had accepted a few hundreds of us, who knew the Boers well, as scouts and skirmishers, the affair would have turned out very differently; for, as you know, they did not succeed through the whole affair in taking one of the places held by our colonists.

"Well, we started from Newcastle, and the blundering began from the first. It was but twenty-five miles to Laing's Nek. At the time we started there was not a Boer there, for they were doubtful which line we should advance by. That twenty-five miles could have been done in a day, and there we should have been with our difficulties at an end; the baggage and stores could have come up in two or three days, and then another advance could have been made. Instead of that, six days were wasted in going over that miserable bit of ground. The Boers, of course, took advantage of the time we had given them to prepare and entrench Laing's Nek. I don't think that troubled the military authorities at all; an entrenchment thrown up by farmers and peasants could be but a worthless affair, and would not for a moment check the advance of British infantry. The consequence of all this was that we got the licking we deserved. Their entrenchment at the crest of the ridge was held by something like three thousand men. Colley had but three hundred and seventy infantry, a force in itself utterly inadequate for the work in hand. But, seeing some parties of Boer horsemen riding about, he thought it necessary to leave a strong body for the defence of his baggage, and accordingly sent only about two hundred and fifty men forward to attack the place.

"Well, we among the waggons hadn't a doubt how it was going to turn out. The one battery with us opened fire upon the entrenchment, but you who know what their entrenchments are will guess that there was little damage done; and when the soldiers went up the hill the Boers held their fire until they were close, and then literally swept them away, and, leaping over the entrenchments, took many of them prisoners. None would have got away at all if a few mounted infantry, who had managed to get up the Nek at another point, hadn't charged down and so enabled the survivors to escape. One hundred and eighty out of the two hundred and fifty were killed or taken prisoners. Colley at once fell back four miles. The Boers on their part, making sure that they had got him safe, sent a strong force round, and this planted itself on the road between him and Newcastle, but before they did so some small reinforcements joined us. Three or four days passed, and then we Colonials quite made up our mind that there was nothing for it but surrender. Colley determined at last to try and open the road back, and with about two hundred and fifty men, with four cannon -- two of them mountain guns -- moved out. Some sixty soldiers were left on a commanding spot to cover the passage of the Ingogo. As soon as the force under Colley had got to the opposite crest of the ravine through which the river runs, they were attacked in great force. They took shelter among the boulders, and fought as bravely as it was possible for men to fight. The guns, however, were useless, for in half an hour every officer, man and horse, was killed or wounded. However, the Boers could not pluck up courage to make a rush, and the little force held on till it was dark, by which time more than two-thirds of them were killed or wounded. A lot of rain had fallen, the Boers thought that the Ingogo could not be forded, and so, believing they would have no trouble in finishing the little force in the morning, they were careless. Colley, however, sent down and found that the water had not risen so high as to make it impossible to pass, and in the darkness, covered by the blinding rain that was falling, he and the survivors moved quietly off, crossed the river, picked up the party left on the eminence commanding it, and returned to camp.

"It was certain now that unless succoured our fate was sealed, but fortunately Evelyn Wood came up to Newcastle with a column that had been pressing forward from the sea. Colley, of course, ought to have waited for him to arrive before he moved at all, and if he had done so, things might have turned out very differently. But he made the mistake of despising the Boers, and thinking that it was nothing but a walk over. When they heard that the column had reached Newcastle the Boers cleared off the line of communication, and Colley rode into Newcastle and saw Wood. We felt that we were well out of a bad business; and were sure that the Boers, who are no good in attack, however well they fight behind shelter, would not venture to attack us, and that even if they did so we could keep them off till help came. But Colley could not let well alone. Instead of waiting till Wood came up and joined him, lie thought he might make a good stroke on his own account, and so retrieve the two defeats he had suffered; so when the 92nd Regiment came up he determined to seize Majuba Hill.

"It was well worth seizing, for it completely commanded the Boer's position on Laing's Nek, and had the whole force come up the Boers must have fallen back directly it was captured. However, Colley decided not to wait, and with about five hundred and fifty men and officers he started at night. The hill was only four miles off as the crow flies, but the ground was frightfully cut up, and it was not until after six hours of tremendous work that they reached the summit. Two hundred men were left at the bottom of the hill to keep open communications with the camp.

"From a hill close to the camp we could make out what was going on. Soon after daybreak we saw a party of mounted men ride towards the hill, where they usually stationed vedettes. They were fired at as they approached, and directly a turmoil could be seen on Laing's Nek. Waggons were inspanned, and we thought at first that they were all going to move off, but this was not so. They were only getting ready to go if they failed to recapture the hill, and in a short time we could see all their force moving towards it. Well, from where we were it seemed that the force on Majuba could have kept a hundred thousand Boers at bay, and so they ought to have done.

"For a time the Boers did not make much progress. With glasses, puffs of smoke could be made out all along the crest, and among the rocks below. The firing began in earnest at seven, and between twelve and one the Boer fire had ceased and ours died away. We thought it was all over, and went back to our waggons again. Soon after one o'clock there was a sudden outburst, and the men with the glasses observed that the Boers were close up to the top of the hill. A few minutes later it was on the plateau itself that the firing was going on.

"Colley had not known the Boers. No doubt his men were completely done up with their six hours' toil among the hills and six hours' fighting, and I don't think a tenth of them were ever engaged, for Colley thought it was impossible that the position could be stormed; so he only kept a handful of men at the edge of the plateau and allowed the rest to lie down and sleep. Certainly that was the case when the Boers, who had been crawling up among the rocks and bushes, made their rush.

"Well, you all know what happened. The few men on the edge were cut down at once. The Boers dashed forward, keeping up a heavy fire. Our fellows jumped up, but numbers were shot down as they did-so, and in spite of the efforts of their officers, a panic seized them. They had far better rifles than the Boers, and had they been steady might still have driven them back; but only a few of them ever fired a shot, and but one Boer was killed and five wounded; while on our side eight officers, among them Colley himself, were killed, and seven taken prisoners. Eighty-six men were killed, one hundred and twenty-five wounded, fifty-one taken prisoners, and two missing. A few managed to make their way down the hill, and joined the party that had been left there at the bottom.

"These were also attacked, but beat off the Boers, and, maintaining perfect order, fought their way back to camp. You can imagine the consternation there was when the hideous business became known. We fell back at once to Newcastle, and mightily lucky we thought ourselves to get there safely. Fresh troops came up, and we were on the point of advancing again, confident that, after the lesson the Boers had given us, things could be managed better. Suddenly, like a thunderclap, the news came that the British Government had surrendered to the Boers, given up everything, abandoned the colonists, who had so bravely defended their towns, to their fate; and, with the exception of making a proviso that the natives should be well treated -- but which, as nothing was ever done to enforce it, meant allowing the Boers to enslave and ill-treat them as they had done before -- and another proviso, maintaining the purely nominal supremacy of the Queen, the treaty was simply an entire and abject surrender.

"There is not a colonist who, since that time, has not known what must come of it, and that sooner or later the question whether the Dutch or the British were to be masters of the Cape would have to be fought out. But none of us dreamt that the British Government would allow the Boers to import hundreds of thousands of rifles, two or three hundred cannon, and enormous stores of ammunition in readiness for the encounter. Well, they have done it, and we have seen the consequences. Natal has been overrun, and a considerable portion of Cape Colony. We have lost here some ten thousand men, and half as many on the other side, and we may lose as many more before the business is finished. And all this because a handful of miserable curs at home twenty years ago were ready to betray the honour of England, in order that they might make matters smooth for themselves at home." Just as the story came to an end the assembly blew in the camp of the Scouts, and on running in the men found that Captain Brookfield had received an order to mount at once and ride to join the cavalry under Lord Dundonald at the front, as a reconnaissance was to be made in the morning. Five minutes later all were in the saddle and trotting across the plain towards Colenso, as they were to follow the line of railway up.



Chapter XX

Ladysmith


It was exciting work as the mounted horse under Lord Dundonald rode along. As far as could be seen from the various points in our possession the passage was clear, but experience had taught how the Boers would lie quiet, even when in large numbers, while scouts were passing close to them. At Colenso Colonel Long had sent two mounted men on ahead of his battery. They had been permitted to pass within a hundred yards of thousands of Boers among the bushes on the river bank, and had even crossed the bridge and returned without a rifle shot being fired or a Boer showing his head. And it was on their report that there were apparently no Boers in the neighbourhood that the batteries were pushed forward into the fatal trap prepared for them. So Chris and his companions, at the rear of the colonial cavalry, trotted along ready at a moment's notice to swing round their rifles for instant action. They watched every stone and clump of bushes on the slopes of the valley for any foe that might be lurking there, and who at any moment might pour out a rain of bullets into the column. Very few words were spoken on the way, the tension was too great. They knew that Ladysmith had telegraphed that the Boers appeared to be everywhere falling back. But a few thousands of their best fighting men might have remained to strike one terrible blow at the troops who in open fight had shown themselves their superiors, and had driven them from position after position that they believed impregnable. However, as one after another of the spots where an ambuscade would be likely to be laid passed, and there were still no signs of the enemy, the keenness of the watch began to abate, and the set expression of the faces to relax. Then as the hills receded and the valley opened before them a pleasurable excitement succeeded the grim expectation of battle. The task that had proved so hard was indeed fulfilled; the Boers were gone, and the siege of Ladysmith was at an end. As they emerged from the valley into the plain in which Ladysmith is situated, there was an insensible increase of speed; men talked joyously together, scarcely waiting for replies; the horses seemed to catch the infection of their riders' spirits, and the pennons of the Lancers in front to flutter more gaily. Onward they swept, cantering now until they approached the town.

Then men could be seen running towards the road; from every house they poured out, men and women, some waving hats and handkerchiefs, some too much overpowered by their feelings for outward demonstrations. As the columns reached this point they broke into a walk, and answered with ringing cheers the fainter but no less hearty hurrahs of those they came to rescue; and yet the troopers themselves were scarcely less affected than the crowd that pressed round to shake them by the hand. They had known that provisions were nearly exhausted in the city, and that for some time past all had been on short rations; but they had not dreamt of anything like this. It seemed to them that they were surrounded by a population of skeletons, haggard and worn, almost too weak to drag themselves along, almost too feeble to shout, their clothes in rags, their eyes unnaturally large, their hands nerveless, their utterances broken by sobs. They realized for the first time how terrible had been the privations, how great the sufferings of the garrison and people of Ladysmith. For the soldiers were there as well as the civilians. There was little military in their appearance; there was no uniformity in their dress, save that all were alike ragged, stained and destitute of colour.

Could their rescuers have seen them, themselves unseen, a few days earlier, they would have been even more shocked. Then the listlessness brought about by hope deferred, and of late almost the extinction of hope, weakness caused by disease and famine, had been supreme; and had the Boers had any idea of the state to which they were reduced, a renewal of the attack of the eth of January could hardly have failed of success. The last few days, however, had revived their hopes. They had learned by the ever-nearing roar of the cannon that progress was being made, and for the past four days had from elevated points near the town been able to make out the movements of our troops on the positions they had captured. They had seen the Boers breaking up their camps, carrying off their stores either by waggon across the western passes or by the trains from Modder Spruit. They had seen the cannon being withdrawn from their positions on the hills, and felt that their deliverance was at hand.

Through an ever-increasing crowd the column moved on.

From barrack and hospital, from dwelling-house and the dug-out shelter-caves on the railway bank people flocked up. Sir George White and his staff, the mayor, and the town guards, every officer and soldier, joined in the greeting. But no stay was made. After a few minutes' talk with Sir George White, Lord Dundonald gave the order, and the cavalry moved forward, and as soon as they were free from the crowd trotted on at a rapid pace in hopes of overtaking the retiring Boers, and glad that the scene to which they had looked forward with such pleasant expectations was at an end. There had not been a dry eye among them. None could have witnessed the sobbing women, the men down whose cheeks the tears streamed uncontrolledly, and have remained himself unmoved.

"It is terrible," Chris said to Sankey, who was riding next to him. "I could not have imagined anything so dreadful as their appearance. I did not realize what it was like when, two or three months before I left Johannesburg, I read in Motley's book about the war in the Netherlands of the state of things in Leyden when the Prince of Orange burst his way through to their rescue, and of the terrible appearance of the starved inhabitants, but now I can quite understand how awfully bad it was. It must have been even worse then. Here there were some rations distributed -- little enough, but some. There the people had nothing but the weeds they gathered, and boiled down with the scraps they could pick up. There they died in hundreds of actual starvation; it cannot have been quite so bad here. But as we see, though there has been just enough food to keep life together, that has been all, and it has been from disease brought on by famine, and not by famine itself, that they have died. Then, too, shells were always falling among them, and at any moment they might be attacked. I expect that anxiety and fever have had as much to do with it as hunger."

"Yes, Chris. You know, when we were grumbling sometimes at not being employed in the fighting, we have wished we had stopped in Ladysmith, and gone through the siege there; now, one can thank God that one did not do so. We have pictured to ourselves everyone actively employed, the vigilance at all the outposts, the skirmishing with the Boers who crept up too closely, the excitement of repelling their attack, and all that sort of thing. It is all very good to read about, but now we know what it really meant one sees that we were a pack of fools to have wished to be there."

"Yes; I suppose one never knows what is good for one, Sankey. Now as I look back I think that we have been extraordinarily fortunate. We have had some fights, just in the way we had expected, and, thanks principally to our being so well mounted, we have done very well. We have lived well; I don't say we have not had a certain amount of discomfort, but of course we expected that. What I am most pleased at is that not one of us has been killed, and only a few of us wounded, the only serious one being Willesden, and he is fairly on the way to recovery. For boys we have done a very good share, and I expect that now we have driven the Boers back here, and Kimberley has been relieved, and there is a tremendous force gathering on that side, it will soon be over."

"Yes, I think with you, Chris. And I fancy that the others are all beginning to long for the end of it. I should say that those whose people have gone to England may stop on for a bit, but the rest of us will go to our friends at Durban or the Cape, at any rate for a time, till we see how things go. We know that Lord Roberts has got Cronje surrounded and shut up. I expect that is one of the reasons that the Boers have been moving from here. The Free Staters will certainly wish to get back to defend Bloemfontein, and the Transvaal people must feel that it is no use stopping here when their own country will be shortly invaded."

"Yes; I expect that is the reason for their shutting up as suddenly as they have done after fighting so hard for the first five or six days of our advance."

On arriving at Modder Spruit it was found that the last train had left an hour before; they pushed on, however, until a smart fire from a hill in front of them, which was evidently held in force, broke out suddenly, and two cannon from another eminence joined in. Having thus discovered that the Boers were not entirely evacuating the country, but intending to defend the Biggarsberg, at any rate until a strong force came up, Lord Dundonald returned to Ladysmith. In the afternoon General Buller rode over attended by only one or two of the staff. He stayed but a very short time, to learn from General White the state of affairs, and then returned.

"Do you think that we shall pursue at once, sir?" Chris asked Captain Brookfield.

"Not at once, Chris. Practically, as you see, there is not a soldier here fit to carry arms, nor a horse fit for work, and I should say that it will be a month before General Buller can reckon upon any assistance from the garrison. As to his own army, I expect he will keep the main portion round Chieveley. No doubt he will bring the greater part if not all the garrison of Ladysmith back to Frere and Estcourt, both to get them out of the pestilential air here and for convenience of feeding them. The civilian population will leave, of course, as soon as they possibly can. I should think that Buller will leave in garrison here an infantry brigade, part of the cavalry, and two or three batteries, and this with the sick who cannot be moved, will be about as much as our transport will be able to manage until the railway bridge is repaired and the line put in running order. Till that is done there is no possibility of a general advance; and indeed there will have to be a great accumulation of stores here, as this will then become our base instead of Chieveley.

"No doubt a great deal will depend on how things are going on the other side. Now that Roberts has as good as captured Cronje and his force he will of course advance to Bloemfontein and occupy it. He will then be no more able to advance farther than Buller can -- in fact, less able. Our line of railway is secured, and we can be fed by it; but at present we have not crossed the Orange River from the south, and the railway between that and Bloemfontein is in the hands of the Boers, and we know that they have blown up the bridges across the river. Until these are restored, and the line secure in our hands, Roberts's army will have to live on the stores that they have brought with them. Then the work of forming a base depot from the coast will begin, and it needs something enormous in the way of provisions and carriage to supply an army of sixty or seventy thousand men, all of whom must as they advance be fed from Bloemfontein.

"As long as he is stationary there it is likely enough that the bulk of Joubert's army will cling to Natal, knowing well enough that before we shall be in a condition to move forward they can entrench their positions on the Biggarsberg and the Drakenberg until they are quite as formidable as those we have been knocking our heads against. I should not be at all surprised if it is a couple of months before Roberts is in a position to advance. Of course at present we have no idea what the plans are, but likely enough at least half the force here may be sent down to Durban, and then by water to East London, and from there to Bloemfontein by rail. It would be ridiculous for us to renew the sort of fighting we have been doing when the enemy are sure to clear out when Roberts crosses the Vaal, and Natal be thus freed without any further loss of life. Possibly the troops may not be sent round by sea, but will remain here until Roberts gets as far as Kroonstadt. Then, no doubt, a division will be sent down through Bethlehem to Harrismith, and so open Van Reenen's Pass, in which case the troops from here can go up by train to Bethlehem. At any rate, I am afraid that most of us will remain here for at least two months.

"You see, most of the colonial irregulars were enlisted for only three months, and that is up already, and no doubt a great many of them will not extend their time, and I don't suppose the military authorities will want them to do so. There is no doubt that while mounted men were invaluable in the fighting in Cape Colony, and will be so in the Orange Free State, they are of very little use in this mountainous country in the north of Natal -- they are so many more mouths to be fed, man and beast, without any corresponding advantage. They have done splendidly where they have had a chance, and the Imperial Light Horse have suffered heavily, but as a whole I think that we should have been more useful as infantry than as mounted men. Infinitely more useful if, instead of being kept at the head-quarters of the army as we have been, for no possible reason that anyone can see, we had all been scattered over the country to the east, in which case we should have kept the marauding Boers from wandering about, should have saved hundreds and hundreds of loyal farmers from being ruined, and the loss of many thousands of cattle and horses, which will have to be paid for after the war is over. I do not think that there is a single colonist who is not of opinion that the way in which we have been kept inactive from the beginning of the war, instead of being employed as irregular cavalry should have been, in protecting the country, preventing the Boers from drawing supplies, and forcing them to keep in a body as our own troops have done, has been a stupendous mistake."

Chris repeated this conversation to his comrades. "I think," he said, "that if there is no chance of doing anything for another two or three months, we might as well break up. I have no doubt a good many of the Colonials will re-enlist. Numbers of them are working men, either from Johannesburg or belonging to Natal; they would find it very difficult to get work here, and the five shillings a day pay is therefore of the greatest importance to them. But it is different with us. We don't draw pay, we simply agreed to band ourselves together to have an opportunity of paying out the Boers for their treatment of us. At the time we agreed to that, we had no idea that they would invade Natal. Of course that was an additional inducement to us to fight. As loyalists, and capable of bearing arms, it would have been our duty, even if we had no personal feeling in the matter, to enlist to help to clear the country of the enemy who invaded it. Now that Ladysmith is rescued and there are certainly enough troops in South Africa to finish the business up, I do not see that it is our duty to continue our service. Anyhow, I have pretty well made up my mind to resign and go round to Cape Town. There I am almost sure to find my mother, and perhaps my father, for we know that they have expelled almost all the English remaining about the mines, and he may have been among them."

"I agree with you heartily," Sankey said. "At any rate, I should vote for our breaking up for the present. It will be beastly for us to have to stop here doing nothing for another month or two, and then perhaps, when Buller moves forward to join Roberts, to be told that the colonial force will no longer be required."

Twelve of the others expressed similar opinions. The friends of the eight who did not do so had returned to England. Carmichael was one of these. "Well," he said after a pause, "I do not say that you are not quite right, but I have no one to go to here. My people went home as soon as they reached Durban. If I were to join them I might hear when I landed that the war was just over, and that they had either started to come back again, or were on the point of doing so. I was born out here, and have never seen any of my relations in Scotland. Though I should like very much to spend a few months in the old country, it would not be worth while going home for so short a time; for I am sure my father will hurry back to his work at the mines as soon as Johannesburg is taken by us. I fancy all those who have not spoken are in about the same situation that I am."

There was a murmur of assent. "I don't say," he went on, "that I should care, any more than you do, to stop here for the next two months. The smell of dead horses and things is enough to make one ill. The water of the river is poisonous, for we know the Boers used to throw their dead animals in it on purpose. So I shall go down to Maritzburg and wire to my people where I am, and ask for orders. There remains, Willesden said the other day, still about £80 apiece at the bank, and I expect we shall get as much for the horses as we gave for them, so that we who have no friends here could live very comfortably for two or three months, or have enough to pay our passage home in case they send for us. I shall tell them to telegraph, so in a week after sending off my wire I shall get an answer."

The others who had no friends in South Africa expressed their intention of doing the same.

"I don't think we need bother about the horses," Chris said; "being such good animals, I have no doubt that there are plenty of officers in the cavalry regiments here who will be glad to buy them as remounts for the money we gave for them. That would save us all the trouble of getting them down by train to Maritzburg and selling them there. Well, then, as there are no dissentients, I will tell Captain Brookfield what we have settled."

"I quite agree with you," the officer said when Chris had told him of their intentions. "In the first place, it would be a serious waste of time for you to remain here. Still, that is of comparatively little consequence, but I do think that it would be a grievous pity for you to risk your lives further. You have done wonderfully good service. You have had an experience that you will look back upon with satisfaction all your lives. You have done your duty, and more than your duty. You have before you useful lives, and have amply shown that in whatever position you may be placed you will be a credit to yourselves and your friends. Therefore, Chris, I think in every respect your decision is right. It will be some relief to me, for to tell you frankly, when you started on that expedition to Komati, and the other day, when you all rode off to the farm, I felt that it would probably be my duty to write to some of your parents to tell them of your deaths. Therefore, by all means give me your resignations. I dare say that a good many of the men in my own and other corps will be leaving also; and in that case those who remain will, I should think, be formed into one strong regiment, which will be of a good deal more use than half a dozen small corps."

It was agreed among the party that as they had decided to go they might as well go at once.

"I hear," Chris said, "that General Buller is going to make a formal entry here on Saturday, and that the garrison will line the road. I don't know whether Dundonald's brigade will have anything to do with it; but if he does, Brookfield will certainly like to make a good show. So until that is over I won't do anything about the horses."

On the day appointed the garrison turned out to receive the general and the troops who had struggled so long and gallantly to effect their rescue, and the Devons, Gloucesters, Rifles, Leicesters, Manchesters, Liverpools, sappers, artillerymen, and the Naval Brigade marched out from their camps and lined the road as far as the railway-station, where the remnant of the cavalry brigade were drawn up. At eleven o'clock Sir George White, Sir Archibald Hunter, and Colonel Duff and his staff rode up and took their place in the front of the shattered tower of the town-hall. Here, too, Captain Lambton and many other officers took their place. Not far from these were a score of civilians who had not shared in the general exodus that had been going on from the day on which the town was relieved, but had delayed their departure in order to witness the historical scene. At last the head of the column was seen approaching. Lord Dundonald's men had ridden down on the previous day, and the mounted Colonial Volunteers had now the honour of forming the general's escort. They led the way, and after them came General Buller with his escort. The Dublin Fusiliers were placed at the head of the column in acknowledgment of the gallantry displayed by them in every fight; then came the men of Warren's, Lyttleton's, and Barton's brigades, with their artillery. Great indeed was the contrast between the sturdy, bronzed, and well-fed soldiers who cheered as they marched, many of them carrying their helmets on their bayonets, and the lines of emaciated men through whom they passed. These cheered too, but their voices sounded strange and thin, and many, indeed, were too much overcome by weakness and emotion to be able to add their voices to the shouts. The enthusiasm of the troops rose to the highest when they passed a group of women and children, who, with streaming eyes, greeted them as they passed.

The pipes of the Highlanders and the beating of drums added to the roar of sound. The contrast between the dress of rescuers and rescued was as great as their personal appearance. Sir George White's men had of late had but little work, and had prepared for the occasion to the best of their power, as if for a review at Aldershot. They had done what they could. Their khaki suits had been washed and scrubbed until, though discoloured, they were scrupulously clean. The belts, accoutrements, and rifles had all been rubbed up and scoured. On the other hand, the uniforms of regiments that marched in were travel-stained, begrimed with the dust of battle and the mud of bivouac, until their original hue had entirely disappeared. They looked as if they had at first been dragged through thorn bushes and then been given a mud-bath.

Captain Lambton rode forward to meet the sailors of the Terrible with the guns that had done such service, followed by the howitzers which had almost equally contributed to the final success of the operations. He was loudly cheered by the sailors, and the heartiest greetings were exchanged between him and their officers. Both in attack and defence the Naval Brigade had performed inestimable services.

Behind the column came a large body of men in civilian dress. Their appearance was as unkempt as that of the troops, but among these there was no approach to military order, and yet their heroism had been in no way inferior to that of the troops. These were the stretcher-bearers, who had in every fight carried on their work of mercy under the heaviest fire, and that without the excitement that nerves soldiers to face danger. Many of them had fallen while so engaged, but this had in no way unnerved their companions, who had not only carried on the work during daylight, but had often laboured all night until the last wounded man had been found and carried down to the hospital. When the names of the heroes of the force that relieved Ladysmith are recounted those of the stretcher-bearers are worthy of a place among them.

After the troops had been dismissed and matters had settled down a little, Chris went over to the camp of the cavalry brigade, and spoke to the first officer he met. "I have come across, sir," he said, "to ask if any of you wish to buy remounts. The party to which I belong have twenty-five horses; they are exceptionally good animals, and cost us sixty pounds apiece last October. We furnished our own equipment. As we are all sons of gentlemen at Johannesburg, we did not much mind what we paid. Anyhow, we are ready to sell them at the price we gave for them."

"We all want remounts badly enough," the officer said. "Will you come in with me to the colonel?"

Entering the mess tent, where the colonel and several officers were standing talking, Chris's guide introduced him to them, and repeated the offer he had made. "Well, at any rate, Leslie," the colonel said, "you and Mainwaring may as well go down and look at the horses; it would certainly be a comfort to get remounts, for more than half of our chargers are gone, and the rest are skeletons. I can't ask you, Mr. King, if you would like to take anything to drink. I suppose it will be another ten days before we are in a position to be able to offer even the smallest approach to hospitality."

"I quite understand that, sir," Chris said. "In that respect we have been nearly as badly off at Chieveley. We have had plenty to eat and drink, but a cup of tea or chocolate has been the only refreshment we have been in a position to offer to a visitor, for the line has been so fully occupied with government transport that it has been next to impossible to get up any private stores. I am afraid that very little in that way can be brought up here until the bridge is repaired and the line in working order, for it is as much as the transport will be able to do to bring food enough from Chieveley for the troops and people here."

The two officers were more than satisfied with the appearance of the horses. On their report all their comrades went down, and eleven of the animals were at once taken; a visit to the camps of two other regiments resulted in the sale of the remainder. None of the officers was able to pay in gold, as the paymaster's department had not a coin left, though small payments were made to the men until nearly the end of the siege. Chris, however, readily accepted their drafts and cheques, as these could be paid into the bank at Maritzburg.

"That is all done," he said to his friends. "Now we will get rid of our remaining stores which the men brought up yesterday. I propose that instead of selling them we divide them into three and send them down to the three cavalry messes. I am sorry we have not a few bottles of spirits left, but the tea, and chocolate, and sugar, and so on, will be very welcome to them."

The six natives carried the things down, and brought back with them notes of warm thankfulness from the colonels.

"How about our saddles, Chris?"

"We can take them with us to Maritzburg. We can hand over the kettles and so on, and the waterproof sheets, to Brookfield's men who remain here, and the blankets can be given to the natives when we get there."

The next day, after a hearty farewell from Captain Brookfield and their comrades, who sent them off with a ringing cheer, the party started, marching by the side of one of the waggons that had brought up stores; in this they placed their saddles and blankets. When they arrived at Chieveley they had no difficulty in getting a place in a covered truck. In this they travelled to Maritzburg. Here they stayed for three or four days; then, after making a handsome present in addition to what they had promised to the natives, and further gladdening their hearts by giving them their blankets, Chris and those who were going down said good-bye to Carmichael and his party, with hopes that they would all meet again at Johannesburg before long. Three or four whose friends had remained at Durban stayed there, the rest took passage together for Cape Town.

At Maritzburg Chris had found a letter awaiting him from his mother, saying that his father had a fortnight before joined her there, as the Boers had commandeered the mines and had ordered him to leave, as he would not work them for their benefit and so provide funds for the support of the Boer army. She said that they intended to leave at once for England, and that he was to follow them when he gave up his work with the army. He therefore, with Field, Brown, and Capper, continued the voyage straight on to England, and joined his parents in London, where he enjoyed a well-earned rest, his pleasure being only marred by the necessity for telling the story of his adventures again and again to the relations and friends of his parents.

<eob>

The Wonders Of The Jungle - Book Two

By

Prince Sarath Ghosh



Chapter I

The Elephant Herd a Republic


An elephant herd is a kind of republic, something like the United States of America, only much smaller and much simpler. So its leader is a sort of president. He is usually the wisest elephant in the herd.

You may like to know how the elephants choose their president. I shall tell you how they do that.

But you must first consider how the people of the United States choose their President. They find out who among their important men is best able to lead them in all the great duties of the nation. Then they choose him.

But if afterward they find that he is not leading the nation in the wisest manner, then the people of the United States choose another man to be their President the next time.

The elephants in a herd do something like that. They first follow the elephant who, they think, is best able to lead them. But if afterward they find that he is not leading them through the jungle in the right way, and that another elephant could lead them in a better manner, then they follow him instead. He then becomes the president of the herd.

"But what is the best way of leading the herd through the jungle?" you may ask.

I shall now tell you about that. The best way to lead the herd is to satisfy all their needs. So the president of the herd has four great duties.


The Duties of the President

First Duty: He must lead the herd in such a manner that all the elephants will get enough food to eat every day.

Second Duty: He must lead the herd in such a manner that all the elephants will get enough water to drink every day.

Third Duty: He must keep order in the herd, and not allow any naughty elephant to fight or quarrel.

Fourth Duty: He must guide the elephants in such a manner as to avoid all danger from outside; and if such danger does happen to come, he must guard the herd from that danger.

I shall now tell you about these four duties more fully.


He Must Provide Daily Food

Elephants are such large animals that they need a great amount of food. So they have to walk a long way every day, munching the leaves of the trees as they go.

They walk in line, one behind another, as that is the easiest method of walking through the thick jungle; for then one gap through the jungle is enough for all the elephants to go through, one at a time, and they need not make a different gap for each elephant.

Now you will understand that if that one gap is big enough for the largest elephant to go through, it is of course big enough for all the elephants to go through. So, if the largest elephant walks first, in front of the line of elephants, he can force a way through the thick jungle that will be big enough for all the other elephants who come behind him.

So usually the largest and strongest bull elephant is the leader of the herd -- if he also has the other qualities of a president, which I shall presently describe more fully. To have all the qualities of a president, he must not only be strong, but also wise and clever. Why? Because even in merely going through the jungle a wise leader avoids many difficulties. It might be that the jungle straight ahead was very thick, and it would be hard to force a way through it; but by turning a little to the right or to the left, an easier passage could be made. This a wise leader would find out, and then turn in that direction.

Again, in the jungle, the ground is sometimes too soft; it might be made of clay which had become soft owing to rain a few days before. But elephants are such heavy animals that they cannot go far over soft ground, as their feet would sink in too deep. And the ground might be covered with bushes or tall grass, so that the elephants could not see to what distance the ground was soft. They might not mind going over soft ground for a few yards, but they would not like to go over such ground for a whole mile.

So a wise leader would know by glancing around how far the ground was likely to be soft; and if he learned that it was likely to be soft for a large area, he would turn at once and go around it. But a foolish leader might take the herd right into the soft ground, and they would all be stuck in the mud, and have a lot of trouble getting out of it again.

So if the herd has chosen merely the biggest and strongest elephant to be their president and he makes such mistakes as that, they soon depose him; that is, they no longer follow him. They look around for some other leader who can discover a better way, and they follow him instead. And if afterward they find that he is wise and clever, and does not make mistakes, they follow him as their leader every day after that, even if he is not quite so big and strong as the other elephant was.

He then becomes the new president, if he is at least strong enough to make a good gap through the jungle. Most of the elephants could pass through that; only the biggest bull, the deposed president, would have the trouble of enlarging the gap with his body in going through it. And this would serve him right!

In the same manner the leader of the herd must not go over ground that is too hard, for elephants are such heavy animals that it jars the bones of their feet to go over hard ground for a great distance. If there has been no rain for several weeks, then in a hot country the ground gets very hard in some places. So if there has been no rain near a herd for some time, a wise leader avoids these hard places.

So, as you see, an elephant leader has to be quite clever in merely avoiding difficulties, in the daily search for food. And that is not all! The food itself may be plentiful in one part of the jungle, and rather scarce in another; for in one direction there may have been just enough showers recently to bring out the fresh leaves on the trees; but in another direction there may have been no rain at all for some time, and so there would be no fresh leaves there.

Why, even in your own town there may be a good shower of rain in one part of the town, and no rain at all in another part. So it might be in the jungle; a wise leader would know this by instinct, and he would take the herd along that part of the jungle where there had been recent showers of rain, and where there would be enough fresh leaves.


He Must Provide Daily Drink

After the elephants have had enough to eat for the day, they must have enough clear water to drink. And to get this is the hardest daily duty of the leader.

In the jungle, even if the leader makes a little mistake and goes the wrong way, there may still be enough to eat, because the elephants can always find enough trees in the end by going a little farther: so they would have only a little more trouble in getting their food, if the leader made a mistake. But with water it is quite different -- the leader may find no water at all, if he makes a mistake and leads the herd the wrong way.

"Then how must he lead the herd so as to find water, as well as food?" you may ask.

I shall tell you. In most jungles there is a river or even a small stream from which the elephants can drink. But the river or stream may go winding in and out of the jungle, so that it is in one part of the jungle but not in another part. So a wise leader tries to keep his herd near one of those parts of the jungle through which the river flows.

In fact, if the elephants and even the other wild animals are lucky enough to find a fairly big river, and the jungle near that river has plenty of food in it, then the animals stay near there almost all the time. They eat from the jungle and drink from the river; and sometimes they come to the very same place to drink -- as at the Midnight Pool, which I described to you in Book I.

So if the leader of the elephant herd is lucky enough to find such a jungle, with plenty of food and a big river in it, he keeps the herd there all the time; and then they have no more trouble about food or drink.

But suppose the leader cannot find such a place? Suppose there is a river, but not enough food near the river? Then what does a wise leader do?

He leads the herd in such a way as to make a kind of curve. He goes into the jungle by the easiest way in the beginning; then, after the elephants have eaten a little, he starts turning slightly toward the direction in which the river flows. When the elephants have eaten a little more, he turns still more in that direction.

In this manner he leads the herd in a kind of curve toward the river, browsing all the way from the trees near by. So, at the end of the day, when the elephants have had enough to eat, they reach the river and have also enough to drink. Is not that a very clever method of providing both food and drink for the herd?

If the herd sleep near the bank that night, they start from there the next morning in their search for food; and they usually go into the jungle by the same path by which they came. But on returning to the river to drink that night, the leader need not bring them back by exactly the same path.

The fact that they did not have enough to eat right near the river shows that the jungle is not very thick there; so the elephants will have no trouble in making a fresh path, a little higher up the river, or a little lower down. A wise leader usually does that: he leads the herd to the river slightly higher up or lower down, and so he makes a slightly different curve through the jungle. Why? Because if he kept to exactly the same curve from the jungle to the river every day, the herd would eat up all the leaves along that path in a few days. So, by changing the curve a little from time to time, he allows fresh leaves to grow there meanwhile.

You now understand why the president of the elephant herd must be wise and clever to do all that I have told you so far. Even among men the President of a Republic has similar duties to attend to, though in a different manner: he too has to govern his country in such a manner as to provide the people with their daily wants, if they obey the laws and do honest labor.

In the elephant herd everyone has to do honest work, as he has to gather his own food; and he has also to obey the laws of the herd. I shall now tell you about that.


He Must Keep Order in the Herd

The third duty of the elephant leader is to keep order in the herd. Most elephants are by nature gentle, docile, and obedient. That is why men can tame them and make them work; otherwise, if elephants were by nature fierce and disobedient, men could not train them so perfectly as to perform at a circus, or carry people in a procession. So even in the jungle, where the elephants are wild, they usually obey the leader and keep the laws of the herd.

These laws chiefly concern their daily food and drink. As I have told you, in their daily search for food the elephants march in a line, one behind another. A selfish elephant in the middle of the line might want to stop and eat up all the leaves on a tree near him; and if he did so, he would block the way for those behind him, and besides, there would be no leaves on that tree for them to eat when they came to it.

So there is a general rule in the herd that each elephant must take just a few of the leaves from a tree, and then move on; and if instead he does block the way, the elephants behind him may push him forward and make him move on.

"But," you may ask, "why can't the other elephants behind him also stop and eat up all the leaves on the trees near them?"

Because then all the trees on that line of march would be bare of leaves, and it might take a whole month for fresh leaves to grow there again. But if the herd took only a portion of the leaves from each tree, there would be enough food for them along that path if they happened to visit it again in a few days.

In fact, the elephants need make only a few such paths through the jungle, if they eat only part of the leaves at a time along any of the paths. Then they can visit these paths in turn on other days, and always find enough food there -- because the fresh leaves constantly growing on the trees would make up for the small portion they had eaten.

So you understand how wise the elephants are in having that law in the herd.

"But," you may say, "if they were to eat all the leaves on a tree, their path would be a short one; while if they eat only a portion of the leaves, their path would be much longer, as they must nibble from many more trees to satisfy their hunger."

That is quite true. But there is no advantage in having a short path, because at the end of their march in search of food they must find water to drink, as I have already told you -- and they may have to go several miles to reach the nearest stream. So they might as well nibble from the trees all the way to the stream, especially as elephants can easily march ten or twelve miles in that manner every day.

Besides, after taking a bunch of leaves from a tree, they must chew it before taking the next bite; so, meanwhile, they might just as well walk on to the next tree. In fact, if they have not quite finished chewing, most elephants pass by one or two trees before taking the next bite. That shows how really wise they are. For then they are sure of finding enough food along that path when they visit it again a few days later.

It is the president of the herd who sets a good example to the others in doing all these wise things. As he walks at the head of the line, he sees at a glance what is the best thing to do in that particular path, whether to nibble a little from every tree, or to pass by a few trees without nibbling from them at all. And whatever he does, all the other elephants do after him.

My dear children, it is exactly the same among us. When food is scarce in a country and people must be careful, then it is the President who tells us how to portion out the food supply in the country. Otherwise, some people would be wasteful and throw food away -- and others would not have enough to eat.

It is very important to learn from your childhood to be careful of food. Do you know that in the United States every man, woman, and child on an average throws away every year seven dollars' worth of food on the plate? That would be enough to feed all the people in the poorhouses and the hospitals.

Elephants are most careful of their food. Their president is all the time thinking of the best method of making the food supply of the jungle last them from season to season. But the other elephants must help him to do that, by following his good example. If any particular elephant is selfish and wants to eat up at once all the food near him, he is pushed out of the line by the other elephants, as I have already told you. If he is naughty again, he is more severely punished.

How he is punished, I shall tell you in another chapter. I shall then tell you how all sorts of naughty elephants are punished; for, just like people in a country, I am sorry to say that there are in the jungle a few elephants that do not obey the law.

An elephant can be selfish not only in eating, but also in drinking. You will remember what I told you in Book I -- how all the elephants stand in a line along the bank of a stream and drink; and after they have all satisfied their thirst, they may jump into the water to bathe and swim.

It would be very selfish for an elephant to jump into the water before the others had finished drinking; for then he would muddy the water which some of the others were still drinking. And for such conduct an elephant is very severely punished.

But the very worst offense in an elephant herd is quarrelling and fighting; for, sometimes, two elephants do quarrel and fight, just like a couple of naughty boys in school. But there is never any real need to quarrel in an elephant herd; for if one of the elephants has done wrong or broken the rules of the herd, he will be punished by the president of the herd -- just as in school a naughty boy would be punished by the teacher or by the head of the school.

It is not necessary for any other elephant in the herd to quarrel or fight with the naughty elephant, even if he has been injured by him; the president of the herd will punish the naughty elephant soon enough. So if two elephants do fight, both of them are punished; of course the one who began the fight is punished more severely than the other.


He Must Avoid Danger from Outside

The president of the herd must lead the elephants in such a manner as to avoid any danger that may come to the herd from outside. In the jungle there are other wild animals; most of them are, of course, too small to be able to hurt so large an animal as an elephant; but a tiger is so strong and so fierce that he could kill a small, half-grown elephant.

The tiger could hide in the jungle, and if the small elephant happened to stray from the herd, the tiger could spring upon it and kill it. So the president of the herd usually keeps the elephants away from any part of the jungle which he knows to be infested by tigers.

How does he know that? By the paw marks made on the ground by the tigers. For the tigers leave plenty of paw marks on the ground in coming in and out of their dens to hunt their prey every day. So if the president of the elephant herd comes across a line of such paw marks, he turns aside and leads the herd in another direction.

Of course, if the herd happened to meet a tiger quite suddenly, they would at once face the tiger. And the tiger would never dare to attack even the smallest elephant if the big ones were near, for they could drive him off with their tusks or trample upon him.

But the greatest danger that can come to an elephant herd from outside is from men. Men sometimes go into the jungle to shoot wild elephants with guns, or to catch them alive in huge traps. So the leader of the herd must find out where the traps are, or where the hunters are hiding; and then he must avoid such places.

You will remember what I told you about Salar and his father in Book I. Salar was the boy elephant who nearly fell into a most tricky trap, but his wise old father suspected the trap and called to Salar to halt; and because Salar obeyed his father and halted at once, he just escaped falling into that awful trap.

Well, in the jungle hunters lay all kinds of traps to catch wild elephants alive; and sometimes for several years the hunters try over and over again to catch the elephants, if they fail to catch them at once. So the president of an elephant herd has to look out for traps all the time; and the herd that has the wisest president escapes capture for the longest time.

In fact, as Salar is an actual elephant, not an imaginary one, I may tell you that his father was such a wily leader of his herd that he kept them from capture for ten years longer than the leader of any other elephant herd in that jungle.

As for hunters who seek to kill wild elephants with guns, the leader of the herd has to be even more careful in avoiding them. These hunters usually hide behind bushes, and try to creep up to the elephants; and when they are within a hundred yards of the elephants, they begin shooting them. Then the leader of the herd has to prove his wisdom.

A foolish leader would stand still, or even try to charge the hunters; and then more of the elephants would get killed. But a wise leader gives the signal to run away as soon as he hears the sound of the first gun; then at most only one or two of the elephants are killed -- and sometimes none at all.

Why? Because to kill an elephant with a gun a hunter must hit him exactly in one particular place on the body -- behind the elephant's ear, where the skin is thin. At the first shot the hunter may not hit the elephant just there, but inflict only a trifling wound elsewhere on his thick skin. So by running away at once an elephant may save his life.

But as all leaders are not so wise, the hunters usually manage to kill one or two of the elephants. I may tell you that these hunters kill the elephants merely to get their tusks, which they sell as ivory.

It is a shame to kill such wonderful animals just for money; and you ought to know that in some parts of Africa almost all the elephants have now been killed. If the hunters continue to do that, there will be no elephants left in Africa in a few years. Then the hunters will not be able to get the very ivory for the sake of which they now kill the elephants.

But you will be pleased to know that in India and other countries of Asia nobody is allowed to kill a wild elephant; for if anyone did so, he would be put into jail. Special hunters are allowed to catch wild elephants alive, as I have already told you; and then the elephants are tamed and trained to do all kinds of useful work, such as to pile logs, build bridges, make roads, and lay water-pipes (see Frontispiece). Some of these elephants are also taught to do tricks in a circus, or to carry grand people in a procession.

"Then how do people in India get their ivory, if they never kill an elephant?" you may ask.

They get the ivory when the elephant dies naturally; and the ivory is just as good then as before. Is not that very wise? The people of India first get the help of the elephants in doing all their heavy work, and at last they get the ivory also.

There are huge buildings in India, some of which are more than two thousand years old, which are so wonderful that engineers in America and Europe do not know exactly how those buildings were erected. There is a particular temple on the top of a mountain; and that mountain is 6000 feet high. The ceiling over the center of the temple is a huge circular piece of marble; and that marble ceiling is so large that for a long time people in America and Europe did not know how it was dragged up to the top of the mountain, and then placed over the temple. But now we know that a team of trained elephants was used to do that.

You will be pleased to know, too, that the people who built that temple are called Jains, whom I mentioned in Book I, page 163 (footnote), as the people who are kind to all animals, and who never hurt even the smallest insect. Instead, these mild and gentle people have taught dumb animals to help them build one of the greatest wonders of the world.

How the elephants were taught to do that, I shall tell you in the next Book.




Chapter II

War and Neutrality in the Jungle


Now I must tell you about another duty of the president of the elephant herd: he must avoid another kind of danger that may come to the herd from outside.

I am sorry to say that herds of elephants sometimes fight with one another, just as nations of people do. Alas, although elephants are usually such wise animals, they are sometimes as foolish as men! Two herds of elephants may find the same feeding ground, which has plenty of trees to eat from, and a convenient stream of water to drink from. Then the two herds may start fighting for that new feeding ground -- just as two nations sometimes fight for a new land.

Among elephants the herd that first finds the feeding ground usually keeps it; but another herd may come there at about the same time, and claim to have found it first -- and may fight the other herd for that new feeding ground. Or it may happen that the second herd really came there later, but is stronger than the first herd, as it has more bull elephants in it. Then the second herd may try to drive away the other herd, which really found that feeding ground first.


Wise Elephant Leader Avoids War

Then what does the president of the first herd do? Alas, he usually stays there to fight it out. But he gains nothing by it; instead, some of his bulls get killed or wounded -- and in the end his herd has to flee just the same. A very wise leader would have done that from the first; for he might find another feeding ground just as good somewhere near. And besides, the quarrelsome herd will be punished soon enough!

"How will it be punished?" you may ask.

I shall tell you. A quarrelsome herd gets into the habit of quarrelling with other herds, just as a quarrelsome boy gets into the habit of quarrelling with everybody -- or even as a quarrelsome military nation gets into the habit of quarrelling with other nations. Then that quarrelsome boy might meet a stronger boy some day -- and get a good thrashing! And the quarrelsome nation might attack a more powerful nation some day -- and get a good thrashing!

So also that quarrelsome herd of elephants might some day attack a herd which proves to be stronger. Then that naughty herd would also get a good thrashing. So it is foolish, indeed, for the president of a herd to domineer over weaker herds in the jungle.

Indeed, there is a still greater punishment for a quarrelsome herd. I have already told you that there are hunters who lay traps to catch wild elephants alive. Well, these hunters try specially to catch a quarrelsome herd first! Why? Because quarrelsome herds kill or injure other wild elephants with whom they fight. But the hunters do not want to have any of the elephants killed or injured, as they want to catch as many of them as possible in order to teach them to do useful work. So they catch the quarrelsome herd first, before it can kill or injure many of the other elephants.

Of course, the hunters know which is a quarrelsome herd, because they send men into the jungle from time to time to watch different herds and keep track of them.


The Wise Elephant Leader Keeps Neutral

There is still another duty that the leader of the elephant herd must do. Sometimes it happens that as he is taking his herd through the jungle, he meets two other herds that are fighting. Then what must he do?

He must lead his herd by another path. He must not take part in the fighting between the two other herds. He must keep neutral.

What does that mean? It means that he must not meddle with other peoples' fights and quarrels. He must not take sides; that is, he must not help either of the herds to beat the other. That is the usual rule in the jungle which a wise elephant leader tries to keep.

But there is an exception to that rule. It sometimes happens that it is impossible for the president of an elephant herd not to take sides. When does that happen? I shall tell you.


When it is Impossible to Remain Neutral

When two herds are fighting, they may get very reckless. When men make war, they knock down houses with their guns, and trample on growing corn. In the same manner, when two herds of elephants fight they knock down trees, and trample on shrubs and bushes -- sometimes the very trees and shrubs and bushes for which they are fighting! There never is a fight of any kind without a lot of damage being done.

So it may happen that one of the fighting herds gets so reckless that it comes into the ground of the herd that has kept neutral, and does a lot of damage there. Then what must the president of the neutral herd do? He must defend his own ground from damage.

So long as the fighting herds kept to their grounds, he must not interfere. But when one of the fighting herds comes into his ground and does damage, he must defend his rights. A wise elephant leader always does that; for he has bull elephants of his own who can drive out the intruders.




Chapter III

The Policemen of the Elephant Herd


I have already told you that the president of an elephant herd must keep order within his own herd; that is, he must not allow a naughty elephant to commit a crime, such as to attack any other member of the herd. And if a naughty elephant does commit a crime, it is the duty of the president to punish him.

I shall now tell you how he does these things. There is a wonderful police system in an elephant herd.

You will understand that better if I tell you first about an old police system among men. You will read in history books about the Anglo-Saxons, who were the forefathers of most of the people of England and of the United States of to-day. These Anglo-Saxons had a police system like this: -- 

In a village or in a town all the grown-up men were divided into groups of ten men; and if any man tried to commit a crime, all the other nine men of his group tried to prevent him. If he committed the crime before the other nine men could prevent him, they at least arrested him. Then they took him before the judge for punishment.

It is something like that in an elephant herd in the jungle; only, as there are not so many bull elephants in a herd as there are men in a village, it is not necessary to divide the bulls into different groups.

As there are only twenty or thirty grown-up bulls in an average elephant herd, it is the duty of all the grown-up bulls to prevent a bad elephant among them from committing a crime; and usually it is the bulls nearest to him who actually stop him from committing the crime. If he manages to commit the crime before they can prevent him, they surround him immediately and keep him there like a prisoner, till the president of the herd comes to punish him.

My dear children, that is a great lesson for us. A good citizen always helps to keep the law; if he sees anyone breaking the law, he tries to prevent him from doing so. Some men do nothing, if they see a person breaking the law; they say, "It is no business of ours." Elephants are much better citizens of the jungle in that respect; they always try to prevent a bad elephant from breaking the law.

Now I am going to tell you something that will astonish you -- as it has astonished a good many clever scientific men. Do you know why people are at all able to use elephants in a circus, and give you pleasure by making them do tricks? Suppose one of the elephants suddenly went mad? Then he could kill a dozen people in a minute by just rushing at them and trampling on them. No men could stop him, even if they had guns ready all the time; for it might take several minutes to kill an elephant even with a special kind of gun. And meanwhile the mad elephant could trample upon scores of people in a crowded circus.

And it is just the same in a procession, when elephants are used to carry grand people -- kings and queens, princes and princesses, lords and ladies. An elephant in a sudden fit of rage could kill many of them.

Then why do people use elephants in a circus or in a procession? Why do they trust themselves with such large and strong animals? Just think!

"Because an elephant is naturally docile and gentle," you may say.

That is quite true. But still a bull elephant might get into a sudden fit of rage about something, just like a naughty boy; and as a naughty boy in a sudden fit of rage might break things, so also that bull elephant might rush about and trample on people.

Then why do people trust themselves with elephants? Think again!

It is because of the police system among the elephants themselves. Because if any elephant in a circus or a procession tried to do any mischief, even in a sudden fit of temper, all the other elephants there would prevent him! The men there might not be able to prevent him; but the other elephants could, and they would.

Nobody need tell the other elephants to do that. Without being told to do so, they would rush to him, surround him, and prevent him from doing any mischief. And if only one bull elephant happened to be near enough to him at that time, he would at least head him off -- that is, throw himself in the way of the angry elephant. I shall tell you a wonderful story about that presently.

I have said that nobody need tell the other elephants to prevent a bad elephant from committing a crime. The other elephants would do that themselves, because they have got into the habit of doing so in the jungle.

I must tell you that almost all the elephants you see in a zoo or a circus were once wild in the jungle; they have been caught, then tamed, then trained. But they still remember the laws of the jungle; and they follow those laws whenever necessary -- just as children who get into the habit of keeping the rules of their school also form the habit of keeping the law when they grow up. So the men who use elephants allow them to practice this particular law; that is, they allow and encourage the elephants to continue this police system among themselves.

From this you will understand that people do not usually use a bull elephant singly; that is, they usually use a number of bull elephants together, so that all the others would prevent a bad elephant from doing any sudden mischief.

Wise people who know the habits of elephants usually use a number of them at a time. But there have been many foolish people who have used a bull elephant by himself; then somebody has ill-treated that elephant, and in his rage he has done a lot of harm.

That actually happened in a big zoo recently. Then they had to shoot the elephant. That shows that the people at that zoo knew very little about the habits of elephants. They should have kept that elephant with a few other elephants.

You may like to know how wise people in Europe and America have learned the habits of elephants. They learned them from the people of India many centuries ago. The people of India first observed wild elephants in the jungle; and they discovered that the elephants had wonderful laws in their herds -- which I have described to you. Then the people of India caught the wild elephants, and tamed them, then trained them to do tricks and also useful work.

About 2250 years ago there was a famous king in Europe named Alexander, who went to India. There he and his followers saw the wonderful things that the people of India had taught the elephants to do. So they brought some of these people to Europe, with their elephants. That is how the people of Europe first learned about the wonderful habits of elephants. In our own times, wise people who bring elephants to Europe and America also bring a few men who know the habits of elephants.

That is why it is such fun to watch the elephants at a circus.




Chapter IV

The Punishment of the Wicked Elephant


Now I shall tell you how naughty elephants are punished. I have already told you that if a naughty elephant attacks any other elephant in the herd, all the other bulls surround him and keep him there, till the president of the herd comes and punishes him. Now I shall tell you how that is done.

The bull elephants stand in a ring a few yards away from the culprit; but they all face him, so that they can watch him all the time. Then the president of the herd steps into the ring, and walks toward the back of the culprit.

"But if the culprit keeps turning round, so that the president cannot get behind him?" you may ask.

Then two of the bulls forming the ring step in; and they come and dig the culprit in the ribs with their tusks, one on the right side and the other on the left side. Then the culprit cannot turn; he must stand still and take his punishment.

And this is the way the punishment is given. The president gores him with his tusks on the hind quarter, just as a father spanks his naughty boy -- only much harder! In fact, after two or three blows from the president's tusks, the culprit's back is very sore.

How long does this punishment last? Well, just about as long as the spanking of a naughty boy by his father. How long is that?

"Till he says he is sorry, and won't be naughty again," you may say.

That is exactly what happens to the bad elephant. The president goes on goring him till he says and shows that he won't be wicked any more. Yes, an elephant can say that he won't be wicked again by whining; and he can show it by the way he holds his head and trunk. You will understand that better from the story I shall now tell you. It is a true story. It is about a bad elephant in the service of men after the elephant had been tamed; but the punishment for being wicked would have been just the same if he had been a wild elephant in the jungle.


The Princes and the Bad Elephant

It happened a few years ago, when King George and Queen Mary of England went to India. At that time a young reigning prince in India had just succeeded to his father's throne. So there were many ceremonies at the palace, and festivities among the people. These functions lasted a whole week, and several elephants were used in processions.

One day the elephants were taken to a place ten miles away to do useful work, such as to pile timber for building a bridge. Among these elephants was one called Mukna.

Mukna was a bad-tempered elephant. His tusks never grew more than half-size. Bull elephants whose tusks do not grow to their full size are sometimes bad-tempered; they seem to have a grudge against everybody. Such elephants are always treated with special kindness, as if to make up to them for their loss.

But in spite of all the kindness Mukna received, his temper grew worse and worse. He was punished for that, though very lightly; he was merely deprived of delicacies in his food. Elephants in the service of men usually get hay, grass, and leaves to eat; but on special days they get sugar cane, bananas, and a kind of pancake, all of which are great delicacies to an elephant.

Mukna's keeper had deprived him of these delicacies for his bad temper, just as a naughty boy's father may deprive the boy of ice-cream. That should have been a lesson to Mukna to be good. But it was not. Instead, he got worse.

One morning, when all the elephants were working, Mukna's keeper ordered him to lift a log. Mukna did not obey. He merely stood still.

Now, disobedience is a serious fault in an elephant -- just as it is in a child. In fact, it is the beginning of all faults on earth, as the Bible says. If people once allowed even an elephant to be disobedient, they could not control him any more -- just as if a naughty boy were to be left unpunished for disobeying his parents or teacher, he would get worse, and disobey his superiors, and even the law, when he grew up.

So Mukna's keeper looked at him sternly and said, "I command you for the second time to lift that log!"

But Mukna would not yet obey. He merely stood still.

Then all the other elephants looked up from their work, just as grown-up men in a workshop look up if they hear the foreman scolding a bad workman. Those other elephants knew what an awful crime disobedience was.

Then in a deep and stern voice Mukna's keeper said to him, "I command you for the third and last time to lift that log!"

But for the third time Mukna refused to obey.

"Then you shall hear about this!" the keeper said, just as if he were talking to a disobedient workman.

The keeper did not say anything more. But two of the nearest bull elephants stepped up to Mukna, one on each side of him -- just like a couple of policemen arresting a criminal. Then a third bull came up in front of Mukna, and stood with his back to him, so that all three police elephants faced the same way as Mukna -- as you see in the picture on page 45.

Then at the same time the three police elephants stepped backward, so that Mukna also was forced to step backward. Step by step the three police elephants went backward till Mukna's hind legs came against the trunk of a tree. There Mukna was held for a moment, so that he could not wriggle away. For the elephant in front prevented him from moving forward, and the tree prevented him from moving backward; and the two elephants on the sides prevented him from moving sideways.

Then the keeper stepped to the tree and fastened one of Mukna's hind legs to the tree with a chain -- so that he could not run away. The three police elephants then went back to their work.

Now I must tell you that in a herd in the jungle a bad elephant is punished at once by the president. But it is slightly different among elephants in the service of men, because there they have no elephant president, but a man president, who might be away at that time. That man is called the elephant master.

That is just what happened when Mukna was disobedient. The elephant master happened to have gone to the palace on a visit. So Mukna's keeper called a messenger and sent him to the palace to report Mukna's disobedience. The messenger had to ride on another elephant to go that distance.

Mukna saw that elephant going toward the palace with the messenger. Mukna knew why! It was to fetch the elephant master, who would punish him! Even a dog that has been naughty will cringe and whine at the sight of a whip, because it knows that its punishment is coming.

But Mukna did not cringe and whine. Instead he became defiant -- just like a very bad boy. He held up his head and curled his trunk tight in a spiral in front of his chest. In an elephant that is a sign that he is defiant or determined, just like a man who folds his arms tight across his chest. Mukna was unrepentant.

The messenger reached the palace and reported Mukna's disobedience; and the elephant master said that he would come that afternoon to punish Mukna.

The reigning prince said that he also would come. As he had just ascended his throne, he wanted to teach a lesson to all criminals in his domain from the beginning of his reign, and Mukna was the first to commit a crime in the prince's reign. For, I must tell you, all elephants in service in India are treated just like men; they are rewarded as good citizens or punished as criminals. So Mukna was regarded as a criminal.

The prince asked three other young princes, his cousins, to come with him. A young American was then staying in the palace as a guest, and he also was invited to come.

That afternoon the royal party went with the elephant master to the place where the elephants were; there were about thirty bulls, besides Mukna. The place was a clear space, about a hundred yards across, with a lot of trees along the sides. Mukna was tied by the hind leg to one of those trees.

The royal party got out of their carriages and entered the open space on foot, quite near the spot where Mukna was tied up. They were not thinking of Mukna just at that moment, as they were talking of the grand feasts at the palace. So they did not notice Mukna at once.

Meanwhile Mukna had been brooding all day. He knew that his punishment would come very soon. "I will do it -- I will do it!" he must have been saying to himself all the time. In that way he had worked himself into a fury.

When the royal party entered the open space, the young American happened to be nearest to Mukna. As he had just arrived from America, he did not know much about elephants; so the young American did not notice that Mukna was chained up to the tree by the hind leg, and that he was the bad elephant they had come to punish. Instead, the young American thought that Mukna was just one of the ordinary tame elephants working there.

So as the royal party happened to pass about ten yards in front of Mukna, the young American stepped aside and said, "Hello, I must pat you!" Saying that, he raised his hand and stepped toward Mukna to pat him.

But meanwhile, when Mukna had seen the elephant master arrive with the royal party, he knew that the moment of his punishment had come! "I will do it -- I will do it!" he had kept saying before. So when the young American raised his hand, Mukna suddenly made up his mind to do it now!

Mukna gave just one short trumpet. The next instant he gave a vicious tug with his hind leg -- and snapped the chain! With a huge stride he came toward the American and the royal party. He would "do it" now! He would kill them all!

Nothing could stop him from doing it, it seemed. He would knock them down and trample them to death.

But meanwhile the elephant master had heard the trumpet Mukna had given a moment before he broke the chain. And in an instant the elephant master realized what would happen.

"Run for your lives!" he shouted to the young American and the four princes. And he ran himself.

But an elephant can run much faster than any man. It seemed that nothing could save those six men; they would all be trampled to death. The only direction in which they could run was toward the middle of the open space -- away from Mukna. Even if they reached it, they would still have to run toward the trees on the far side. Could they reach the trees in time? No! Mukna was gaining upon them. It seemed that in a few more strides Mukna would hurl himself upon them, and there was nobody to stop him.

But yes -- there was!

For meanwhile, just as the elephant master had heard the trumpet Mukna had given, all the thirty bull elephants had also heard it. Most of them were too far off, near the line of trees; but there happened to be a bull a little nearer the middle of the open space. He saw at once that he could not overtake Mukna, if he merely chased him. So, how could he stop Mukna from murdering the six men?

I shall tell you. This is what that bull elephant did. As soon as the men had started running, he saw in what direction they were going. So he turned slightly, and ran also in that direction. As Mukna gained upon the men, he too came nearer and nearer to the men.

Mukna had come within three yards of the young American and the reigning prince, who were running together. "Now I have got them!" Mukna must have thought. One more stride, and he would trample them to death!

But that instant the other bull elephant also ran close up to the two men -- and hurled himself between Mukna and the two men.

Mukna's blow fell upon the bull elephant's side, and knocked him down. But Mukna tripped over him, and also fell. The two elephants rolled over and over upon the ground.

Meanwhile the young American and the reigning prince and all the other men, ran on to safety behind the trees.

When Mukna regained his feet, he realized that the men he had attempted to kill had escaped. And he also realized that now his punishment would be most terrible -- first for the disobedience, then for the attempted murder. So in an instant he made up his mind to run away; he would escape to the jungle and become a wild elephant once more -- even if he had to be a solitary wanderer in the jungle.

Sometimes in the wild West of America in the past, men who had committed crimes would escape from the sheriff into the wilds and become outlaws. Mukna wanted to do just that. So he turned toward the trees on the side of the open space, to run away into the jungle.

But a most wonderful thing had happened. Without a word of command from anyone, all the other bull elephants had stepped to the gaps between the trees, each to the gap nearest him -- as they would have done when they were wild elephants in a herd, to stop a criminal among them. And all of them were now facing Mukna.

Mukna turned to the right to find a way of escape to the jungle; but all the gaps on the right were guarded by bull elephants. Mukna turned to the left; but all the gaps on the left were guarded likewise. Mukna turned in all directions; but in all directions the gaps were guarded. He could not escape.

Then the elephant master recovered from his fright. He stepped out from behind the tree where he had hidden. For the first time he gave a command.

"March!" he cried to the elephants.

And the elephants marched toward Mukna. They came nearer and nearer, till they formed a ring around Mukna near the middle of the open space. Mukna looked frantically this way and that way; but he saw a ring of elephants all round him, a dozen yards away; and the tusks of all were pointed toward him like a row of bayonets.

Then the elephant master and the royal party came and stood just outside the ring, at the back of the elephants.


The Trial of the Criminal Elephant -- as in a Court of Law

There they held a trial, just as in a court of law. Mukna was accused of two crimes: first, disobedience; second, attempted murder. A man was appointed to defend him at the trial, just as in a court of law a criminal may have a lawyer to defend him.

The elephant master presided at the trial of Mukna. He was the judge.

When the trial began, Mukna's keeper first gave evidence; that is, he said that Mukna had disobeyed his order, not only once, but three times.

Then several other keepers came forward as witnesses, and gave evidence; that is, they said that they saw Mukna disobey the order.

Then the man who was appointed to defend Mukna spoke for him; he was called the elephant counsel. The elephant counsel argued that Mukna must have been ill-treated to make him disobedient. So he questioned all the keepers. But all the keepers said that Mukna had not been ill-treated to make him disobedient.

"He may not have been ill-treated just that minute," the elephant counsel still argued. "But was he not ill-treated before? An elephant has a long memory; he never forgets an injury, or an act of kindness. An elephant has been known to remember both injury and kindness for more than twenty years. Then did not Mukna's keeper ever ill-treat him?"

But all the other men who were in charge of all the elephants gave evidence that Mukna's keeper had never ill-treated him; nor had anybody else ill-treated him -- except that Mukna had been punished before for bad temper by being deprived of delicacies in his food. So Mukna had no true cause for disobeying the order that day.

Thus the charge of disobedience was proved against Mukna.

Then came the second crime of which Mukna was accused, namely, attempted murder. And that was very quickly proved, as everybody there had just seen that crime.

So the elephant master, who was the judge, pronounced sentence of punishment on Mukna. Mukna was ordered to receive ten blows for the disobedience, and ten blows more for the attempted murder.


The Infliction of the Punishment

Now among the bull elephants forming the ring around Mukna was one who had huge tusks. So the elephant master ordered him to give Mukna the twenty blows. Of course the elephant could not count the number of blows he was to give. So the elephant master was to count for him, and tell him when to stop.

The elephant who had the huge tusks stepped into the ring, and tried to get behind Mukna, but Mukna turned around to prevent him from doing so. Then the elephant master ordered two other elephants to step into the ring. These two came and pointed their tusks at Mukna's ribs on each side. So Mukna could not turn. In defiance he held up his head, and curled his trunk tight before him.

"Hit me, if you like, but I won't give in!" he seemed to say.

Five blows he took from the other elephant's tusks without flinching. But at the sixth blow he stumbled forward, and fell to the ground.

The elephant master stepped into the ring.

"Arise!" he commanded.

But Mukna would not rise.

Then the elephant master made a sign to the two bulls. They came to Mukna from each side, and prodded him in the ribs with their tusks. So Mukna was forced to stand up.

He steadied himself and received four more blows. Then at the next blow, which was the eleventh, he fell again.

"Arise!" the elephant master commanded.

Mukna again refused to arise. So the two bulls on the sides prodded him again, and forced him to arise.

This time Mukna stood only two more blows; then he fell again. The place where he was receiving the blows was now raw and bleeding. So the elephant master gave him a chance.

"Is it enough?" he asked.

But Mukna defiantly arose to his feet, without waiting to be prodded. And he defiantly held up his head and curled up his trunk.

"You may hit me as much as you like, but I won't give in!" he seemed to say.

At the next blow, which was the fourteenth, Mukna again fell. He was getting weaker and weaker, and now he could not stand more than one blow at a time.

Seeing his weakness, the elephant master allowed him to lie there for five minutes.

Then he asked Mukna, "Is it now enough?"

Slowly, painfully, Mukna got up. He looked around with bleary, bloodshot eyes; he thought, "Can I not yet escape?"

But a row of tusks, like a row of bayonets, faced him on all sides.

Still he would not give in. With a fierce resolution he tried to curl up his trunk in defiance. He could not do so at once, but after an effort he succeeded.

"I won't give in, even if I die!" he seemed to say, though he was rocking unsteadily in growing weakness.

"Then we shall break your obstinate spirit!" the elephant master cried.

So Mukna received the next blow, which was the fifteenth. He fell. But after a while he rose again in defiance, and received the sixteenth blow. Then he fell in a heap. The side of his head hit the ground, and he rolled over.

"Is it enough at last?" the elephant master asked. He waited.

Three times Mukna tried to raise his head in defiance, even as he lay on the ground; and three times he tried to curl up his trunk. His head went half-way up, and his trunk curled half-way. He lay on the ground just like that for a minute or two, his whole body quivering with pain and weakness.

Then perhaps the memory of all the kindnesses he had formerly received came back to his mind. Yes, an elephant never forgets an injury, but he never forgets a kindness either. Perhaps Mukna remembered at that moment all the petting he had received when he was a good elephant, all the sugar-canes and bananas and pancakes -- and all the rewards for being gentle and docile and obedient. And now he realized that, instead of receiving these good things, he was receiving a most terrible punishment for being wicked, and for being obstinate in wickedness. How foolish he was!

He saw it all clearly in that moment, as he lay in shame and disgrace before all his comrades, all the other elephants. Then Mukna's head began to droop and droop; and his trunk began to unwind. The trunk hung loose and limp before him; and his head sank lower and lower, till it lay humbly in the dust.

A low cry, almost like a moan, escaped his lips. It seemed to say, "I am sorry for being wicked and obstinate! I repent! Forgive me!"

Immediately the elephant master gave a sign. All the other elephants fell back. Their task was done. They returned to their usual work.

Then several of the keepers came with buckets of water, and bathed Mukna's wounds. Afterward they put on the wounds a poultice of herbs, to cure the wounds in due time.

So Mukna received only sixteen blows, instead of the twenty, because he repented of his crime.

"But if he had not repented?" you may ask.

Then he would have received the four remaining blows later on, when he was strong enough again to receive them. For the sentence of punishment must be carried out fully, like the sentence of a court of law, unless the criminal repents.


The Rogue Elephant

Among wild elephants in the jungle it sometimes happens that an elephant becomes so wicked that he does not repent when he is being punished by the president of the herd. Then the president gives him as many blows as he can bear; that is, till he cannot rise from the ground. Then he is left there to recover by himself.

Sometimes such an elephant goes from bad to worse. For a few months his wounds may hurt him; and so he may be on his good behavior. But afterward, when the wounds have healed completely, he may commit a fresh crime. Then, of course, he is punished again. And now the place gets so sore and raw that it takes much longer to heal, and even then the place is full of scars.

If he should get unruly and commit a crime once more, would he be punished just the same? Yes, he would be. But I must tell you that a herd of elephants does not want a criminal among them. So after the third or fourth crime all the other elephants drive him out of the herd.

Then this very bad elephant meets a most awful fate. He becomes a solitary wanderer in the jungle. No other elephant will have anything to do with him. He is a rogue elephant.

"But could he not go to another part of the jungle and join some other herd of elephants who don't know that he is a rogue?" you may ask.

He could. But those elephants would find out at once that he had been driven out of his own herd for being a rogue.


The Brand of the Rogue

How would they find that out at once? By seeing the scars of the wounds on the place where he had been repeatedly punished. Those scars are the brand of the rogue elephant.

So the new herd also would drive him out, for neither do they want a rogue among them.

Thus, no matter what herd the rogue elephant tried to join, he would be driven out.

Then he would be fated to roam the jungle by himself all his life -- which is a most awful punishment. An outlaw among men has a similar fate, as he is shunned by all honest people.

A rogue elephant, being the outlaw of the jungle, does not live long. Just as an outlaw among men gets shot by the sheriff's men sooner or later, so also a rogue elephant gets shot by hunters. For, although the hunters must not shoot an ordinary wild elephant that is a member of a herd, they may shoot at sight a rogue elephant that is roaming in solitude.

So, my dear children, remember that such a terrible fate comes to a rogue elephant who may have begun his downward path by just one act of disobedience or some other fault -- and who obstinately persisted in his wickedness, and would not repent.


The Reward of Repentance

On the other hand, how much wiser it is to repent, even if one has been so foolish as to do wrong! Mukna committed the most terrible crime -- he actually tried to kill people; and then he tried to run away into the jungle and perhaps become a rogue elephant. But afterward, when he was being punished, he repented of his crimes. So, what happened?

I shall tell you. Mukna was put on probation for a year; that is, the keepers watched him for a year to see if he would behave well. And for the whole year Mukna was on his best behavior; he was gentle and docile and obedient, and he did whatever he was ordered to do, even the hardest work. And he did that willingly, as if to prove that he had truly repented.

Then those very princes whom he had tried to kill felt sure that Mukna had begun a new life, and would always be good in the future. So the princes took him back into favor.

And today Mukna wears a cloth-of-gold, with gold rings on his tusks, and he walks in a royal procession. Sometimes he carries grand people on his back, and sometimes children. And no elephant is more gentle and thoughtful with little children than he is. For he actually curls the end of his trunk near the ground for them to sit upon -- and then he lifts them up to his back, three at a time!




Chapter V

Flesh-Eating Animals: the Felines, or the Cat Tribe


So far most of the animals I have described to you are vegetarians, that is, they eat vegetables of all kinds, for even leaves, herbs, and grass may be classed as vegetables. These animals are the elephant, the buffalo, the deer, the antelope, and others. The bear is the only animal I have so far described to you (in Book I) that eats both vegetables -- that is, the roots of trees -- and the flesh of other animals as well.

But now I shall describe to you quite a different class of animals, namely, animals that eat only meat. Among these animals the most important group is the Cat Tribe, or the felines, as they are sometimes called. They possess many of the qualities of the ordinary cat.

The principal felines are the tiger, the lion, the leopard, the puma, and the jaguar. All felines have a special kind of fangs, tongue, claws, and paws, which I shall now describe in detail.


The Feline Has Strong Fangs

Besides the ordinary teeth, every feline has two pairs of strong fangs which look like big projecting teeth. One pair of fangs is placed on the upper jaw, pointing downward; they are wide apart. The other pair of fangs is placed in the lower jaw, pointing upward; they are not quite so far apart as the fangs of the upper jaw. Why? So that the animal can close its mouth comfortably without striking the lower fangs against the upper fangs.

These fangs are three to four inches long in a tiger or a lion; they are not quite so big in a leopard or other feline. The fangs of the tiger or the lion are so strong that he can hold down a heavy bullock by gripping it with his fangs. He can also drag the bullock along the ground by gripping it in that way, and can use the fangs to tear out a large piece of meat from the body of his prey.

When the tiger or the lion gets a piece of meat into his mouth, he uses the upper fangs to pierce the meat: that is, the meat lies on the ordinary teeth on the under jaw, and the two fangs of the upper jaw come down on the meat and cut it into two or three pieces. The tiger or the lion could chew the meat a little more, with the help of his ordinary teeth, but he does not need to. Every animal of the Cat Tribe has a strong digestion; so the tiger or the lion merely cuts up the meat a few times with his fangs and then swallows it.


The Feline's Tongue is Rough

A feline's fangs, however, are too big to tear off small pieces of meat from a bone. So it uses its tongue to scrape off the small pieces of meat. That is the reason why a feline's tongue is very rough. So again you see, as I told you in Book I, that every animal has the gift it needs. If the feline did not have a rough tongue, it could not eat the small pieces of meat on a bone; and so a portion of its food would be wasted. No inhabitant of the jungle wastes food. It is only we who waste food.


The Feline's Claws are Retractile

The claws of every feline are retractile. That is, the claws can be drawn in, or sheathed, whenever the animal desires; also, the claws can be thrust out, whenever the animal desires to do that.

Why is it necessary for a feline to be able to do both -- to draw in its claws, and to thrust them out?

Because when the animal needs food, it must thrust out the claws to seize it. But in just running about in the jungle, it does not need to use its claws; so it draws them in. In fact, if it did not draw in its claws then, the claws would soon be worn out by rubbing against the ground. And even if the claws were growing all the time, they would be also wearing off all the time. So to keep the claws sharp for use only when the animal wants to seize something, it keeps the claws drawn in at other times.

Here I ought to tell you that a dog's claws are quite different from the claws of a feline, even from those of an ordinary cat. The cat's claws are of course retractile, as I have just described to you. But a dog's claws are rigid; that is, they are stiff and thrust out all the time. Why? Because the dog does not use its claws. It seizes its food with its mouth, not with its claws. It even defends itself with its mouth, that is, with its teeth.

But a feline uses its claws to seize its food, and even to defend itself. You may have noticed that even an ordinary cat defends itself with its claws. When a dog chases a cat and corners it, the cat turns and defends itself with its claws.

Once upon a time, many, many hundred years ago, the dog did use its claws; they were then retractile. But the dog stopped using its claws; then they became rigid. The dog lost the power of drawing in its claws.

In our own bodies, if we do not use a particular gift for a long time, we lose the power of using that gift. When we are born, our left hand is just as good as our right hand. But because we do not use the left hand much in doing things, we lose the power of using it quite as well as we use the right hand. Little boys and girls should practice using the left hand. Then if by some accident the right hand is lost, they would not be quite helpless.

As for the felines, they retain the full power of their claws by constant use. So, because the claws are very useful, every feline takes care of its claws, -- especially the tiger. Why, the tiger cleans his claws every day! In the jungle there are many trees that have a soft bark. So the tiger goes to one of these trees every day, and digs his claws into the bark. Then he draws his claws sideways along the bark, and that cleans out the claws. The tigress also cleans her claws every day in the same manner.

Some little boys and girls do not clean their nails every day. Then sometimes a piece of dirt gets in under a nail and causes a sore. But the tiger and tigress are wiser. If part of a piece of meat that they have torn up were to remain under a claw, it would fester and cause a sore. So the tiger and tigress clean their claws every day.


The Feline Has Padded Paws

The paws of every feline have also a special quality. The under part of each paw is thickly padded with powerful muscles. That gives the feline three advantages.

First advantage: it enables the feline to stalk its prey. That is, the feline can creep up to its prey quite silently. As its paws are padded, they make no sound on the ground -- just as your footfall makes no sound when you wear rubbers over your shoes.

Second advantage: the padded paw enables the feline to strike down its prey with a severe blow. When it wants to strike down its prey, the feline hardens the muscles under its paw; the blow of its paw is then something like that of a hammer. A tiger has often been known to smash the skull of a buffalo with a single blow of its paw.

Third advantage: the padded paws enable a feline to leap farther. After a feline has crept up as near to its prey as it can, it has still to leap upon its prey to seize it. Then the muscles under the paws act like springs, and enable the feline to give a big leap. Even in running, the muscles act somewhat like springs. You must have noticed that, in running, a dog gallops, but a cat bounds. That is, the dog moves its legs very quickly, but each space of ground it covers is not very long. A cat moves its legs not quite so quickly, but the space of ground it covers at each bound is much longer. The cat and all felines can give a bigger bound because of the muscles under their paws.

Having told you all the qualities common to animals of the Cat Tribe, I shall now describe some of these animals in detail.




Chapter VI

The Tiger


The tiger lives in most of the countries along the south coast of Asia, that is, all the way from Persia to China. Some tigers are also found in the northern countries of Asia, such as Siberia; but there are very few of them there. And, of course, these few tigers in the cold northern countries of Asia are a little different from those in the hot southern countries. For the tigers in the cold countries have thick fur on their skin, and a layer of fat under their skin -- just to keep them warm. So they are too fat to be as muscular and active as the slim and lithe tigers that live in the hot countries in the south of Asia.

Now please remember one thing more about the dwelling place of the tiger: there is no tiger in Africa. Even clever people do not always know that. When ex-President Roosevelt went on a hunting trip to Africa a few years ago, he shot many wild and ferocious animals there, and some newspapers said that he had shot several tigers.

That was a mistake. The animals that he shot were leopards, not tigers. You can at once tell the difference between a leopard and a tiger: a leopard is spotted, but a tiger is striped. I shall tell you all about that presently.

Even as regards the habits and character of the tiger, people often make mistakes. There is no animal that has been so much abused as the tiger. Most people call the tiger a "cruel" and "bloodthirsty" animal.

But that is not true. By "bloodthirsty" people usually mean that the tiger kills his prey for the mere sake of killing, and that he kills more animals than he can eat, just for the mere fun of killing.

That is not true. A tiger is not really "bloodthirsty" in that way, as I shall explain to you presently. A tiger never kills for the mere fun of killing. Some men and some naughty boys do that! They think it great sport to kill harmless wild animals, which they cannot possibly eat or use in any way; and some naughty boys kill frogs and lizards and other small animals, just for the mere "fun" of killing, as they call it.

A tiger never does that -- and he is supposed to be the worst animal of all! For one thing, a tiger is not such a fool as to kill his prey for the mere sake of killing. Men formerly ate the flesh of the American bison, or buffalo, as it was generally called. But then they killed off whole herds of these buffaloes. So now there are no more buffaloes left for food in those places. A tiger is wiser. He does not destroy his own food supply needlessly.

People are also wrong when they say that a tiger is "cruel," and that he tortures his prey before killing it outright. That is not true of the tiger. In fact, hardly any animal is needlessly cruel, as some men and naughty boys are -- for instance, naughty boys who torture frogs and lizards and then kill them.

It is true that a tigress does worry her prey before killing it. But why does she do so? Simply to teach her cubs how to catch and kill the prey, so as to provide food for themselves when they grow up. I shall explain that fully presently. So please remember this once for all: hardly any animal is needlessly cruel or bloodthirsty.

"But a cat does worry a mouse, before killing it," you may object. "Is not that needless cruelty?"

That seems quite true. But there is a reason for it: the cat first began to do that to teach her kittens how to catch mice, when she was a wild animal in the fields. Once upon a time the cat was a wild animal, but now people have tamed it into a domestic animal. So the cat still retains some of its wild habits.

But you will understand all that when I tell you more fully about the tiger, which is the largest and strongest animal of the Cat Tribe.


The Life History of the Tiger Family

I shall describe to you the actual life of a tiger family in the jungle. A tiger family consists of the father, the mother, and from two to four cubs. Three is the usual number of children that a tiger and tigress have.

When the cubs are only a few days old, they are quite helpless. So the mother stays with them in the den, while the father goes in search of food. The den is usually a hollow under a large tree.

If the father tiger catches a prey which he can carry, such as a deer, he brings it home with him. Then he and the tigress eat it together.

But if the prey is too large to carry, such as a bullock or a buffalo? Then the tiger first eats a good portion right after catching it. Then he comes home to the den and sends out the tigress to eat her share, while he stays home in the den and takes care of the cubs.

But here is something for you to think of. In sending the tigress out to eat her share of the prey, the tiger must tell her where the prey is lying; otherwise she might go the wrong way. Why? Because the prey might be lying a mile or more from the den, so that she could not possibly trace it merely by its scent. And the prey might have been caught in any direction, especially if the tiger had to chase it or stalk it for a long distance. So nobody could tell beforehand in what direction a tiger might catch its prey.

The tigress could not merely follow the tiger's paw marks to get to the prey, as the tiger may have gone out several times that day or the day before; and so there would be several lines of paw marks, and she would have to search very long by following all the paw marks in turn. Yet she always takes the right direction, and gets to the prey quickly. Hunters in the jungle have found that out. How does she do it?

The only way to explain it is this -- the tiger tells her where the prey has been caught and is now lying. That is what hunters believe from the actual facts they have observed. Then that shows that animals have a method of communicating with one another. Of course they do not use our words. They must have words or sounds, or even signs, of their own.

Now I shall go on with the tiger family. The cubs, of course, drink their mother's milk. They do that till they are three months old.

But meanwhile, when they are six weeks old, they can walk and trot. They are then very playful, and they leap and gambol and tumble over one another.

They are then able to go about with their father and mother for a short distance. So if food gets scarce for the tiger and tigress, they leave their old den altogether, and go to live elsewhere in the jungle where food may be more plentiful.

In this house-moving the cubs can trot behind their father and mother for a mile or two. Then, for fear of tiring the cubs, the tiger and tigress scoop a hollow under a tree, and place them there. The tiger and tigress go on ahead till they find the new home. Then they come back to fetch the cubs.

If the cubs are now two months old, the father and mother need have no fear in leaving them for a few hours. So in their new home the tigress may go hunting with the tiger every day.

If food gets very scarce, the tiger goes out alone for a long distance for two or three days at a time. In his absence, the tigress makes a short trip from time to time in another direction, in case any other kind of food may by chance be found there.

Tigers prefer to eat deer or antelope, just as you may prefer to eat roast turkey. But if tigers cannot get deer or antelope, they have to catch a bullock or a buffalo -- which is just plain beef! As even that may be scarce, tigers have to be satisfied with the wild pigs, which are plentiful in the jungle, -- that is, just pork! As a change now and again, they may have mutton, because there are also wild sheep and wild goats in the jungle.

But when the tiger and tigress are both away from the den in search of food, are the cubs quite safe in the den?

They usually are, after they are two months old, when they are as big as house dogs; and, until then, either the tiger or the tigress stays with them all the time. When the cubs are two months old, they may stay by themselves in the den; then a wolf or a hyena may perhaps come to the den, and try to kill one of the cubs; but all the cubs would stand together, facing the enemy, and would defend themselves.

They would change at once from being playful like kittens; they would become little tigers in their nature. And woe to the wolf or hyena when the mother returns! She would know at once by the cubs' actions that they had been annoyed. Then the tigress would track down the intruder and kill it.

At the age of three months the cubs can eat meat, but they cannot chew it as yet, as their teeth are only beginning to grow. So the mother chews the meat for them. If she or the tiger has caught a deer, she chooses the tenderest part of the meat, and chews it into mincemeat. Then she puts a little of it into the mouth of each cub. She does that several times, till the cubs have had enough to eat.

When the cubs are four months old, their teeth have grown enough to enable them to feed entirely by themselves -- but only on very tender meat.


The Tiger's Family Dinner

It is very interesting to watch a tiger family having their dinner. I may remind you again that some hunters who go into the jungle sometimes hide in trees and watch the family life of different animals. So this is what they have observed at the tiger's family dinner.

Suppose that the tiger has brought home a blue deer, which is a great delicacy among tigers. He drops the blue deer in front of the den. He and the tigress lie down and watch the cubs, who eat first. The tiger or the tigress will not tell the cubs which portion of the deer is the tenderest; they must find that out by themselves. That will be their first lesson in life.

So the tiger and tigress keep aside, and see what their children do. One of the cubs makes a sudden grab at a leg of the deer, and tries to tear out a mouthful; but to its disgust the cub finds that it cannot bite the leg of the deer at all. I suppose then the father tiger gives a sort of wink at the mother tigress; at any rate, the tiger and tigress just look on, and say nothing.

Then another cub has a bite; perhaps it tries the back of the deer's neck. But this cub also finds to its disgust that its teeth will not go through the meat there.

In this way the cubs jump about the deer, and try to bite it in different parts. They get more and more disgusted; but still the father tiger and mother tigress say nothing.

Then at last one of the cubs dives in, and makes a grab at the throat of the deer -- and to its delight it finds that the meat there is quite tender, and that it can tear out a piece very easily. Of course that cub eats it quite greedily, and then has several more mouthfuls. But then -- 

"You have had enough!" says its father. "Give Brother and Sister a chance!" Of course the father tiger does not say that in our words; and he need not say it in any kind of words. He just comes to that cub and tumbles it over with a gentle pat.

Then the other cubs come to the throat of the deer, and have their dinner also. As there is not sufficient meat there to satisfy all of them, they soon find that the under part of the deer is also tender enough for them to eat.

The father tiger and mother tigress eat last, when all the children are satisfied. The tiger and tigress of course can eat any kind of meat, so they eat the legs of the deer. And if it is a deer of ordinary size, the tiger family finishes it altogether at one meal!

So you see how kind the tiger and tigress are to their children. Suppose that among us there was a family of five people, father and mother, and three children; and suppose they were having a turkey dinner. Then if the father and mother were as kind to their children as the tiger and tigress are, they would give to their children the breast and all the nicest titbits of the turkey -- and after that the father and mother would eat what remained of the turkey.

That shows that a tiger is an affectionate father, whatever faults he may have. Among animals, the mothers, of course, are nearly always affectionate to their children; but very often the fathers are not. In fact, among some kinds of animals in the jungle, the fathers do not care much for their children; they desert them.

But the tiger is different; he is usually a good father. That is an important thing to remember. It shows that even if an animal is supposed to be very bad generally, it may yet have some special virtues of its own. That is a lesson for us. We may know people who are supposed to be bad; but even then we should try to find out if they have some good quality.




Chapter VII

The Tiger Cubs' Lessons


Do tiger children have lessons? Of course they have! Almost all animal children have. You will remember the lessons in Book I which the elephant child had to learn. In the same manner other animal children must learn how to make a living in the jungle, and also how to avoid dangers.

Among tiger children, their lessons begin even when the father and mother are providing them with the food; for, as I have just told you, the children must learn at least which part of the meat to eat, and which not to eat.

But the most important thing they have to learn is how to catch the prey, and how to kill it for themselves -- that is, how to provide their own food. Their parents teach them to do that gradually from time to time, in many lessons.


Tiger Cubs Learn to Kill Prey, After their Parents have Caught It

As they are not yet big enough to catch the prey, they are first taught how to kill the prey, after their father or mother has caught it alive for them. And that is another wonder of the jungle, and another good quality of the tiger. If the tiger catches a deer, even the largest kind of deer, he could kill it at one blow, so as to eat it at once. But if the tiger is the father of a young family, he thinks of his family all the time; he remembers that he must not only provide his young children with food, but he must also teach them their lessons.

So when he finds a big red stag, he jumps upon it, but he does not kill it outright. Instead, he merely breaks its hind legs, so that the stag cannot run away. Then he calls the cubs and the mother tigress. The tiger and tigress stand aside, and tell their children to kill the stag. They will not at first show the children how to do it. The children must try first to find that out for themselves.

So the cubs first prowl around the stag, and try to seize it anywhere. But the cubs cannot get their teeth deep enough into the stag's body; and as the stag is still alive, it shakes them off. The cubs try to seize the stag at other parts of its body, but each time they fail to hold on; instead, the stag shakes them off. And if the cubs dare to come in front of the stag, the stag can still use its antlers to drive them off.

Then how can the tiger cubs manage to seize the prey at all with their teeth? Well, one of the cubs may remember the very first lesson it had several weeks before: that was to eat the throat of the prey, because it was the softest part -- as I have already described to you. So it remembers that the throat is the softest part.

Then that cub comes to the side of the stag, makes a sudden plunge downward, and seizes it by the throat. Even then the stag tries to shake off the cub -- but the other two cubs then come to their brother's help; they also seize the stag by the throat, one from each side.

Thus the three cubs begin to worry the prey, that is, they shake it, and pull it, while their father and mother watch them. The prey holds up its head and struggles, but gets more and more exhausted with the weight of the three cubs. At last the prey is unable to hold up its head any more. Its head sinks to the ground. Then the three cubs kill it easily.


Tiger Cubs Take Part in Hunt to Catch Prey

When the cubs are six months old, they can take part in the actual hunt for the prey. So they go into the jungle with their father and mother. When they sight the prey, the cubs stay a little behind, while the father and mother stalk the prey.

Suppose the prey is an antelope. You will remember what I told you in Book I, that an antelope looks like a deer; but it is a little different from a deer, because an antelope has horns, and a deer has antlers. Well, the tiger creeps around to the side, then more and more around, till he gets behind the antelope.

Meanwhile the tigress creeps around the opposite way. So when the tiger makes a sudden jump at the antelope, and the antelope tries to run away in either direction, the tiger or the tigress is there to catch it. And meanwhile the cubs also have crept nearer and nearer, hiding behind shrubs and bushes. They can take part in catching the prey by preventing it from escaping in their direction.


Tiger Cubs Learn to Catch Prey by Themselves

"But when do the tiger cubs actually learn to catch the prey?" you may ask.

Well, that takes a little longer to learn. For when the cubs have learned to catch different kinds of prey -- wild pigs, wild sheep, wild goats, deer, antelope, cattle -- their education is almost finished, just as in the case of a boy who has learned to earn his living in several different ways. So it takes the tiger cubs at least the next four months, from the age of six months to ten months, to learn to catch different kinds of prey, as I shall now describe to you.

In the beginning the cubs learn by example; that is, they watch and see how their father or mother catches the prey. Some kinds of prey are very easy to catch, such as wild pigs or wild sheep, as they cannot run fast, and are also very stupid. A tiger can just rush at a wild pig or a wild sheep, and catch it. So the cubs soon learn to do the same. And as I have already told you that wild pigs and wild sheep are the usual food of tigers, the cubs soon learn to earn their ordinary living.

But then they have to learn a little more difficult lesson -- to catch animals which are not so easily caught; and these animals supply them with a more tasty kind of food than just pork or mutton. These animals may be divided into two classes.

First, the prey may be weak, but it can run fast -- even faster than the tiger. The deer and the antelope belong to this class.

The second class of prey is just the opposite; it is strong, but it cannot run fast -- at least, not as fast as the tiger. Buffaloes, bullocks, and all kinds of cattle belong to this class.

In catching these two different kinds of prey, the tiger or the tigress uses different methods. First I shall describe to you how a tiger catches an animal of the first kind, that is, an animal that is weak, but which can run faster than the tiger, such as a deer.

Can you think how the tiger does that? He cannot chase the deer and run it down in the open country, because the deer can run faster than the tiger.

"The tiger can hide in the tall grass near a river, and wait for a deer to come to drink," you may say. "Then the tiger can jump on it."

That is quite true. And the black stripes on the tiger's yellow body make him appear very much like the tall grass where he is hiding. So the deer does not notice the tiger, and it often comes quite close to the tiger to drink -- and then the tiger jumps on it and catches it.

But a tiger may also catch a deer by stalking it. If he sees a deer browsing at a distance, he tries to creep quietly toward the deer. He hides behind bushes and thickets every few minutes, then he creeps on again toward the deer. He does that very cleverly. If the deer is bent on feeding, the tiger creeps on for a few yards. But if for a moment the deer stops feeding, the tiger hides at once.

In this manner the tiger sometimes creeps to within a few yards of the deer. Then he gives a sudden spring and falls on the deer. If he cannot approach the deer near enough to fall on it with just a spring, he first makes a swift rush and then he gives the spring.

When a tiger or a tigress is teaching the cubs to stalk a prey in that manner, the cubs of course stay in the rear and hide behind a bush, and from there they watch. So they see how their father or mother stalks the prey -- as I have just described to you. Of course, they have to watch their father or mother several times before they learn that lesson fully.

Now I shall tell you how a tiger catches prey of the other kind -- that is, an animal that is strong, but which cannot run fast, such as a bullock. The tiger comes toward the prey from the side or from the back, but never from the front. Why? Because the prey has horns, and if the tiger tried to attack it from the front, the prey would gore the tiger with its horns and perhaps kill the tiger.

So the tiger creeps toward the prey from the side or the back. As the prey cannot run very fast, the tiger does not trouble to stalk it all the way. Instead, the tiger creeps up to within a hundred yards of the prey; then he gives a number of quick rushes, till he reaches the prey. And he is always careful to reach the prey from the side or the back.

"But if the prey turns in time and faces the tiger with its horns?" you may ask.

Then the tiger turns also. He dodges from side to side. A tiger can always turn faster than any horned cattle. A tiger may even come to within a few yards of the prey, and jump clear over it! Then on landing on the ground, the tiger can turn at once and reach the prey from the side. Then he gives a quick blow with his paw on the neck of the prey. One blow is usually enough to stun the prey and knock it down.

Sometimes the prey is so frightened when it first sees the tiger, that it does not try to face the tiger with its horns at all. Instead, the prey stands trembling with terror, and lets the tiger come right up to it from the side. Then the tiger gets up on his hind legs, places one paw on the prey's shoulder, and with the other paw he gives a terrific blow on its neck.

But if the prey is not too frightened, and it struggles when the tiger is trying to strike it, then the tiger uses a different method. He plunges downward and seizes the prey from underneath by the throat. He plants his hind legs firmly on the ground, a little bit away from the side of the prey. In that way he gets a little more "leverage," as it is called.

You have seen a man tilt a heavy box over on its side by placing a crowbar under it, then lifting up the crowbar. Well, the tiger acts somewhat like that. While still holding the prey by its throat in his jaws, he gives a sudden jerk upward with his head. In that way the prey loses its balance and topples over on its side, just like the box.

When the tiger or the tigress is teaching the cubs to catch horned cattle in these different ways, the cubs of course stay a little behind and watch how their father or mother does it.

So in every case, as you will understand, the tiger cubs have to learn from their parents how to get their living in the jungle.




Chapter VIII

The Tigress Mother's Special Duties


So far I have described to you how the tiger cubs learn the lessons of the jungle from their father and mother.

But sometimes they have to learn some of their lessons from their mother alone. Food may be scarce in that part of the jungle. A tiger family eats so much that even if they catch a large wild pig or a deer every day, it will hardly provide more than a single meal for a tiger, a tigress, and two or three growing cubs.

And as they do not usually catch prey every day, the family eats only about two or three times a week. When the cubs are from six to ten months old and need more and more food, one prey at a time is not enough to provide for the whole family -- if they all live together. So it is better for the family that the father should go away and catch his own food, while the mother catches food for herself and the cubs.

But before going to earn his living elsewhere, the tiger takes his family to the easiest hunting ground there is near their jungle, where there is at least some kind of prey to catch. Then the tiger himself goes to a more difficult hunting ground. So even in that a tiger is kind to his family, and he does the best he can for them.

At first he returns to the family every few days; I suppose he does that to see how they are getting along in his absence. By that time the cubs have learned most of their lessons, and the mother tigress continues the lessons during the tiger's absence.

But after the cubs are ten months old, they have learned all their lessons; they only need to practice what they have learned. As they can do that with their mother, they do not need their father any more. So the tiger then goes on his travels to distant parts.

As the cubs practice with their mother the different ways of catching and killing the prey, she must provide them with many chances of doing so. It is then that she helps the cubs to kill more animals than they can eat. That is why people give the tiger a bad name and call him a "bloodthirsty" animal. It is not he at all, but the tigress mother. And she helps to kill a large number of animals only at this time -- when she must provide her cubs with the chance of practicing their lessons.

The tiger cubs do not need even their mother when they are two years old. By that time they are quite able to get their own living by catching every kind of prey. But still they usually stay on with their mother for about six months more. Then they leave their mother, and roam the jungle alone, each cub separately.

But each cub still continues to grow in size till the age of four years. A male tiger may even grow in strength till he is six years old.

But you may want to know if a tiger family ever meet again after they have all separated. That may sometimes happen. It may be in the dry season, when nearly all the water in the jungle is dried up. Then by some wonderful instinct all the animals in the different parts of that dry region know that there may be one place where there is water. So a general migration begins toward that place; that is, all the animals begin to travel to that place with their families.

These animals may start from different places a hundred miles apart, and yet after a few days they will get to that same Water Hole. Of course they do not all reach it on the same day; but many of the animals stay near there for a few days, till the rain comes and there is water in other places. So it does happen that a tiger family may meet again at the Water Hole, and then there is a happy reunion among them.


The Truce of the Water Hole

But the tiger family must not kill a prey at the Water Hole. And all other flesh-eating animals -- lions and leopards, and wolves and hyenas -- must also abstain from killing prey there. Hundreds of pigs and sheep and deer may have come to drink at the Water Hole -- - and every flesh-eating animal must abstain from killing any one of the pigs or sheep or deer.

This "Truce of the Water Hole" is one of the greatest wonders of the jungle. It means that in other parts of the jungle there may be a kind of war, because flesh-eating animals may kill and eat their prey, but when all the different animals meet to quench their thirst at the Water Hole, there must be no war -- no killing, no fighting. There must be peace at that place while the different animals are there.

At the Water Hole the tiger and the lamb may drink together in peace; and hungry as the tiger may be, he must not hurt the lamb. And the wonder of it is that the tiger knows that law, and always keeps it. Likewise all other flesh-eating animals always keep that law; they never hurt even the weakest and most timid animal at the Water Hole.

They all feel that they have come there for a greater need than hunger -- they have come there to quench their thirst; and the pain of thirst is greater than the pain of hunger.

They feel that the pain of thirst is common to them all; that is, they all suffer from that pain. Different animals eat different things; but they must all drink water. And in that fellow feeling there is peace among them all.

My dear children, let me impress this upon your minds, while you are still young. When you grow up, you may sometimes be tempted to doubt that an all-merciful Providence watches over us. Then remember these wonders of the jungle that I have described to you. And remember especially the Water Hole, where all animals are like brothers, where even the tiger and the lamb drink and lie down together in peace.




Chapter IX

The Special Qualities of Tiger and Tigress


Now I am going to tell you a few more things about the tiger, from which you will realize what a wonderful animal he is.

First, the tiger's size. The finest specimen of the tiger is the Royal Bengal tiger. Such a tiger, when full grown, is sometimes seven feet long, without including the tail; the tail is usually half as long as the body. The tigress is slightly smaller.

In height a Bengal tiger often measures three and a half feet from the shoulder to the ground; so his head would be more than four feet from the ground. Hence, if you take his length into account, you will understand that the tiger is really the largest feline or animal of the Cat Tribe.

I do not think that you have often seen a really large tiger in the zoo. Most of the tigers in a zoo were caught as cubs; that is, the mother or the father was shot by hunters, and the cubs were captured alive.

Now, just think. If a human child were locked up in a room all his life, without any exercise, then he would be very stunted and small, even when he had reached the age of a man. So a tiger cub, brought up in a cage all its life, never grows to its proper size. For this reason most of the tigers in a zoo are much smaller than those tigers that grow up in the jungle.

The most wonderful thing about the tiger is his strength; he is the strongest animal of the Cat Tribe. That is proved by the way in which he carries his prey. If the prey be a deer or a man, he seizes the prey in his jaws by the middle of the body -- just as a cat seizes a mouse! And the tiger carries such a prey in that manner to his den, which may be more than a mile away.

But a heavy animal, such as a cow, he carries in a different manner. Yes, a tiger carries away a cow; he does not merely drag it along the ground, as a lion does. This is the way the tiger carries a cow, after killing it:

He first seizes the cow in his jaws by the back of its neck. Then he rears up on his hind legs and swings the cow over his shoulder on to his back -- just as a man swings a loaded sack on to his back. Then the tiger stands on all four legs again, and trots along with his burden. Of course, he still holds the neck of the cow in his jaws, just as the man carrying the sack holds the upper end of the sack in his hand.

I shall now finish with tigers by telling you three stories, -- true stories, of course. From these stories you will understand that tigers and tigresses sometimes have the same kind of feelings that we have.


Both Tiger and Tigress Defend their Cubs

I have told you that in a tiger family, when the cubs are very young, they must be guarded all the time by either their father or their mother. One day it happened that a tiger had killed a bullock. As he could not carry it to his den, he first ate enough of the bullock to satisfy his hunger. Then he came home to his den, and sent the tigress out to eat her share, while he guarded their two cubs in the den.

But three English officers had gone hunting in the jungle, each of them on an elephant; and it so happened that they came toward the tiger's den.

The three hunters saw the tiger and the two cubs he was guarding. The hunters knew that if they killed the tiger they could catch the two cubs alive. So they fired their guns at once at the tiger; and as they were then only about a hundred yards away, they all hit the tiger.

Now, if the tiger had not had the cubs to defend, there would not have been much of a fight. Why? Because, as I shall tell you later, it usually takes much more than three hunters on three elephants to hunt one tiger. Each of the three wounds the tiger got might have killed or disabled any other wild animal; but instead, the three wounds together only made the tiger furious.

If he had been alone, he would have come like a flash of lightning at the nearest elephant, leaped upon its back, and killed the hunter on it -- before the hunter could shoot again. Of course, the other two hunters could then kill the tiger; but the tiger would at least have killed one of the hunters.

That is exactly what the tiger would have done, if he had been alone. But the tiger had his children to defend. He must try to guard them as well as he could. So he just took one of the cubs in his mouth -- as you have seen a cat take up her kitten -- and leaped with the cub over a thicket and hid the cub there.

Then he leaped back to the den to take away the second cub. That gave the three hunters enough time to load and take aim again. So all three of the hunters fired at the tiger again, just as he was lifting up the second cub; and the bullets went through his heart. If he had been any other animal, he would have dropped dead right there. But a tiger lives about three seconds after he ought to be dead; and in those three seconds he can give just one leap and kill anything.

But the hunters were beyond his reach. So he gave that one leap toward them, and tore up the ground instead, as he could not tear up the men; then he agreed to lie down and be truly dead.

The three hunters got down from their elephants and came to the den. They found that one of the last bullets had passed right through the tiger's body, and had killed the cub he was trying to carry to safety. The hunters were sorry that the cub had been killed. So they searched for the first cub, which the tiger had hidden behind the thicket. They found the cub and took it with them.

The hunters mounted their elephants and came back to their tent, where they had been staying. They put a dog's steel collar around the neck of the cub, and tied him up to the tent post by a chain. The cub was so frightened and helpless that it lay down on the ground and was very quiet. The three men sat down in the tent and chatted for a while.

Suddenly they heard a terrible roar outside. They snatched up their guns, but they could not tell from which side the roar came -- just as when you hear a terrible clap of thunder close by, you cannot tell from which side the thunder comes. And hearing this roar, the cub jumped up and yelped in answer; and he tugged at his chain furiously. He had become a little tiger in his nature.

Suddenly a huge yellow form shot into the tent. It was a tigress. She seized the cub's collar in her mouth, and snapped the chain with a tug, like a piece of thread. The next second she leaped out of the tent with the cub, and vanished. And the three men had not had time to aim a gun. None of them really wished to.

Yes, she was the mother of the cub. When she had returned home from dinner, she had found her home broken up -- her husband killed, one of her children killed, and the other child stolen. So, all that she could do was to regain her lost child by tracing it by its scent.

This she did. She regained her cub even by facing the same guns that had killed her husband. For a tigress mother, like any other mother in the jungle, will face death to save her child.


The Tiger Family's Lost Dinner

Now I shall tell you another true story. It will show you what sort of a husband and father in everyday life a tiger is.

Near a jungle there was a river. At a special place in the river there was a bend. It was a good place for fishing, as the water there had plenty of fish.

One afternoon two men went to fish there with fishing rods. As there was a jungle about a mile from the place, the men took their guns with them, in case any wild animals came from the jungle to attack them.

After a time one of the men hooked a fish. It must have been a big fish, as it tugged at the line furiously. The man who had hooked the fish had to run along the bank of the river to play the fish, while his friend kept shouting to him to advise him what to do. In this way both the men were busy, and forgot to think of anything else.

Suddenly they saw a flash of yellow. It came straight from a bush toward the man who had hooked the fish. It was a tiger!

The tiger must have stalked the two men silently from the jungle; and in that way he must have crept up to the bush, while the two men were busy trying to land the fish.

The tiger gave a rush and a leap, and fell upon the man who had hooked the fish. He grabbed the man and leaped back with him into the bush, before the other man could snatch up his gun and take aim to save his friend.

Now you will remember what I told you: that a tiger carries a man in his jaws just as a cat carries a mouse; that is, the tiger holds the man by the middle of his body, about the waist.

Luckily the man was wearing a waistband of thick cloth; so the tiger's fangs did not hurt the man very severely, as the fangs happened to bite the thick waistband. But still the man had been stunned by the shock when the tiger had leaped upon him. And the tiger thought that he had killed the man outright. That was very lucky for the man -- as you will understand presently.

The man regained his senses while the tiger was still carrying him. He knew at once that he was in the jaws of a tiger. That is perhaps the most terrible danger for a man to be in. Few men have ever been in the very jaws of a tiger in the heart of the jungle -- and yet have escaped.

The man knew that, and so he was terribly frightened. But life is so precious that one must never despair of saving his life. If you are in the most terrible danger, you must never give up hope. You must try to find some way of escape.

So the man began thinking, even while the tiger was carrying him. He made up his mind at once. He must pretend to be dead. So he did not move or make the least bit of sound. Even then he did not see how he could escape, as the tiger would soon start eating him! But still he would not despair.

The tiger carried the man to his den in the jungle. The den was just a hollow in the ground under a large tree. The tiger dumped the man into the hollow. The man thought his end had now come. He could not escape from right in front of the tiger's eyes. And he thought that the tiger would start eating him at once. Even though he was really alive, the tiger would eat him just the same.

But, to his surprise, the tiger did not start eating him at once. Instead, the tiger looked around, and gave a purr, and then a growl. What did that mean? The man could not tell.

Then the tiger just flung upon the man some of the sand from the side of the hollow. The man understood that: the tiger was trying to hide or cache his food -- as some wild animals do.

But luckily the tiger only flung the sand loosely over the man, just enough to cover him; he did not quite bury the man; or else the man might have been smothered. Then the tiger ran off into the jungle.

The man was puzzled to know what the tiger meant by that. But you may be sure the man did not wait to work out the puzzle in his mind. Instead, he jumped up from the hollow. Here was his chance to escape!

But he was afraid to run far; for the tiger might return at any moment and catch him again. So the man just climbed up the tree under which the den was. And he went up the tree as high as he could, and hid himself among the leaves.

After a while he heard a sound below, at a little distance. He looked down and saw the tiger returning. But now there was a tigress with him, and two cubs.

Then the man understood the puzzle. When the tiger had brought home the dinner, he had found that his wife and children were out. So he waited a while; and as they still did not come home, he first looked around for them, and then he gave a loud call to his family to come to dinner. That was the purr and growl he gave.

As they still did not come home, the tiger just hid the dinner to keep it safe, and then he went out to fetch his family home to dinner.

But when he did fetch them, the dinner had run away! Then the tiger family set up such a wail and lament over the lost dinner!

"I felt quite sorry for them," said the man up in the tree, afterward. "They kept up the wailing and growling and lamenting for a long time. Only, as it was I who was to have been the tigers' dinner, I wasn't so very sorry that the dinner had escaped!"

Meanwhile, the other man who had been fishing with him had run to the nearest village. The villagers got together a herd of bull buffaloes, and started tracking the tiger by the paw marks he had made on the ground. In this way the villagers brought the bull buffaloes to the tiger's den.

The bull buffaloes soon drove away the tiger family. The villagers expected to see only the man's bones or half-eaten body. But still they had come to make quite sure of the man's fate.

What was their delight, then, to hear a shout, as soon as the tiger family had been driven away! The shout came from the tree. It was from the man who had been carried away by the tiger. You may be quite sure that he was very glad to climb down and go home with the villagers.

Now, my dear children, I have told you this story -- and it is a true story -- for two reasons. First, it shows you that you must never give up hope, even in the worst danger. If a man can escape from the very jaws of a tiger in the heart of the jungle, he may be able to escape from other dangers.

The second thing I want you to learn is that, bad as he is supposed to be, a tiger is really a good husband and a good father, even in ordinary everyday life. When he had earned the dinner, and had brought it home, he found that his family was out. He might have started eating the dinner himself. Instead, he waited for his family to return, then he called out to them, and then he went to fetch them -- without eating a bite himself. How many men would do that?


The Tiger as a Heroic Husband

Now I shall tell you another true story, which will show you in a different manner what a wonderful animal the tiger is. It is the story of a great tiger hunt.

A few years ago Prince Henry of Orleans was one of the greatest hunters in the world. He had hunted lions and wild elephants in Africa, and also other big wild animals. Then he went to India, hoping to hunt tigers.

There he was the guest of a rajah, that is, a sort of king. So the rajah arranged a tiger hunt for Prince Henry. In a jungle near by there were many wild animals. On the north side of the jungle there was a shallow ravine, only about ten feet deep, and as wide as a street. The ravine started from the jungle and went northward. Beyond the jungle the ravine ran for only about a hundred yards; beyond that the ground was level again.

It was right there on the level ground, in front of the ravine, that the rajah placed the hunters. The hunters were mounted on thirty elephants, two hunters on each elephant; so there were sixty hunters altogether. The two hunters on each elephant sat in a kind of big box, called a howdah. The box was tied fast on the elephant's back with strong ropes passed all round the elephant.

Meanwhile about a thousand men started toward the jungle from the fields on the south side of the jungle. As they came near the jungle, the men made a loud noise with drums. So all the timid animals in the jungle took fright and began to run away. These timid animals were the deer, the antelope, the wild pigs, the wild goats, and other small animals. They ran away into the open country on the right side and left side, that is, toward the east and the west.

Then as the thousand men came still nearer the jungle from the south side, they began to stretch out in a long line to the right and to the left. And then the men bent forward the two ends of the line in a curve toward the jungle. In that way they began to enclose the jungle, as fishermen enclose fish in a net. The men now made a still louder noise by firing their guns. At this the bigger and more obstinate animals in the jungle began to run away.

By this time the men had enclosed the jungle on three sides -- the south, the east, and the west -- until only the north side of the jungle was still open. And that was where the ravine started from the jungle northward.

The big animals ran along the ravine to escape from the jungle. But they did not know that the sixty hunters on the thirty elephants were waiting for them at the end of the ravine.

So as each animal emerged at the far end of the ravine, it was shot by the hunters. At first these animals were leopards, bears, wolves, and a few small tigers.

Then something wonderful happened, as I shall now tell you. In that jungle there was a big tiger and a tigress. They had recently been married, that is, the tigress had chosen the tiger as her husband -- for in the jungle it is usually the wife who chooses the husband. So the tiger was very attentive to the tigress. Wherever she went, he always walked with her to protect her. He also caught the prey for her, sometimes alone and sometimes with her help.

This big tiger and tigress were in the jungle, when they heard the noise of drums and guns that the men were making. Being the most obstinate animal in the jungle, the big tiger did not want to move at all. But perhaps he thought that it would be best for his wife to go away from that jungle. So she and he went into the ravine, hoping to escape.

But they too did not know that the sixty hunters were waiting at the end of the ravine to shoot them as soon as they emerged.

So the tiger and tigress walked calmly through the ravine, and emerged into the open country at the end of it.

Now I must tell you that in a tiger hunt of this kind the guest of honor has the place of danger, which was in this case right in front of the ravine. So Prince Henry waited right there on his elephant, and the hunters on the other elephants were placed in a line on his right side and left side.

This is what happened. When the tiger and tigress emerged from the ravine, they suddenly saw the line of hunters blocking their path. At the same time the hunters also saw the tiger and tigress. Now I must tell you that it is a rule that only the front man on each elephant may fire his gun at once, and the man with him must reserve his shot, in case the front man misses and the tiger comes nearer. So, as soon as they saw the tiger and tigress, the thirty front men on the thirty elephants fired their guns.

But it takes at least a second for the quickest man to aim his gun and fire; and a tiger can make up his mind to do something, and do it, in less than a second. So in that time the tiger told his wife what to do.

I do not know what language tigers use among themselves, but she understood what he meant. And she did it!

This is what she did. Like a flash of lightning she leaped toward the side. So when the hail of thirty bullets came, she was not there where the hunters had aimed. Not a single bullet hit her. And in the same instant the tiger had also leaped -- but onward. Some of the bullets wounded him, but not very severely, as the hunters did not have time to aim exactly.

He knew that he must engage the attention of all the sixty men to give his wife enough time to escape. So, wounded as he was, he leaped again, straight onward.

Then the thirty men who had reserved their shot saw a terrible sight. They saw the tiger coming straight toward the nearest elephant -- Prince Henry's elephant, right in front of the ravine. The thirty men pointed their guns at the tiger. They may have vaguely seen that the tigress was escaping; but their whole anxiety was about the terrible tiger leaping straight toward them.

All the thirty men fired at him. But as the tiger was leaping onward all the time, they could not take aim properly. So if any of the bullets wounded the tiger again, the wounds were not severe.

The tiger came to the elephant on which Prince Henry was. With a huge bound the tiger leaped upward toward the box on the elephant.

So far the elephant had stood still. Being well trained, he knew that he must not move while the men on him were firing; they must do the fighting. But when the tiger had apparently beaten all the men and was actually leaping on him, the elephant had a new duty to do: he must swerve aside. So the elephant swerved aside just as the tiger was alighting on the box on his back.

So the tiger missed his aim; instead of landing right upon the box and killing the two men instantly, his paws only reached the elephant's head. Into the elephant's head he dug his claws, and tried to scramble up.

On the neck of the elephant the mahout had been seated. He was not a hunter, but only the man who guides the elephant. So when he saw the tiger leaping upon the elephant, the mahout just dropped off on the other side, and escaped into the bushes. The tiger could have jumped down on him and killed him; but the tiger scorned to touch so humble a prey. He wanted instead to get at the hunters, who had tried to kill him and his wife.

So the tiger dug his claws on the elephant's head, paw over paw, and tried to climb up to the elephant's back. Maddened with the pain, the elephant began to rock and sway. The two men on the box could not use their guns again, as they had to clutch the box with both hands, or else they would have been thrown to the ground -- then the tiger would have fallen on them and killed them in an instant. The two men could do nothing to save themselves.

The fifty-eight other hunters had now reloaded their guns. Those who were nearest pointed their guns at the tiger.

"Don't shoot!" the rajah cried out. "You might hit the two men!"

That was quite true. For now the elephant was so maddened with terror and with the pain, that he was swaying, bucking, rearing. Nobody could take correct aim at the tiger.

Span by span the tiger climbed up, nearer and nearer to the box. The two helpless men in it saw the tiger's flaming eyes a yard in front of them, and they saw the tiger's fangs crashing together as if to crunch their bones.

A minute more, and these two men must die -- in sight of the fifty-eight other hunters.

Then again something wonderful happened. The men could do nothing. But not so the elephant! He could do something!

The elephant recovered from his fright. He remembered all the clever tricks he had learned in his youth in the jungle, like Salar, of whom I have told you in Book I. This elephant remembered what he too could do with his trunk.

So the elephant began to curl his trunk around the tiger's neck. The tiger felt the end of the trunk creeping around his neck.

Then the tiger knew that in the next minute the elephant's trunk would grip him by the neck and tear him off from the elephant's head; and then the elephant would bring him to the ground and trample him to death.

The tiger did not wait for that. He had scorned the sixty men -- some of whom were the best hunters of the world -- but he was too wise to scorn the elephant. And the tiger knew that by this time his wife must be safe.

So the tiger dropped to the ground, ran past the rear of the elephant, and vanished into the bushes. And while he did that, not one of the hunters had time even to point a gun at him.

Once only did the hunters catch sight of the tiger again. After the tigress had escaped, she must have worked her way around to the thick bushes behind the hunters; and there she must have been waiting for her husband. A few minutes later the men caught a glimpse of the tiger and tigress, husband and wife, walking together leisurely beyond those bushes, across a short open space, toward the next jungle. There they would live in the future.

And as the hunters saw that sight of the tiger and tigress walking away with stately steps beyond the reach of their guns, Prince Henry took off his hat to the tiger!

"Gentlemen, I am glad that he got away!" he said to the other hunters. "I do not think that any man in history has ever charged sixty enemies single-handed, and has gained his purpose -- to save the life of one dear to him."

Then Prince Henry wiped his forehead, pretending that he had taken off his hat to do that!

And so the famous tiger hunt was over. It often happens like that, in spite of sixty hunters and a thousand other men: five minutes of thrilling excitement -- and then it is all over! I must tell you that if you go to hunt a tiger, even with all that preparation, you never really know whether you are going to hunt the tiger, or the tiger is going to hunt you! And if you do not have elephants to help you, the chances are that the tiger will hunt you.

Men, with all their guns and other inventions, can in some cases be saved from some animals only by other animals -- from tigers by elephants and buffaloes, as I have described to you.




Chapter X

The Lion


I shall now tell you about other felines or animals of the Cat Tribe. The lion looks the grandest of all such animals -- I suppose just because he has a mane.

Most lions live in Africa. There are some lions in Arabia and Persia, which are the two countries in Asia nearest to Africa. A few lions are also found in a jungle on the west side of India. These lions in the countries of Asia are not as big as the African lion.

Then there is also a species of lion in America, though he has no mane. He is called the puma; but people in the Western states often call him a cougar or mountain lion.

The puma is found chiefly in North America; he is also found in Central and South America, but not so often.

In the United States the puma lives mostly in the mountains of the Far West. He is very fond of deer flesh; and as there are still plenty of deer in the forest reserves in the Far West, the puma has managed to survive there. But in the Middle West, where there are fewer deer, there are hardly any pumas.

The puma is seldom able to attack cattle. But when pressed by hunger in the winter, he sometimes descends from the mountains to the plains below, and tries at least to steal sheep from the farms.

The puma usually avoids men, especially as the men there often carry guns. But still, when made desperate by hunger, the puma has even been known to attack a man on a lonely farm.

In size this American lion, like the lions that live in Asia, is much smaller than the African lion. The African lion is the finest specimen of a lion. So I shall describe the African lion in particular.

The African lion grows to be about three feet six inches high at the shoulders; but his big head stands up quite a foot higher, and makes him look very imposing. His body, without the tail, is about five and a half to six feet long. So the African lion is not quite so long as the Bengal tiger. Still, the lion is a splendid specimen of the Cat Tribe.

"But why is the lion a member of the Cat Tribe at all?" you may ask. "The lion does not look like a cat. The tiger does look like a cat, though much bigger than an ordinary cat."

That is quite true. But still the lion is a true cat. Why?


The Lion has the Fangs, the Tongue, the Claws, and the Paws of a Cat

You will remember what I said on page 66: that all animals of the Cat Tribe have a special kind of fangs, tongue, claws, and paws. The lion, too, has that special kind of fangs, tongue, claws, and paws; so he is a true cat. And of course the lioness has them also; so she too is a cat.

Now I shall describe these four things as possessed by the lion -- or lioness.

First, the fangs. The lion or lioness has two pairs of strong fangs -- one pair in the upper jaw, pointing downward, the other pair in the lower jaw, pointing upward. The lion uses these fangs in the same way that the tiger does, to hold down or to drag his prey.

Photograph from the American Museum of Natural History, New York]

Also, in chewing his food, the lion uses his fangs in the same manner that the tiger does. The lion, too, has ordinary teeth, besides the fangs. So the meat lies on the lower teeth, and the upper fangs come down on the meat and pierce it. And just like the tiger, the lion, too, needs to chew his food only a few times, as the lion also has a strong digestion.

But in one thing the lion uses his fangs in a different manner from the tiger. In killing a weak prey, such as a deer or an antelope, the lion usually bites it with his fangs on the back of the neck. The tiger seldom kills his prey in that manner. As you will remember, the tiger usually kills an animal by striking it with his paw; and if he uses his fangs at all to kill the prey, he seizes it by the throat and bites it there, not at the back of the neck.

The second catlike quality that the lion has is that his tongue is rough. He can use his tongue, as the tiger does, to scrape off small pieces of meat from a bone.

The third quality of the lion like that of other cats is that the lion's claws also are retractile: that is, the lion can draw in his claws, or thrust them out, just as he pleases.

The fourth quality the lion has like all other felines is that his paws also are padded with thick muscles underneath. So the lion, too, can stalk his prey silently, or harden the muscles to strike down and stun the prey with his paw, or use the muscles like springs in leaping -- as I have already described to you on pages 71-72. The lion can run with a series of leaps or bounds, like any other feline.

But there is a fifth quality which all felines have, though I did not mention it before, because a few other animals also have it. This quality is that they have sensitive whiskers. You have noticed the whiskers of an ordinary cat. If the cat were asleep, and you touched a hair of the whiskers, the cat would wake up at once. Why? Because each hair of the whiskers is very sensitive.

All felines have sensitive whiskers; that is, each hair can feel any object it touches. This is a very useful quality in a feline in going about in the jungle, especially in darkness; for then the whiskers give warning of any object close at hand, by just touching it.

But, as I said, a few other animals besides felines have sensitive whiskers.

In the same manner there is another quality which all felines have, as well as a few other animals. And that quality is to be able to see in the dark.

But it must not be totally dark. It is a mistake to suppose that a cat can see in absolute darkness. No animal can. For a cat or any other feline to see, there must be at least a tiny bit of light -- even if the light is not sufficient for a human being. The eyes of the Cat Tribe are formed in such a manner as to catch the tiniest bit of light.

That is why the lion, the tiger, and all other felines can see at night in the jungle. For there are usually a few stars visible, even when there are passing clouds. Or, if the whole sky is covered with one big cloud, then the cloud itself may reflect a little light coming from various parts of the land.

But, as I said, a few other animals besides felines are able to see in partial darkness. These other animals are also night feeders or night prowlers -- such as the deer, the antelope, and the hyena.

Lastly, I ought to mention one special quality which all felines have -- at least they possess it more than other animals. And that is the quality of cleanliness. You have noticed a cat licking itself to keep clean. A lion and all other felines do that. A lion even keeps his face clean. And as he cannot lick his own face, he uses his paws to clean it -- just like an ordinary cat.


How the Lion is Different from Other Cats

I have told you the many qualities which the lion has like all other animals of the Cat Tribe. But can you see in what qualities the lion is different from all other felines?

I shall tell you. First, the lion has a mane; that is, the male animal has; the lioness has no mane. No other member of the Cat Tribe, male or female, has a mane.

Also, the tail of the lion has a tuft of hair at the end; no other animal of the Cat Tribe has the tuft.

Moreover, the tail of the lion or lioness hangs straight out from the body; it is not naturally curled, like the tail of the ordinary cat or other feline. But of course the lion can curl his tail for a moment, if he wants to, -- for instance, in order to whisk off a fly.

I shall now describe to you more fully these special qualities of the lion.

The lion's mane is composed of long, bushy hair. The hair grows all around his neck, and upon his shoulders. It begins to grow when he is three years old, and continues to grow till he is about five years old. A shorter growth of hair extends to the under part of the body of those lions that live in colder regions.

You may have read in your geography that in the interior of Africa there is a table-land, a part of which is about 6,000 feet high. There it is generally cold, and especially at night. So, to protect them from the cold, the lions that live there have a much thicker mane and more hair on the under part of their bodies than the lions that live in the hot lowlands nearer the sea.

When the lion lives in forest regions where there is plenty of vegetation, his mane is usually brown in color and much darker than his tawny yellow body. Why is that? Because the vegetation has both dark and yellow patches, and so the lion looks very much like his surroundings, and finds it easier to stalk his prey without being detected.

But when the lion lives in sandy or stony regions, the color of his mane is more like that of his body, that is, yellow; so he appears to be very much like the color of the sand or stones around him.

Once a lion and a lioness were drinking the water from a little pool in the stony region. Two hunters happened to approach the place from behind a large boulder. They were standing about twenty yards from the lion and lioness, and yet they could not distinguish the animals. They heard the lapping of the water, and that is how they knew that the animals were somewhere close to them.

As for the tuft of hair at the end of a lion's tail, nobody seems to know why the lion has that tuft. The end of the tail has a hard nail, or claw, and the tuft of hair may be meant to enclose the nail, and to prevent it from being worn out against the ground. But nobody seems to know why the nail itself is there, as the lion never uses it now. Perhaps the nail had a use many generations ago, and the lion has forgotten that use now.

The tail itself, as I have already told you, hangs down straight, and does not naturally curl. It may be so because the lion does not use his tail constantly, as other animals of the Cat Tribe do, such as the tiger and the leopard. Why? Because those other animals live in denser jungles, and so they constantly use their tail as a feeler; that is, as the animal walks through the jungle his tail feels the objects which it touches, just like a hand; and in that way the tail gives warning of any danger coming from behind. So these felines that live in the dense jungles have got used to keeping their tail stretched out like a hand; and the tail is curled upward so as not to rub against the ground.

But as the lion usually lives amid scantier vegetation, he does not need to feel his surroundings quite so constantly; and so his tail has lost the power of curling itself upward.

Of course, the lion still uses his tail to express his love or hate, as many animals do. He can express his affection by wagging his tail, just like a dog, though he seldom has any reason to show his affection for men; a tame lion, however, has actually been known to do that. But he may very often have reason to express his anger, in fact, whenever a hunter tries to kill him. Then the lion lashes his tail in anger from side to side, before leaping at the hunter.




Chapter XI

The Lion's Daily Life


Now I shall tell you about the remaining habits of the lion, and how he lives every day.

Lion cubs at birth are usually twins or triplets. Sometimes four or even five cubs are born together; but then they are very difficult to rear, and one or two of them usually die. So a lioness has generally a family of two or three cubs to take care of. She brings them up in almost the same way that a tigress rears her cubs, as I have already described. The lioness feeds her cubs with her milk for about the first three months, and after that she gives them a little tender meat.

When the lion cubs are six months old, they are able to eat all kinds of meat and to follow their mother to hunt the prey. She teaches them the tricks of the jungle, just as the tigress teaches her cubs.

So, by the time the lion cubs are about a year old, they can kill the prey by themselves. Their mother just looks on, and criticizes their work! That is, she tells them if they have done their work well, or if they have done it badly! How does she tell them that? In this way:

If she is satisfied with their work, she does nothing in particular; she just joins the cubs in eating the prey after they have killed it. But if she is not satisfied with the way in which they have caught or killed the prey, she cuffs them with her paw!

Hunters have actually observed lionesses doing that! And of course the lion cubs practice their lessons more thoroughly the next time. In the jungle, the children of animals do not need to be punished more than once or twice!

You will notice that I have said nothing about the cubs' father, the lion. I am sorry to say that the lion is not usually so good a father as the tiger is. You will remember that the tiger helps his wife to provide food for the children, and also to teach them the tricks of the jungle. A lion seldom does that; he usually deserts his family, and lets them take care of themselves.

A lion that does stay with his family, after the cubs are born, has usually more than one wife. In that respect also the tiger is far finer than the lion. A tiger has only one wife; and he takes care of her and the cubs. But when a lion does stay with his family, the family usually consists of two or three lionesses, who are his wives, and their cubs.

In that case they hunt the prey in a pack; that is, the lion and the lionesses all hunt the prey together; and they are even helped by the older cubs. They need to hunt in a pack when the prey happens to be large, such as a buffalo or a giraffe. A lion by himself could seldom kill a buffalo or a giraffe.

Many a fight has been observed in the jungle between a lion and a buffalo -- and almost every time the buffalo has succeeded in driving off the lion with its horns. Even if the lion managed to leap upon the buffalo from the back, he could not kill the buffalo by biting it on the neck because of the thick hair there.

And if the lion tried to stun the buffalo with a blow of his paw on the buffalo's head, the blow would not be enough, because of the thick hair which grows on the African buffalo's head. And meanwhile the buffalo would rear and buck, and throw off the lion. But if the lion has one or two lionesses to help him, they can all attack the buffalo at the same time, and pull it down and stun it with many blows.

On the other hand, as you will remember, in a fight between a single tiger and a single buffalo, the tiger always wins; he dodges the buffalo's horns, then seizes the buffalo by the throat from underneath. In that way he always kills the buffalo. It is only a herd of buffaloes that can beat a tiger, not just one buffalo.

A lion by himself is also unable to kill a giraffe in most cases; for if the giraffe sees the lion coming, it will kick out with its hind legs or its fore legs; and a kick from a giraffe has been known to disable a lion completely. So if a lion by himself wants to attack a giraffe, he must first stalk the giraffe stealthily, and then jump on it suddenly.

But as the lion cannot usually come near enough to do that, he generally attacks a giraffe with the help of one or two lionesses. For then they can all attack the giraffe from different sides; and as the giraffe cannot kick different ways at once, one of them is sure to jump upon the giraffe's back and bite it on the neck.

As I have just said, a lion cannot often stalk his prey near enough to leap upon it. There is a reason for that. Compared with his size, the lion's leap is the shortest of all members of the Cat Tribe. The farthest that a lion has been known to leap, even with a run, is about thirty feet -- whereas a tiger has been seen to leap a distance of forty-eight feet!

The lion's body is not meant for leaping far. His chest and fore legs are very strong, but his hind legs are not quite so strong -- and in leaping an animal uses its hind legs most. For instance, the kangaroo has the biggest leap of all four-legged animals of its size; and it has very large hind legs and very small fore legs.

"But if the lion cannot leap very far, how does he catch his prey at all?" you may ask.

I shall tell you. Like all other felines, he usually hunts at night. He hides near a pool or a stream, and waits for his prey to come to drink. Then he tries to approach the prey noiselessly on his padded feet. If he succeeds in creeping near enough to leap upon it, he certainly has his meal that night. But if he does not succeed in doing that, he tries another plan. He roars!

And that is an advantage a lion has over all other animals. None of them can roar like him. Even a tiger's roar is not so loud, and so he seldom tries to roar. But very often a lion must roar to catch his prey, and so by constant practice he has made his roar very terrible indeed.

Yes, the lion really catches his prey by roaring. When the animals are drinking at the pool, the lion puts his mouth to the ground and roars. It sounds just like thunder.

When you hear a roll of thunder, it sometimes happens that you cannot tell from which direction the thunder is coming. In the same way, when the animals hear the lion's roar, they cannot always tell from which side the roar is coming, because by putting his mouth to the ground the lion sends the roar in all directions. So in their terror some of the animals run the wrong way, and actually run toward the lion. Then the lion finds it easy to leap upon at least one of them.

The lion seldom hunts in the daytime. But when he does, he uses a different method. He chooses a pool amid sandy or stony ground. Then he half buries himself in the sand, or lies low among the stones and boulders. So if any animal comes to drink from the pool, it does not notice the lion because the lion's tawny color makes him look like the sand or stones. Then the lion leaps upon the animal and catches it.

After having his meal, the lion drinks from the pool. If the prey is rather large, so that he cannot finish it at one meal, he keeps it for the next day's meal. He drags the animal's body to some hiding place and covers it up with sand or leaves. Of course, he stays somewhere near that place, as otherwise the thieves of the jungle would eat up the food. The thieves of the jungle are the jackal and the hyena.

But as the lion usually hunts his prey in the night, he generally sleeps in the daytime. He is not really dangerous except at night. If a man meets a lion suddenly in the daytime, the lion will not usually attack him, unless very hungry. Many a man who has met a lion in the jungle by day has escaped in safety by just standing still, making no sound and no motion. After a glance at the man, the lion has walked off.

Most wild animals are afraid of man. Perhaps that is because they do not quite understand him, or how he can hurt them from a distance -- by shooting them with a gun or even with an arrow. That is why most wild animals try to avoid man, unless they are wounded or are very hungry.

But I must tell you here that a tiger attacks a man much more readily than a lion does. Even in the daytime a tiger will usually attack any man he meets -- like the fisherman that the tiger carried off from the river, as told on page 110.

At night, however, all animals of the Cat Tribe are dangerous, and many a night a lion has been known to creep into an encampment and carry off a sleeping man. That is, the lion first killed the man, then dragged him away.

In that respect a lion is different from a tiger. A lion usually takes away his prey by dragging it; he grips his victim in his jaws by an arm, or by the shoulder, or by the neck, so that the victim trails along the ground.

A lion once seized a sleeping man by the wrist, and dragged him away. The lion thought that he had killed the man. But the man was still alive. He got up on his feet as he was being dragged away. He walked by the side of the lion for a few yards; meanwhile he drew his revolver from his pocket with the other hand, and then shot the lion through the head, killing him instantly.

A lion seldom carries his prey bodily as a cat carries a mouse. A tiger always does that, if the prey is light, like a man; and a heavier prey he actually carries over his shoulder -- as I have said on page 103.

From all the facts I have told you so far, you will understand that a tiger is stronger than a lion. It has been reckoned that the strength of a lion is equal to that of five men, but a tiger's strength is equal to that of eight men. How that was calculated I shall tell you in another book.

A tiger is also much more ferocious and terrible an animal than a lion. The lion can be hunted on horseback; the tiger must never be hunted in this way. A hunter riding a horse has often come to within a hundred yards of a lion, and has killed the lion with one or two shots from his gun -- and the horse has stood quite still while he took aim.

But a horse will never face a tiger or stand still before a tiger. The horse will be in a panic at the very sight of a tiger -- and will flee in terror. Even if a band of horsemen meet a tiger, all the horses will stampede in terror. It needs an elephant -- a trained elephant -- to face a tiger, as I have already described to you. And usually it needs several elephants to hunt a tiger.

The tiger has also many more of the catlike qualities than the lion has. The tiger is more active than the lion, can leap farther, and can make up his mind more quickly. Above all, like a cat, the tiger has "nine lives." Many a time a hunter has killed a lion with a single shot. But usually it needs half a dozen shots even to disable a tiger.

If a lion is mortally wounded through the heart or through the head, he usually drops to the ground at once. But if a tiger were mortally wounded in the same manner, he would at least leap toward the hunter, and try to kill his slayer, before he himself agreed to drop down and die.

The lion has sometimes been called the King of the Jungle -- I suppose because in those countries where he lives there are no tigers. So the lion is the "monarch of all he surveys" in his own jungle. Of course, the lion looks grander and more imposing because he has a mane, and the tiger has none. Perhaps that is the reason why some people have given the lion that title.

The lion has also been called a noble animal, but accounts differ as to his real character. Sometimes a lion has behaved very splendidly, as in the two stories I shall tell you presently. But, on the other hand, there have been occasions when a lion has behaved like a coward and a sneak, as people have declared. So I suppose that lions are like other creatures: there are good lions, and there are bad lions.

In one respect, however, the lion is much finer than the tiger: the lion can be tamed, but the tiger cannot. At least, we can say for certain that many a lion has been known to become quite tame, but never a tiger.

There was an actual case where a tiger was caught as a small cub and brought up on milk, and then on clean meat without any blood on it. The tiger grew up, and was thought to be quite tame. Then one day, as he was licking his master's hand, his rough tongue drew blood from the hand -- and in a moment, at the sight of the blood, the tiger became a ferocious wild animal.

Luckily, a faithful servant crept from behind with a gun, and suddenly shot the tiger through the head. The master leaped out of the room at once, before the tiger could reach him in his dying struggles.

But as for the lion, not only can he be tamed, but even a wild lion has been known to behave as if quite tame, when moved by his love. I shall now tell you two stories about that.




Chapter XII

The Lion a Noble Animal


Androcles and the Lion

Many, many years ago, the Romans ruled a large part of the world; for they were a great nation. Their territories included the north of Africa. A rich Roman, who lived there, had many slaves. One of his slaves was called Androcles (An' dr[=o] cl[=e]z). The Roman treated Androcles very cruelly. So Androcles ran away from him.

But the Roman sent out many soldiers to capture Androcles. So after hiding in many places, Androcles was at last compelled to flee into wild regions, where there were few inhabitants. As the soldiers followed him even there, he had to go still farther into the interior of the country, till he came to the jungle. There he lived by eating fruits.

One day, toward evening, he was sitting on the ground, when suddenly he saw a lion before him. Poor Androcles gave himself up for lost, as he had no weapon with him with which even to try to fight the lion. He knew it was useless to try to run away, as the lion could catch him with a couple of bounds. So he thought that his only chance was to sit quite still, for then the lion might go away.

But the lion looked at him, and then came toward him. The animal did not rush toward him or leap. Instead, the lion just walked toward Androcles.

That was strange, Androcles thought. The lion came nearer and nearer -- and then Androcles noticed that the lion walked in a peculiar manner. That puzzled Androcles. But he sat quite still, hoping that the lion would yet go away.

But instead the lion came right up to him. Now he would be eaten up, poor Androcles thought.

Then a wonderful thing happened. Instead of eating him, the lion held out a paw toward him. Then Androcles understood.

He looked at the lion's paw closely. He saw that the paw was swollen. Yes, that is why the lion had been limping.

Androcles took the paw in his hands and examined it. On the under side he found a large thorn embedded deep in the flesh. It must have been there for several days, and must have caused the lion intense pain.

Androcles pulled out the thorn carefully; then he squeezed down the swelling. That relieved the lion's pain.

Immediately the lion showed his gratitude. He wagged his tail, fawned on Androcles, and gambolled around him playfully like a dog. He could not do more to show his feelings.

After a time the lion went away to the jungle.

A year passed. Androcles still lived in hiding. Then at last he was captured by the soldiers, and brought before the judge.

It used to be the law in those days to condemn runaway slaves to death. Also, it used to be the custom to put to death Christians and condemned slaves by casting them to lions.

So one afternoon all the Romans in that place were gathered to make a holiday. It was a kind of circus they had come to see, only, instead of having the usual clever tricks which you now see in a circus, the Romans had fights between men and men, between men and animals -- and finally, as a grand finish, the Christians and the condemned slaves were thrown to wild lions. Many of the lions had recently been captured from the jungle; so they were quite wild. And as they had been kept without food for two or three days on purpose, they were very ferocious and quite eager to eat the Christians and the condemned slaves.

When it came Androcles' turn to be eaten, he was thrown into the enclosure, which was called an arena. Then a wild lion, which had been recently caught from the jungle, was let loose into the arena from a cage.

Ten thousand Romans looked on to see Androcles die. And Androcles looked up to the Romans, and found no mercy in them. He looked at the famished and furious lion -- and knew that he must die.

For the lion crouched ten yards before him, lashing his tail in fury. The lion gave a bound, and came within five yards of Androcles. There the lion crouched again for a moment -- then made a rush at Androcles. Everyone thought that now the lion would kill Androcles.

But a still more wonderful thing happened. Instead of killing Androcles, the lion gambolled around him, and fawned on him -- as if he were glad to meet again an old friend.

Then Androcles understood. He had forgotten all about the lion he had met in the jungle the year before, whose pain he had relieved. But the lion had not forgotten him.

Who says that animals have no memory? This lion had a memory! He carried in his memory the gratitude of his heart for the pain that Androcles had relieved. Although Androcles was now dressed differently -- in fact, most of his clothes had been stripped from him -- the moment the lion had drawn near enough to him, he had recognized Androcles as his old friend and benefactor of the jungle.

Famished as he was, and furious at being kept without food, the lion would gladly suffer the pangs of hunger rather than injure a hair of his friend's head. Instead, the lion fawned on him, then lay down before him like a lamb.

Then something melted in the cruel Romans' hearts; perhaps they realized that there was some Great Power beyond them, who had inspired a raging beast of the jungle to be as gentle as a lamb.

The Romans asked Androcles to explain this marvel. He told the story of his adventure with that lion in the jungle -- just as I have told it to you.

Then Androcles was pardoned, and given his freedom, in memory of this great wonder.

My dear children, this story has a special meaning for us. We are told that if we cast our bread upon the waters, it shall be returned to us. That means that if we do an act of kindness, we shall have our reward. Androcles did an act of kindness to the lion in the jungle. In return Androcles was given back his life in the arena.


The Lady and the Lioness

I shall close this chapter by telling you another true story. It happened quite recently, in America. In a zoo there was a lioness. She had two little cubs. She was very fond of them, and she used to lick them with her tongue many times every day to keep them clean. They used to trot around her and scramble over her, then lie down beside her, one on each side, to have another cleaning with her tongue.

One day the lioness and her two cubs were lying like that quite close to the bars of the cage. One of the visitors there happened to be a man who had an umbrella. Very foolishly he poked one of the cubs with the umbrella. He did not mean to hurt the cub; I suppose he only wanted to feel it. But still it was very foolish to poke the cub with the umbrella.

In an instant the lioness jumped up with an angry roar, and thrust out her paw between the bars. Luckily for the man, she could not quite reach his arm; otherwise she would have dragged him to the bars of the cage and killed him instantly. Instead, she could only reach the umbrella. So she seized the umbrella, and wreaked her vengeance on it. She smashed it to a thousand bits. The man, of course, ran away.

Then gradually the lioness quieted down. She lay down as before in front of the bars, with the cubs beside her, one on each side. Now and again she gave them an affectionate lick with her tongue, first one, then the other. That helped to sooth her feelings somewhat. Still, as you may well understand, she was bitter at heart at the foolishness of some people.

Now it so happened that a lady had observed the whole incident. She had been standing all the time in front of the cage, a few yards away. And this lady had two little girls with her, one four years old, and the other six years old.

You may be sure that the lioness saw the lady and the two little children. After a time the lady came a little nearer to the cage, the two little girls standing beside her, one on each side. The lady tried to catch the lioness's eye. Presently their eyes met. While the lioness was still looking at her, the lady patted her two little girls on the cheek.

Then the lady came a step nearer the cage. As the lioness licked her cubs, the lady patted her own little children; and she smoothed their cheeks and hair.

The lioness saw that.

The lady was just waiting for that. She came still nearer to the cage. Each time the lioness licked her cubs, the lady stroked the cheeks of her own children affectionately.

Then the lady began to speak. She spoke in a very soft voice, very gently and very slowly. She spoke softly as if she meant only the lioness to hear her. This is what she said:

"I at least understand you. I too am a mother, like you. See, these are my two children! I love them as you love yours."

Then the lady took up the children, one on each arm. She kissed the children, first one, and then the other -- and the kiss seemed almost like the act of the lioness in licking the faces of her own cubs. By that the lady meant the lioness to understand that the children were just the same to her as the cubs were to the lioness.

Then the lady spoke again, as softly and tenderly as before:

"My children also love your children. Wouldn't it be nice if they could play together!"

Then the lady held the smaller girl in front of her. Very timidly the little girl held out her hand -- while her mother looked into the lioness's eyes.

Well, my dear children, I cannot tell how it happened. Perhaps some message of love and sympathy and understanding passed between the two mothers -- the mother of the two little girls, and the mother of the two little cubs. At any rate, this is what actually happened:

Very timidly and very slowly the lady stepped to the cage. The little girl put her hand between the bars, and petted the cub nearest to her. The lady moved a little, and the girl petted the other cub. The lioness looked on all the time.

Then something still more wonderful happened. As the little girl was petting the cub, the lioness also began to lick the cub; then the lioness's tongue passed over the cub's body and came to the child's hand -- and the lioness began to lick the child's hand as if the child were her own.

Remember that this was a wild lioness, and untamed. Nobody had ever dared before even to come within her reach.

Then the lady turned a little, and brought the other girl to the bars of the cage -- and she too petted the cubs. Lastly, the lady put the girls down, and passed her own hand through the bars. She too petted the cubs, then finally she stroked the lioness herself.

And that was like a kind of handshake as a good-bye. They parted friends -- like two mothers who had met by chance on the roadside, and each had admired the children of the other.




Chapter XIII

The Leopard


The leopard is another animal of the Cat Tribe. You may know him at once by the spots on his body; and of course the female leopard also has the spots. These spots are usually black in color, or sometimes very dark brown. But the color of the body, or "ground color" as it is called, is different among the several kinds of leopards.

For, I must tell you, the leopard lives in so many countries that he varies in size and in ground color in different countries. He is found in almost all parts of Africa. In Asia he lives mostly in the hot countries in the south; but a special kind of leopard, called the snow leopard, is found in the cold countries in the north of Asia. On the American continent there is also a kind of leopard, called the jaguar.

Now I shall describe in detail all the qualities of these different kinds of leopards.

First, as leopards are felines, they have the fangs, the tongue, the claws, and the paws of the Cat Tribe, which I have already described to you.


The Leopard's Ground Color and Spots

The ground color of the leopard's skin is usually yellow, but the shade of yellow varies in different leopards; sometimes it is a bright yellow, sometimes a brownish yellow. There are leopards whose skin is even darker than that, -- some actually black.

"But why do different kinds of leopards have different ground colors?" you may ask.

Because they live on different kinds of soil and amidst different kinds of vegetation. You will remember what I have already told you: that the color of an animal's body is very often the same as the color of the place where he lives. Then the animal's prey or enemy is not able to distinguish him from his surroundings. So the animal finds it easier to catch the prey, or to escape from the enemy. And, because the color of the soil and vegetation in different countries varies from yellow to brown, the color of the leopard's body also varies in that manner, at least as a rule.

Now I shall tell you about his spots, which are always of a dark color. But they vary in shape in different kinds of leopards. In some leopards the spot is a solid round disc, like the shape of a coin.

In other leopards the spot is like a thick ring; that is, there is a gap at the center. In some leopards the ring is broken up in parts; that is, the ring is not a complete line, but is made up of a number of short lines. The spot then looks like a rosette, because these lines spread outward like rose petals.

All these that I have just mentioned are regular shapes. But in many leopards the spots are quite irregular.

The spots also vary in size. In some leopards the spots are larger than a silver dollar, and in some they are as small as a quarter-dollar.


Why the Leopard has Spots

Now you may wonder why different kinds of leopards have different kinds of spots, both in shape and in size. I shall tell you. Each has the kind of spot that is most useful to him. How is that? How can the spots on the leopard's skin be useful to him? Why does the leopard have spots at all?

Photographs from the American Museum of Natural History, N. Y.]

First, I must mention that all leopards can climb trees, just like cats. People believe that once upon a time lions and tigers could also climb trees. Of course, they climbed only big trees, which have a very thick bark into which they could dig their claws deep enough to bear their weight. But now the lion and the tiger have forgotten how to climb trees. Perhaps they did not keep up the use of their power to climb trees.

But the leopard has kept up his habit of climbing trees. In fact that is the way he usually catches his prey. Does not that seem wonderful? I shall explain how he catches his prey in that way.

He chooses a tree near a stream, or near a pool of water, where different animals come to drink. The leopard climbs up to a bough of the tree, about ten or twelve feet from the ground. He lies flat on the bough and waits.

Presently a deer comes to the water to drink. The leopard waits till the deer is quite near, perhaps actually passing under the bough. Then suddenly the leopard jumps down on the deer and catches it.

The leopard often does that in the daytime, as well as at night. And in the daytime the sun may be shining, and on some nights the moon may be shining. It is then that the spots are useful to the leopard. Can you tell why?

Because when the sun or the moon is shining, a little of the light peeps down between the leaves of the tree and reaches the ground. Have you ever noticed that? If so, you have seen that the light reaches the ground like little bright spots, but that there are little dark spots also -- the bright spots being the little patches of light peeping down, and the dark spots being the shadows where the light is shut off by the leaves.

In the same way there are bright patches and dark patches on the bough of the tree, where the light also falls in that manner.

And that is what a leopard's body looks like -- bright patches and dark patches. The dark patches are his spots, and the bright patches are the ground color of his skin.

So if the deer did happen to look up to the bough when approaching the tree, it would not be able to distinguish the leopard from the natural patches of light and shadow near by. So the deer would not notice the leopard, and would be caught.

And that is why the leopard finds his spots so useful to him in catching his prey.

But why do different kinds of leopards have different kinds of spots? Because they live in different countries, which have different kinds of trees; and so the patches of brightness and darkness made by the sunlight or moonlight are also different.




Chapter XIV

The Leopard's Habits


Now I shall tell you the other qualities and habits of the leopard.

First, his size. The leopard is smaller than the tiger; he is not quite three feet high at the shoulders. The length of the leopard's body, without the tail, is about five feet.

That is the average size of the male leopard. In describing each kind of animal I am usually telling you about the male, because he is generally larger and stronger than the female. Why? Because the male has to do the fighting to protect the family, especially when the children are very young.

The leopard's strength is so great that he can break a steer's neck with a blow of his paw. He cannot carry a steer on his back, which a tiger can do, but still the leopard can drag the steer for some distance. As for a deer, the leopard can easily carry it. That has been discovered in a strange manner. As I have told you, a leopard lies on the bough of a tree and waits for a deer to pass under the tree. One time a leopard happened to kill a deer in that way. As he was not very hungry, he ate only a few mouthfuls from the throat and from the under part of the deer.

He wanted to keep the deer for his next big meal. But if he kept it on the ground, the jackals and hyenas would find it in his absence and eat it up. So what did the leopard do? Can you guess?

Well, the leopard carried the deer up that tree, and placed it crosswise on the fork of the bough. Then he climbed down and went for a prowl. He knew that the thieves of the jungle -- the jackals and the hyenas -- could not climb the tree and steal his dinner.

But a party of hunters passed that way and saw the deer's body on the fork of the tree; and they knew that a leopard had carried it up there.

How could they know that? Very easily. The hunters brought down the deer's body and examined it. They found that the deer's throat and under part had been eaten.

Now I must tell you that hunters know from the study of the jungle that each wild animal has a different way of eating its prey. A leopard always eats first the throat and the under part; but a tiger always eats a hind leg first. So these hunters knew that it must be a leopard that had eaten the deer's throat and under part.

And the hunters also knew before, from their study of the jungle, that a leopard can climb trees; but they knew that more certainly after this incident. How? Because they knew from the deer's throat that a leopard had killed it and partly eaten it; and they found the deer in the tree. So they concluded that the leopard must have climbed the tree and hidden the deer there.

This also proves the fact that the leopard is really an intelligent animal. The lion and the tiger hide their prey by merely placing it in a hollow in the ground, and covering it loosely with sand or leaves. But unless the lion and the tiger are very watchful, the thieves of the jungle often steal their dinner; that is, the jackals and the hyenas smell the flesh, and uncover it and eat it up.

But the leopard hides his prey more securely. As he has the power of climbing trees, he uses that power to carry his prey to the fork of a tree, where the thieves of the jungle cannot reach it.

My dear children, there are many people who do not use the natural gifts they have. The leopard does better than that. He uses his gift of climbing trees in two ways: first to catch an animal passing beneath, and then to hide the prey in the tree. Had the lion and the tiger continued to use their former gift of climbing trees, they too would have been able to hide their dinner safe from the thieves. Instead, they now find it stolen many a time, and have to go hungry.

The leopard, of course, uses his other gifts in catching his prey in various ways. Being a feline, he too can give a big bound like a cat, and as he also has padded feet, he can catch his prey by stalking it. He creeps silently through the jungle, till he comes near his prey; then he gives a sudden bound and falls upon it.

The leopard has splendid muscles; the muscles are not big, but they are hard. The leopard leads such an active life that he is generally slim, without any flabbiness. In fact, the leopard is a perfect type of feline grace, beauty, and agility. The lion is the laziest animal of the Cat Tribe; the leopard is the most active. The leopard is even more active than the tiger.


The Panther: Popular Name for Large Leopard

There is no such animal as the panther. That is only the popular name for a large leopard -- particularly a large and ferocious leopard.

Some people fear a large leopard even more than they do a tiger, because a large leopard attacks a man even more often than a tiger does. Other wild animals as a rule avoid man, as I have told you before. But a tiger very often attacks man, and a large leopard does so almost every time he can. He is by nature even more ferocious than a tiger.

The leopard has this very bad quality: he is perhaps the only animal that kills for the mere "fun" of killing -- just like some men who call themselves "sportsmen." If a large leopard gets among a herd of cattle, he kills several of them, one after another. He does the same with wild pigs, wild goats, and wild sheep. He kills many more than he can possibly eat. In fact, the bad name some people give to the tiger in that respect really belongs to the panther or large leopard. When a large number of animals are found killed, a tiger is usually blamed for it.

But wise people, who have studied the ways of animals, never make that mistake. Of course, they cannot always tell by the paw marks on the ground whether a small tiger or a large leopard did the killing -- because the paw marks of a large leopard look so much like those of a small tiger. But if a single one of the animals killed has been eaten, then they know whether it was a tiger or a leopard that did the killing. How do they know that? By examining the part eaten -- as I have already described to you on page 178.


How the Leopard Seizes his Prey

A leopard usually seizes his prey by the throat. He grips the throat in his jaws, and holds on till the animal cannot breathe and is suffocated.

If the prey is large, such as a big stag, the leopard's grip on the throat may not suffocate it completely; then the leopard uses another method. He keeps his grip on the throat of the prey, and pulls downward with his full weight. The prey tries to rear up on its hind legs to throw off the leopard -- but then the leopard pulls downward with a sudden jerk. This breaks either the animal's spine or its neck, and it falls to the ground.

The leopard seizes his prey by the throat when it is a swift-footed animal, like the deer. But when it is a slow-footed animal, like cattle, the leopard uses another method -- at least on some occasions. He rushes to the prey from the side or the back, and kills it by a blow of his paw on the neck from above -- as a tiger does. If one blow only stuns the prey, and it falls, the leopard just starts eating the throat, which of course kills the prey.


The Leopard's One Amiable Quality -- He Loves Perfumes

The leopard is said to have at least one amiable quality. It is said that he is so fond of beautiful perfumes that he can be tamed with them! That is, if you use some beautiful perfume which the leopard likes, you can tame him with it for a time. But I cannot tell you whether that is always true.

There are many things said about animals that are not always true, for instance, that every animal can be charmed with music -- if only we use the particular kind of music which that particular animal likes. No doubt, particular kinds of animal have been charmed in that way for thousands of years; and even the most terrible kind of snake, called the cobra, is regularly charmed in India with a flute.

You must have read of these serpent-charmers in storybooks, as they charm even wild cobras in that way. So it is quite true that several kinds of animals can be charmed with particular kinds of soft music, such as the music of the flute and the violin. I shall tell you all about that in my next book.

But about taming leopards with perfumes -- we are not sure that all wild leopards can be tamed with beautiful perfumes. It is at least true that some wild leopards have been tamed in that way. I shall now tell you a true story, to show you how that once happened.


The Leopard and the Lavender

Once a wild leopard had been caught in a trap in the jungle. He was put into a cage and carried overland to a seaport. There the leopard in his cage was put on a ship to be taken to England. The cage was placed on the deck of the ship.

The leopard was very wild and ferocious. If any of the passengers or crew came anywhere near the cage, he snarled with rage and leaped at the bars of the cage. He shook and bit the iron bars, as if he wanted to get out and attack the people. He was well fed all the time, but still nothing seemed to lessen his ferocity.

Then, one day, a lady happened to take out her handkerchief. She was standing about three or four yards from the cage, and a fresh breeze was blowing from her direction toward the cage. Immediately a change came over the leopard. A minute before he had been snarling with rage at sight of her, and trying to get out to attack her.

But as soon as she took out her handkerchief, the leopard ceased to snarl and to bite the bars. Instead, he tried to put his head through the bars, as if to get his nose as near her as possible.

Of course the lady did not understand that. She merely wondered why the leopard had changed his behavior so suddenly. She now noticed that the leopard was bending down, and scratching the floor of the cage near the front of the bars -- just as a pet cat or dog will scratch the floor outside your door to be let in. The lady wondered still more, and came a little nearer to the cage.

Immediately the leopard got up, and began pacing the cage in joy. The lady now stood about two yards away. Then the leopard put his paw through the bars and began to snatch with it. The lady was a little frightened at first, but presently she noticed that the leopard was not snatching at her, but at the handkerchief, which was still in her hand. And the leopard was not snatching ferociously, but almost playfully, like a great big cat.

After a moment's thought the lady realized that the leopard wanted the handkerchief -- but why he wanted it, she did not know. So she threw the handkerchief at the bars. The leopard caught it in his paw, and pulled it into the cage.

Then you should have seen how that wild and ferocious leopard behaved! He played with that handkerchief more joyously than any kitten ever played with a ball. He put the handkerchief on the floor of the cage, leaped upon it, rubbed his nose on it, and even rolled over it.

Gradually the lady began to understand why he did that. The handkerchief had been scented with lavender. She wondered if it could be the lavender that he loved, and not the handkerchief itself?

Struck by this idea, the lady went to her cabin and brought out a small bottle of lavender scent. She opened the stopper, and splashed a few drops of the scent through the bars. Then the leopard simply went crazy with delight. He leaped upon the places on the floor where the drops had fallen, and he rubbed his nose on them, and rolled over them. Then the lady knew that it was the scent that the leopard loved.

After that she gave him the lavender to smell every day, and the leopard became so tame that he allowed her to come to the bars and pat his body.

But as this is a true story, I must tell you the ending. One of the men passengers on that ship gave the leopard a large piece of cotton-wool soaked in lavender. That was unfortunate -- I mean it was unfortunate that the man used cotton-wool instead of a handkerchief or even a piece of cloth.

The leopard played with the cotton-wool in delight, and rubbed his nose and face on it. In doing so he must have got the cotton-wool into his mouth -- and then he must have taken in a deep breath. We don't know whether he meant to do that, as he liked the perfume so much, or whether he took the breath without meaning to do so. In any case, the cotton-wool got into his windpipe, and he tried to cough it out; but he could not. The foolish passenger did not know what was the matter; and so he did nothing.

Then in a few days an inflammation set in, and the poor leopard died. Some people are so thoughtless!




Chapter XV

American Leopard: The Jaguar


Now I shall tell you about an American leopard. He is called the jaguar. He lives mostly in Central America and South America. His favorite country is Brazil, near the Amazon and other rivers that flow into the Amazon.

Some people call the jaguar the American tiger. This is a mistake, because a tiger is striped, not spotted; and the jaguar is spotted, like a leopard. So it is more correct to call the jaguar the American leopard.

He has all the qualities of other leopards that I have already described to you. But his spots are a little larger and not quite so completely round; they are more nearly square, with rounded corners.

All four-footed animals can swim naturally in some fashion, but leopards can swim especially well. And the jaguar, who lives near the Amazon and other rivers, is a champion swimmer. He swims as easily as he climbs trees. So he eats fish as often as he eats monkeys!

Yes, he actually catches a monkey sleeping on the bough of a tree! He climbs up so silently that the monkey does not awake. At least, those monkeys that do not cultivate the keenest sense of hearing, even in their sleep, get eaten by the jaguar. But a jaguar that is clumsy in his movements awakes the sleeping monkey -- and then that jaguar has to go without his dinner. So, again, life is like a competition or trial in the jungle, as I have told you in Book I, pages 118-119. Those animals that cultivate their gifts escape their enemies and they get enough to eat. Those that do not cultivate their gifts are either killed by their enemies, or are themselves starved to death.

The jaguar is very fond of monkey for his dinner, just as you are fond of roast turkey. The things he likes next best are fish and turtle. He catches a fish by pouncing on it from the bank. Turtles that he finds on the bank he merely turns over on their backs, so that they cannot run away. Then he leisurely scoops out the flesh with his paws and eats it.

But when the jaguar is in the water pouncing on fish, he in turn has an enemy that wants to eat him. When the jaguar has pounced on a fish, a silent snout may come up to him from behind -- and grab him! Yes, an alligator! And the alligator needs only to hold the jaguar in his jaws, and drag him down, and keep him under water till the jaguar is drowned. Then the alligator can have jaguar flesh for his dinner.

Here again we have an example of competition in the jungle. The jaguar must cultivate not only quickness in catching fish, but also his own sense of hearing, so as to escape from the alligator in time.

"But what about the alligator?" you may ask. "Doesn't he need to cultivate some gift to escape his enemy? Is there no enemy that tries to eat the alligator in his turn?"

No! There is no other animal in the water that wants to eat the alligator, or that can do so. But still the alligator may have an enemy near by, who wants to kill him. There may be a hunter on the bank who wants to shoot the alligator to provide you with purses, handbags, or satchels. So the alligator too must be on his guard against his own enemy.

You can understand the whole story by supposing that there are in that place:

A small fish, A bigger fish, A jaguar, An alligator, and A hunter.

Then let us suppose that the small fish is trying to catch some tiny creature of the water on which it feeds. But while the small fish is catching the tiny creature, the fish itself must look out for its own danger. Otherwise:

A bigger fish comes, and eats the small fish. But the bigger fish also must look out for its own danger. Otherwise:

The jaguar comes, and eats the bigger fish. But the jaguar also must look out for his own danger. Otherwise:

The alligator comes, and eats the jaguar. But the alligator also must look out for his own danger. Otherwise:

The hunter comes, and shoots the alligator.

So you see that the animals that dwell in the jungle have to cultivate all their gifts to get on in life.




Chapter XVI

The Dog Tribe


I have told you of several flesh-eating animals that are of the Cat Tribe. But there are some flesh-eating animals that are of the Dog Tribe. The most important one of these in the jungle is the wolf.

How can you tell the difference between the Cat Tribe and the Dog Tribe? By the four qualities that the Cat Tribe has, and which the Dog Tribe does not have.

I. The members of the Cat Tribe have four fangs. Those of the Dog Tribe do not have fangs. They have special teeth of their own kind.

II. The members of the Cat Tribe have a rough tongue. Those of the Dog Tribe have a tongue which is not quite so rough. They do not need a very rough tongue, as they can scrape the meat from a bone with their teeth.

III. The members of the Cat Tribe have retractile claws. The Dog Tribe's claws are rigid and stiff; that is, they are thrust out all the time. The members of the Dog Tribe do not use their claws in seizing or holding their prey; they hold the prey in their jaws.

IV. All of the Cat Tribe have padded paws: they have them for many reasons, which I have mentioned on pages 71-72. But the paws of the Dog Tribe are not so thickly padded with muscles. The Dog Tribe do not need the thick padding of muscles, because:

1. They do not need to stalk their prey silently. They catch their prey by running it down, as a greyhound catches a hare.

2. They do not strike down their prey with their paws, but seize it in their jaws.

3. They do not need to give a bound in catching their prey, so the muscles under their feet need not act like springs.

The members of the Dog Tribe gain on their prey by moving their legs quickly, not by covering a large amount of ground with each movement of their legs. But the Cat Tribe do just the opposite: they do not move their legs so quickly, but they cover a larger amount of ground at each movement of their legs. As I have told you already, a dog gallops, but a cat bounds. The dog's legs move much faster than the cat's, but the cat gives a bigger jump than the dog each time.


The American Gray Wolf

I have said that the most important wild animal of the Dog Tribe is the wolf. Wolves are found in every continent -- Europe, America, Asia, and Africa. And there are many species of wolves in these continents. I shall tell you more about them in another book, but now I must tell you about the American gray wolf.

There is in the United States one of the most wonderful animals in the world -- the American gray wolf. He is perhaps the only animal in the world that has beaten man!

I mean this: Man has killed off many four-footed wild animals; that is, he has killed so many of those animals in a place, that they have died out in that place. He has not succeeded in killing off the American gray wolf.

In some places man has almost killed off certain animals, even when he did not want to do so. He killed the animal merely for sport or for profit -- but he did not want that species of animal to die out altogether; for then he could not have any more sport or profit from it. And yet, the hunter killed so many of that species of animal that it has almost died out in some places. In this manner, as I have already told you, almost all the elephants have been killed off in parts of Africa, for the sake of sport or for the sake of the tusks. In the same way, the buffalo has almost disappeared from the United States.

From a photograph copyrighted by the New York Zoological Society.]

But in the case of the American wolf, man wanted to kill him off altogether as a race of animals; and yet he has not been able to do so. At first the hunter may have killed the wolf only for the sake of its fur; but in the last few years the American farmer and the ranchman have tried to wipe out the wolf altogether as a pest -- because the wolf kills their sheep and cattle. And yet, the wolf flourishes in the West. He has beaten the farmer and the ranchman.

The wonderful part of it is that the American wolf has beaten man by his own efforts. And for an animal to beat man in that manner is a great achievement.

I have told you before that one animal has to use its gifts against another animal, to protect itself from danger; for instance, the fish has to look out for the jaguar, and the jaguar in his turn has to look out for the alligator. But in that competition of the jungle, the animal has generally to use its wits merely against another animal -- not against man. But the American wolf had to use his wits against man; and he has beaten man, as I shall describe to you.


The American Wolf Learns to Evade the Gun

About a hundred years ago, when people began to go West, they shot many buffaloes, wolves, antelopes, and deer. They did that for sport or for profit; they made a profit, because they sold the skins and other parts of the animals' bodies. At that time the hunters did not want the animals to be killed off altogether, but they actually killed so many of these animals in a few years that the buffalo, the deer, and the antelope became scarce. These particular animals, of course, tried to use their wits to escape from the hunters. They did not succeed in doing so. They fell as victims of the gun.

But not so the wolf. He began to use his wits against man and his gun. He soon realized that man was his enemy and also that man could kill him from a considerable distance. A wolf saw a man at a distance; then the wolf heard a bang, and immediately felt a sharp pain in his body. That wolf fell and died. But another wolf saw his brother die like that. He set his wits to work. He concluded that the man had caused the bang which made his brother fall and die. Hence the wolf realized that man was dangerous to him, even at a distance. So after that the wolf resolved to run away from man. And other wolves learned to do the same.

Of course, the whole race of wolves did not learn this lesson so quickly. Many hundreds of wolves meanwhile fell victims to man's gun; but a few wolves escaped. These few wolves also saw repeatedly that if any of their brothers allowed a man to approach anywhere near him, he was killed. So after seeing that happen many times, the surviving wolves learned that they must always run away from the presence of man.

These few surviving wolves taught their children to do the same. Some of these wolf children did not heed that lesson when they grew up; so they too were killed. But a few of the wolf children remembered the lesson when they grew up; so they escaped getting killed.

In turn these wolves also taught their children to run away from the presence of man. So in a few generations a race of wolves grew up in the West that the hunter did not even get the chance to shoot.

That in itself was a great achievement for the wolf. Why? Because some species of animals as a race do not learn so quickly to run away from the mere presence of man; one or two animals personally may learn quickly to do that, but not all the animals of a species. That is why the buffaloes and some of the antelopes and deer in the West were wiped out; they did not learn in those same few years to run away from the presence of man. The wolves alone learned this, and they have survived as a race.


The American Wolf Learns to Evade the Trap

But the battle was not yet over. Seeing that his gun had now failed, man used his wits to kill the wolf in another way. He set traps for the wolf; and he cunningly baited the traps with tempting food. Then the man went away from the traps. He thought that because he was not himself anywhere near the traps, the wolf would not be afraid to approach them. Well, at first some wolves did go up to the traps, and were caught by them.

But a few other wolves saw that fate of their unwary brothers. So those surviving wolves again set their wits to work to discover the cause of this new danger. And after a time they saw the steel traps. "So, this is our new enemy!" they said.

After that they avoided the traps, even if the traps were baited with the most tempting food. And they taught their children to do the same.

So again man was beaten in this battle of wits. He found that the trap could catch the wolf no more.

But man tried again. He hid the trap cunningly under leaves or under snow; only the tempting bait was placed in sight. He thought that because the wolf could not now see the trap, he would fall into it.

Well, some wolves did fall into it.

But a few other wolves saw the fate of their unwary brothers. So these surviving wolves again set their wits to work to discover a way of detecting the traps. Perhaps they saw the hunter's footprints; or perhaps they realized that the snow or the leaves covering the trap did not look natural. You remember, in Book I, how Salar's father detected a very tricky trap because the ground there did not look natural. Well, in some way, the surviving American wolves detected the traps, even when the traps were covered up. So after that they began to avoid these hidden traps, and they taught their children to do the same.

Man found himself beaten once more by the wolf in this battle of wits. He found that the American wolf could not be caught even by a hidden trap.

That again was a great achievement for the American wolf. Why? Because even the elephant, clever as he is, gets caught at last by a tricky trap, even if he avoids it for a long time. To do better than the elephant is a triumph indeed!

So far the hunter had tried to kill the wolf for the sake of the fur; and the wolf took no revenge for these years of persecution. He bore no grudge against man, and did not try to pay him off. The wolf merely wanted to live, and to be let alone. Man would not let him alone. He wanted to kill the wolf just for the sake of money.

Then a new thing happened. Many people began to go West; farms and ranches began to be started. These farms and ranches had many sheep and cattle.

Then the wolf had his turn! He found that sheep and cattle were far easier to kill than the wild animals on which he had made a living so far. So the wolf began to raid farms and ranches at night. He still avoided man; he never let a man come near enough to shoot him; and he never touched a hidden trap. But still he began to kill sheep and cattle.

Man now found the tables turned on him! Formerly he had persecuted the wolf; now the wolf persecuted, or at least tormented, him! So man made one last desperate effort to beat the wolf in this battle of wits.


The American Wolf Learns to Evade the Poison

Man set his wits to work, and at last devised the use of poison. He selected different kinds of poison, with different tastes and different smells, -- or no taste and no smell at all! He chose the nicest kinds of meat, on which to put the poison. Then he cunningly placed pieces of the poisoned meat all over the paths by which the wolves must come to raid the sheep and cattle. He thought that now he would beat the wolf!

Well, some of the wolves did eat the poisoned meat; they died. But a few of the wolves saw the fate of their unwary brothers. So these surviving wolves once more set their wits to work to discover the cause of this new danger. It may have taken them some time to suspect that the meat was the cause of this new danger; and a few more wolves may have died meanwhile from eating the meat.

But some of the wolves did detect the new danger. We do not know exactly how they did so. Perhaps this time they used one of their other gifts to save their lives; that is, they used their power of smell. They recognized man's scent in or about the meat. So they knew that man had put the meat there.

They had long known that anything that had to do with man was dangerous to wolves. So the wolves resolved to leave the meat untouched. Instead, they went on raiding the sheep and the cattle. And they taught their children, and their children's children, to do the same.

And now the American wolf has beaten man, finally and absolutely. The farmer and the ranchman can think of no other method of killing the wolf. So the American wolf continues to flourish merrily.

The marvel of all this is that the wolf is not naturally a very intelligent animal. Most animals have far more natural intelligence than the American wolf; and yet none of these animals seem to be able to beat man in the battle of wits. The American wolf alone has done it, though he naturally has very little brains.

But he has used all his brains. He has concentrated his efforts to save his life by beating man. He has not only used all his brains, but he has done so all the time. He determined to overcome each new danger as it arose. And he worked hard all the time.

My dear children, that is a great lesson for us. All children, or all men and women, do not have great talents; but everybody can use all the brains he or she has. Some few people prosper in life because they have talents and use them. Other people of talent are lazy, and do not use all their gifts; these people do not prosper. But many people, who have no talent at all, prosper just the same; they do what the American wolf has done.

1. They first decide on something worth doing, just as the wolf decided on saving his life.

2. Then they use all the brains they have to do that thing.

3. They concentrate their efforts on it.

4. They work hard all the time to do that thing.

5. As they meet each difficulty or danger or trap, they devise a method of overcoming that difficulty or danger or trap.

If you learn this much from the American wolf, you will learn the secret of success in the battle of life, when you grow up.

Meanwhile, remember all that I have told you, till I come back and tell you in the next book many more Wonders of the Jungle.

Till then, as they say in the Orient, God and His peace be with you!

<eob>

With Kitchener In The Soudan: A Story Of Atbara And Omdurman

By

G. A. Henty



Chapter 1: Disinherited.


"Wanted, an active and intelligent young man, for general work, in a commercial house having a branch at Alexandria. It is desirable that he should be able to write a good hand; and, if necessary, to assist in office work. Wages, 2 pounds per week. Personal application to be made at Messieurs Partridge and Company, 453 Leadenhall Street."

This advertisement was read by a man of five or six and twenty, in a small room in the upper story of a house in Lupus Street, Pimlico. He was not the only inmate of the room, for a young woman, apparently not more than eighteen, was sitting there sewing; her work interrupted, occasionally, by a short, hacking cough. Her husband, for this was the relation in which he stood to her, put down the paper carelessly, and then got up.

"I am going out, dear, on my usual search. You know, we have agreed that it is of no use my trying to live by my pen. I get an article accepted, occasionally, but it's not enough to provide more than bread and cheese. I must look for something else."

"But you must succeed, presently, Gregory."

"Yes, dear; but while the grass grows, the horse starves. At any rate, I will try for something else. If I get anything, it won't prevent my writing; and when my genius is recognized, I can drop the other thing, and take to literature regularly, again.

"Well, I won't be away longer than I can help. Anyhow, I will be back to our midday banquet. I will bring a couple of rashers of bacon in with me. We have potatoes enough, I think."

So saying, he kissed his wife tenderly, and went out.

Gregory Hartley belonged to a good family. He was the second son of the Honorable James Hartley, brother of the Marquis of Langdale. He had been educated at Harrow and Cambridge; and, after leaving the university, had gone out to Egypt with a friend of his father's, who was an enthusiast in the exploration of the antiquities of that country. Gregory had originally intended to stay there a few months, at most, but he was infected by the enthusiasm of his companion, and remained in Egypt for two years; when the professor was taken ill and died, and he returned home.

A year later, he fell in love with the governess in a neighbouring family. His feeling was reciprocated, and they became engaged. His father was furious, when his son told him what had taken place.

"It is monstrous," he said, "after the education that you have had, and the place that I, if I survive him; or, if not, your brother, will take at the death of your uncle; that you should dream of throwing yourself away, in this manner. I have looked to your making a good marriage; for, as you know, I am not what may be called a rich man. Your brother's tastes are expensive; and what with his education, and yours, and the allowances I have made you both, it is as much as I have been able to do to keep up our position. And there are your sisters to be provided for. The idea of your falling in love with this young woman is monstrous."

"Young lady, Father. She is a clergyman's daughter."

"I won't hear of such a thing -- I will not hear of it for a moment; and if you persist in this mad folly, I tell you, fairly, that from this moment I shall have nothing more to say to you! You have to choose between me, and this penniless beggar."

"I am sorry you put it in that way, sir. My choice is made. I am engaged to this young lady, and shall certainly marry her. I trust that, when your present anger has subsided, you will recognize that my honour was involved in the matter; and that even if I wished it, I could not, without showing myself to be a downright cad, draw back."

And so, Gregory Hartley married the girl of his choice. She had, for some time, refused to allow him to sacrifice himself; but when she found that he was as determined as his father, and absolutely refused to release her from the engagement, she had given way; and had, after a quiet marriage, accompanied him to London.

There he had endeavoured to get literary work, but had found it much harder than he had expected. The market was overcrowded, and they had moved from comfortable lodgings into small rooms; and so, step by step, had come to the attic in Lupus Street. He was doing a little better now, and had hopes that, ere long, he would begin to make his way steadily up.

But the anxiety had told on his wife. Never very strong, she had developed a short, hard cough; and he had drawn upon his scanty reserves, to consult a specialist.

"There is undoubtedly lung trouble," the latter said. "If you can manage it, I should say that she ought certainly to be taken to a warm climate. The damage is not extensive, as yet; and it is probable that, under favourable circumstances, she might shake it off; but I fear that, if she continues to live in London, her chances are not great."

This, Gregory felt, was almost equivalent to a death sentence; and he had begun to consult the advertisements in the papers, for some post abroad. He had, unknown to her, applied for several situations, but without success.

When he first read the advertisement that morning, he had hardly thought of applying for the situation. His pride revolted at the idea of becoming a mere messenger; but his wife's cough had decided him. What did it matter, so that he could save her life?

"I may not get it," he said to himself, as he went out; "but my knowledge of Arabic, and the native dialect, is all in my favour. And at least, in a year or two, she may have thoroughly shaken off the cough, and that is everything.

"At any rate, I have a better chance of getting this than I had of the other places that I applied for. There can hardly be a rush of applicants. When I am out there, I may hear of something better.

"However, I will take another name. Fortunately I have a second one, which will do very well. Hilliard will do as well as Hartley; and as I never write it in full as my signature, no one would recognize it as my name. There is nothing to be ashamed of, in accepting such a post.

"As for the marquis, as he has never been friendly with us, it does not matter. He is, I have heard, a very tough sort of man; and my father is not likely to survive him. But I do not think it would be fair to Geoffrey, when he comes into his peerage, that anyone should be able to say that he has a brother who is porter, in a mercantile house at Alexandria. We have never got on very well together. The fact that he was heir to a title spoilt him. I think he would have been a very good fellow, if it hadn't been for that."

On arriving at the office in Leadenhall Street, he was, on saying he wished to speak to Mr. Partridge, at once shown in. A good many of his personal belongings had been long since pledged; but he had retained one or two suits, so that he could make as good an appearance as possible, when he went out. The clerk had merely said, "A gentleman wishes to speak to you, sir," and the merchant looked up enquiringly at him, as he entered.

"I have come to see you, sir, with reference to that advertisement, for a man at your establishment at Alexandria."

A look of surprise came over the merchant's face, and he said:

"Have you called on your own account?"

"Yes; I am anxious to go abroad, for the sake of my wife's health, and I am not particular as to what I do, so that I can take her to a warm climate. I may say that I have been two years in Egypt, and speak Arabic and Koptic fluently. I am strong and active, and am ready to make myself useful, in any way."

Mr. Partridge did not answer, for a minute. Certainly this applicant was not at all the sort of man he had expected to apply for the place, in answer to his advertisement. That he was evidently a gentleman was far from an advantage, but the fact that he could speak the languages would add much to his value.

"Can you give me references?" he said, at last.

"I cannot, sir. I should not like to apply to any of my friends, in such a matter. I must ask you to take me on trust. Frankly, I have quarrelled with my family, and have to strike out for myself. Were it not for my wife's health, I could earn my living; but I am told it is essential that she should go to a warm climate, and as I see no other way of accomplishing this, I have applied for this situation, hoping that my knowledge of the language, and my readiness to perform whatever duties I may be required to do, might induce you to give me a trial."

"And you would, if necessary -- say, in the case of illness of one of my clerks -- be ready to help in the office?"

"Certainly, sir."

"Will you call again, in half an hour? I will give you an answer, then."

By the time Gregory returned, the merchant's mind was made up. He had come to the conclusion that the story he had heard was a true one. The way it had been told was convincing. The man was undoubtedly a gentleman. There was no mistake in his manner and talk. He had quarrelled with his family, probably over his marriage; and, as so many had done, found it difficult to keep his head above water. His wife had been ordered to a warm climate, and he was ready to do anything that would enable him to keep her there.

It would assuredly be a great advantage to have one who could act, in an emergency, as a clerk; of course, his knowledge of language would greatly add to his utility. It certainly was not business to take a man without a reference, but the advantages more than counterbalanced the disadvantages. It was not likely that he would stay with him long; but at any rate, the fact that he was taking his wife with him would ensure his staying, until he saw something a great deal better elsewhere.

When Gregory returned, therefore, he said:

"I have been thinking this matter over. What is your name?"

"Gregory Hilliard, sir."

"Well, I have been thinking it over, and I have decided to engage you. I quite believe the story that you have told me, and your appearance fully carries it out. You may consider the matter settled. I am willing to pay for a second-class passage for your wife, as well as yourself; and will give such instructions, to my agents there, as will render your position as easy for you as possible. In the natural course of things, your duties would have included the sweeping out of the offices, and work of that description; but I will instruct him to engage a native to do this, under your supervision. You will be in charge of the warehouse, under the chief storekeeper; and, as you say, you will, in case of pressure of work in the office, take a desk there.

"In consideration of your knowledge of the language, which will render you, at once, more useful than a green hand would be, I shall add ten shillings a week to the wages named in the advertisement, which will enable you to obtain comfortable lodgings."

"I am heartily obliged to you, sir," Gregory said, "and will do my best to show that your confidence in me has not been misplaced. When do you wish me to sail? I shall only require a few hours to make my preparations."

"Then in that case I will take a passage, for you and your wife, in the P. and O. that sails, next Thursday, from Southampton. I may say that it is our custom to allow fifteen pounds, for outfit. If you will call again in half an hour, I will hand you the ticket and a cheque for that amount; and you can call, the day before you go, for a letter to our agents there."

Gregory ascended the stairs to his lodging with a far more elastic step than usual. His wife saw at once, as he entered, that he had good news of some sort.

"What is it, Gregory?"

"Thank God, darling, that I have good news to give you, at last! I have obtained a situation, at about a hundred and thirty pounds a year, in Alexandria."

"Alexandria?" she repeated, in surprise.

"Yes. It is the place of all others that I wanted to go to. You see, I understand the language. That is one thing; and what is of infinitely more consequence, it is a place that will suit your health; and you will, I hope, very soon get rid of that nasty cough. I did not tell you at the time, but the doctor I took you to said that this London air did not suit you, but that a warm climate would soon set you up again."

"You are going out there for my sake, Gregory! As if I hadn't brought trouble enough on you, already!"

"I would bear a good deal more trouble for your sake, dear. You need not worry about that."

"And what are you going to do?" she asked.

"I am going to be a sort of useful man -- extra clerk, assistant storekeeper, et cetera, et cetera. I like Egypt very much. It will suit me to a T. At any rate, it will be a vast improvement upon this.

"Talking of that, I have forgotten the rashers. I will go and get them, at once. We sha'n't have to depend upon them as our main staple, in future; for fruit is dirt cheap, out there, and one does not want much meat. We shall be able to live like princes, on two pounds ten a week; and besides, this appointment may lead to something better, and we may consider that there is a future before us.

"We are to sail on Thursday. Look! Here are fifteen golden sovereigns. That is for my outfit, and we can begin with luxuries, at once. We shall not want much outfit: half a dozen suits of white drill for myself, and some gowns for you."

"Nonsense, Gregory! I sha'n't want anything. You would not let me sell any of my dresses, and I have half a dozen light ones. I shall not want a penny spent on me."

"Very well; then I will begin to be extravagant, at once. In the first place, I will go down to that confectioner's, round the corner; and we will celebrate my appointment with a cold chicken, and a bottle of port. I shall be back in five minutes."

"Will it be very hot, Gregory?" she asked, as they ate their meal. "Not that I am afraid of heat, you know. I always like summer."

"No. At any rate, not at present. We are going out at the best time of the year, and it will be a comfort, indeed, to change these November fogs for the sunshine of Egypt. You will have four or five months to get strong again, before it begins to be hot. Even in summer, there are cool breezes morning and evening; and of course, no one thinks of going out in the middle of the day. I feel as happy as a schoolboy, at the thought of getting out of this den and this miserable climate, and of basking in the sunshine. We have had a bad beginning, dear, but we have better days before us."

"Thank God, Gregory! I have not cared about myself. But it has been a trial, when your manuscripts have come back, to see you sitting here slaving away; and to know that it is I who have brought you to this."

"I brought myself to it, you obstinate girl! I have pleased myself, haven't I? If a man chooses a path for himself, he must not grumble because he finds it rather rougher than he expected. I have never, for a single moment, regretted what I have done; at any rate, as far as I, myself, am concerned."

"Nor I, for my own sake, dear. The life of a governess is not so cheerful as to cause one regret, at leaving it."

And so, Gregory Hartley and his wife went out to Alexandria, and established themselves in three bright rooms, in the upper part of a house that commanded a view of the port, and the sea beyond it. The outlay required for furniture was small, indeed: some matting for the floors, a few cushions for the divans which ran round the rooms, a bed, a few simple cooking utensils, and a small stock of crockery sufficed.

Mr. Ferguson, the manager of the branch, had at first read the letter that Gregory had brought him with some doubt in his mind, as to the wisdom of his principal, in sending out a man who was evidently a gentleman. This feeling, however, soon wore away; and he found him perfectly ready to undertake any work to which he was set.

There was, indeed, nothing absolutely unpleasant about this. He was at the office early, and saw that the native swept and dusted the offices. The rest of the day he was either in the warehouse, or carried messages, and generally did such odd jobs as were required. A fortnight after his arrival, one of the clerks was kept away by a sharp attack of fever; and as work was pressing, the agent asked Gregory to take his place.

"I will do my best, sir, but I know nothing of mercantile accounts."

"The work will be in no way difficult. Mr. Hardman will take Mr. Parrot's ledgers; and, as you will only have to copy the storekeeper's issues into the books, five minutes will show you the form in which they are entered."

Gregory gave such satisfaction that he was afterwards employed at office work, whenever there was any pressure.

A year and a half passed comfortably. At the end of twelve months, his pay was raised another ten shillings a week.

He had, before leaving England, signed a contract to remain with the firm for two years. He regretted having to do this, as it prevented his accepting any better position, should an opening occur; but he recognized that the condition was a fair one, after the firm paying for his outfit and for two passages. At the end of eighteen months, Gregory began to look about for something better.

"I don't mind my work a bit," he said to his wife, "but, if only for the sake of the boy" (a son had been born, a few months after their arrival), "I must try to raise myself in the scale, a bit. I have nothing to complain about at the office; far from it. From what the manager said to me the other day, if a vacancy occurred in the office, I should have the offer of the berth. Of course, it would be a step; for I know, from the books, that Hardman gets two hundred a year, which is forty more than I do."

"I should like you to get something else, Gregory. It troubles me, to think that half your time is spent packing up goods in the warehouse, and work of that sort; and even if we got less I would much rather, even if we had to stint ourselves, that your work was more suitable to your past; and such that you could associate again with gentlemen, on even terms."

"That does not trouble me, dear, except that I wish you had some society among ladies. However, both for your sake and the boy's, and I own I should like it myself, I will certainly keep on the lookout for some better position. I have often regretted, now, that I did not go in for a commission in the army. I did want to, but my father would not hear of it. By this time, with luck, I might have got my company; and though the pay would not have been more than I get here, it would, with quarters and so on, have been as much, and we should be in a very different social position.

"However, it is of no use talking about that now; and indeed, it is difficult to make plans at all. Things are in such an unsettled condition, here, that there is no saying what will happen.

"You see, Arabi and the military party are practically masters here. Tewfik has been obliged to make concession after concession to them, to dismiss ministers at their orders, and to submit to a series of humiliations. At any moment, Arabi could dethrone him, as he has the whole army at his back, and certainly the larger portion of the population. The revolution could be completed without trouble or bloodshed; but you see, it is complicated by the fact that Tewfik has the support of the English and French governments; and there can be little doubt that the populace regard the movement as a national one, and directed as much against foreign control and interference as against Tewfik, against whom they have no ground of complaint, whatever. On the part of the army and its generals, the trouble has arisen solely on account of the favouritism shown to Circassian officers.

"But once a revolution has commenced, it is certain to widen out. The peasantry are, everywhere, fanatically hostile to foreigners. Attacks have been made upon these in various country districts; and, should Arabi be triumphant, the position of Christians will become very precarious. Matters are evidently seen in that light in England; for I heard today, at the office, that the British and French squadrons are expected here, in a day or two.

"If there should be a row, our position here will be very unpleasant. But I should hardly think that Arabi would venture to try his strength against that of the fleets, and I fancy that trouble will, in the first place, begin in Cairo; both as being the capital of the country, and beyond the reach of armed interference by the Powers. Arabi's natural course would be to consolidate his power throughout the whole of Egypt, leaving Alexandria severely alone, until he had obtained absolute authority elsewhere.

"Anyhow, it will be a satisfaction to have the fleet up; as, at the first rumour of an outbreak, I can get you and baby on board one of the ships lying in harbour. As a simple measure of precaution, I would suggest that you should go out with me, this evening, and buy one of the costumes worn by the native women. It is only a long blue robe, enveloping you from head to foot; and one of those hideous white cotton veils, falling from below the eyes. I will get a bottle of iodine, and you will then only have to darken your forehead and eyelids, and you could pass, unsuspected, through any crowd."

"But what are you going to do, Gregory?"

"I will get a native dress, too; but you must remember that though, if possible, I will come to you, I may not be able to do so; and in case you hear of any tumult going on, you must take Baby, and go down at once to the port. You know enough of the language, now, to be able to tell a boatman to take you off to one of the steamers in the port. As soon as I get away I shall go round the port, and shall find you without difficulty. Still, I do not anticipate any trouble arising without our having sufficient warning to allow me to come and see you settled on board ship; and I can then keep on in the office until it closes, when I can join you again.

"Of course, all this is very remote, and I trust that the occasion will never arise. Still, there is no doubt that the situation is critical, and there is no harm in making our preparations for the worst.

"At any rate, dear, I beg that you will not go out alone, till matters have settled down. We will do the shopping together, when I come back from the office.

"There is one thing that I have reason to be grateful for. Even if the worst comes to the worst, and all Christians have to leave the country, the object for which I came out here has been attained. I have not heard you cough, for months; we have laid by fifty pounds; and I have written some forty stories, long and short, and if we go back I have a fair hope of making my way, for I am sure that I write better than I used to do; and as a good many of the stories are laid in Egypt, the local colouring will give them a distinctive character, and they are more likely to be accepted than those I wrote before. Editors of magazines like a succession of tales of that kind.

"For the present, there is no doubt that the arrival of the fleet will render our position here more comfortable than it is, at present. The mere mob of the town would hesitate to attack Europeans, when they know that three or four thousand sailors could land in half an hour. But on the other hand, Arabi and his generals might see that Alexandria was, after all, the most important position, and that it was here foreign interference must be arrested.

"I should not be surprised if, on the arrival of the ships, Tewfik, Arabi, and all the leaders of the movement come here at once. Tewfik will come to get the support of the fleet. Arabi will come to oppose a landing of troops. The war in the beginning of the century was decided at Alexandria, and it may be so, again. If I were sure that you would come to no harm, and I think the chances of that are very small, I own that all this would be immensely interesting, and a break to the monotony of one's life here.

"One thing is fairly certain. If there is anything like a regular row, all commercial work will come to an end until matters are settled; in which case, even if the offices are not altogether closed, and the whole staff recalled to England, they would be glad enough to allow me to leave, instead of keeping me to the two years' agreement that I signed, before starting."

"I should hardly think that there would be a tumult here, Gregory. The natives all seem very gentle and peaceable, and the army is composed of the same sort of men."

"They have been kept down for centuries, Annie; but there is a deep, fanatical feeling in every Mussulman's nature; and, at any rate, the great proportion of the officers of the army are Mussulmans. As for the Kopts, there would be no danger of trouble from them; but the cry of 'death to the Christians' would excite every Mahomedan in the land, almost to madness.

"Unfortunately, too, there is a general belief, whether truly founded or not, that although the French representative here is apparently acting in concert with ours, he and all the French officials are secretly encouraging Arabi, and will take no active steps, whatever. In that case, it is doubtful whether England would act alone. The jealousy between the two peoples here is intense. For years, the French have been thwarting us at every turn; and they may very well think that, however matters might finally go, our interference would make us so unpopular, in Egypt, that their influence would become completely paramount.

"Supremacy in Egypt has always been the dream of the French. Had it not been for our command of the sea, they would have obtained possession of the country in Napoleon's time. Their intrigues here have, for years, been incessant. Their newspapers in Egypt have continually maligned us, and they believe that the time has come when they will be the real, if not the nominal, rulers of Egypt. The making of the Suez Canal was quite as much a political as a commercial move, and it has certainly added largely to their influence here; though, in this respect, a check was given to them by the purchase of the Khedive's shares in the canal by Lord Beaconsfield; a stroke which, however, greatly increased the enmity of the French here, and heightened their efforts to excite the animosity of the people against us.

"Well, I hope that whatever comes of all this, the question as to whose influence is to be paramount in Egypt will be finally settled. Even French domination would be better than the constant intrigues and trouble, that keep the land in a state of agitation. However, I fancy that it will be the other way, if an English fleet comes here and there is trouble. I don't think we shall back down; and if we begin in earnest, we are sure to win in the long run. France must see that, and if she refuses to act, at the last moment, it can only be because Arabi has it in his power to produce documents showing that he was, all along, acting in accordance with her secret advice."

A week later, on the 20th of May, the squadrons of England and France anchored off Alexandria. The British fleet consisted of eight ironclads and five gunboats, carrying three thousand five hundred and thirty-nine men and one hundred and two guns, commanded by Sir Frederick Seymour. Two days before the approach of the fleet was known at Cairo, the French and English consuls proposed that the Khedive should issue a decree, declaring a general amnesty, and that the president of the council, the minister of war, and the three military pashas should quit the country for a year. This request was complied with.

The ministry resigned, in a body, on the day the fleet arrived; on the ground that the Khedive acquiesced in foreign interference. A great meeting was held of the chief personages of state, and the officers and the representatives of the army at once told the Khedive that they refused to obey his orders, and only recognized the authority of the Porte.

At Alexandria all trade ceased at once, when it became known that the troops were busy strengthening the forts, mounting cannon, and preparing for a resistance. That this was done by the orders of Arabi, who was now practically dictator, there could be no question. The native population became more and more excited, being firmly of belief that no vessels could resist the fire of the heavy guns; and that any attempt on the part of the men-of-war to reduce the place would end in their being sunk, as soon as fighting began.

The office and stores were still kept open, but Gregory's duties were almost nominal; and he and Mr. Parrot, who was also married, were told by the manager that they could spend the greater portion of their time at their homes. Part of Gregory's duties consisted in going off to vessels that came into the port with goods for the firm, and seeing to their being brought on shore; and he had no difficulty in making arrangements, with the captain of one of these ships, for his wife and child to go on board at once, should there be any trouble in the town.

"If you hear any sounds of tumult, Annie, you must disguise yourself at once, and go down to the wharf. I have arranged with our boatman, Allen, whom you know well, as we have often gone out with him for a sail in the evening, that if he hears of an outbreak, he shall bring the boat to the steps at the end of this street, and take you off to the Simoon. Of course, I shall come if I can, but our house is one of those which have been marked off as being most suitable for defence. The men from half a dozen other establishments are to gather there and, as belonging to the house, I must aid in the defence. Of course, if I get sufficient warning, I shall slip on my disguise, and hurry here, and see you down to the boat; and then make my way back to our place. But do not wait for me. If I come here and find that you have gone, I shall know that you have taken the alarm in time, and shall return at once to the office.

"Of course, if the outbreak commences near here, and you find that your way down to the water is blocked, you will simply put on your disguise, stain your face, and wait till I come to you, or till you see that the way to the water is clear. Do not attempt to go out into a mob. There are not likely to be any women among them. However, I do not anticipate a serious riot. They may attack Europeans in the street, but with some fourteen or fifteen men-of-war in the port, they are not likely to make any organized assault. Arabi's agents will hardly precipitate matters in that way. Hard as they may work, it will take a month to get the defences into proper order, and any rising will be merely a spasmodic outbreak of fanaticism. I don't think the danger is likely to be pressing until, finding that all remonstrances are vain, the admiral begins to bombard the port."

"I will do exactly as you tell me, Gregory. If I were alone, I could not bring myself to leave without you, but I must think of the child."

"Quite so, dear. That is the first consideration. Certainly, if it comes to a fight, I should be much more comfortable with the knowledge that you and Baby were in safety."

The Egyptian soldiers were quartered, for the most part, outside the town; and for some days there was danger that they would enter, and attack the European inhabitants; but Arabi's orders were strict that, until he gave the command, they were to remain quiet.

The British admiral sent messages to Tewfik, insisting that the work upon the fortifications should cease, and the latter again issued orders to that effect, but these were wholly disobeyed. He had, indeed, no shadow of authority remaining; and the work continued, night and day. It was, however, as much as possible concealed from observation; but, search lights being suddenly turned upon the forts, at night, showed them to be swarming with men.

Things went on with comparative quiet till the 10th of June, although the attitude of the natives was so threatening that no Europeans left their houses, except on urgent business. On that day, a sudden uproar was heard. Pistols were fired, and the merchants closed their stores and barricaded their doors.

Gregory was in the harbour at the time and, jumping into his boat, rowed to the stairs and hurried home. He found that his wife had already disguised herself, and was in readiness to leave.

The street was full of excited people. He slipped on his own disguise, darkened his face, and then, seizing a moment when the crowd had rushed up the street at the sound of firearms at the other end, hurried down to the boat, and rowed off to the Simoon.

"I must return now, dear," he said. "I can get in at the back gate -- I have the key, as the stores are brought in through that way. I do not think that you need feel any uneasiness. The row is evidently still going on, but only a few guns are being fired now. Certainly the rascals cannot be attacking the stores, or you would hear a steady musketry fire. By the sound, the riot is principally in the foreign quarter, where the Maltese, Greeks, and Italians congregate. No doubt the police will soon put it down."

The police, however, made no attempt to do so, and permitted the work of massacre to take place under their eyes. Nearly two hundred Europeans were killed. The majority of these dwelt in the foreign quarter, but several merchants and others were set upon, while making their way to their offices, and some seamen from the fleet were also among the victims. The British consul was dragged out of his carriage, and severely injured. The consulate was attacked, and several Frenchmen were killed in the streets.

The Khedive hurried from Cairo, on hearing the news. Arabi was now sending some of his best regiments to Alexandria, while pretending to be preparing for a raid upon the Suez Canal. He was receiving the assistance of Dervish Pasha, the Sultan's representative; and had been recognized by the Sultan, who conferred upon him the highest order of Medjidie.

In the meantime a conference had been held by the Powers, and it was decided that the Sultan should be entrusted with the work of putting down the insurrection, he being nominally lord paramount of Egypt. But conditions were laid down, as to his army leaving the country afterwards.

The Sultan sent an evasive reply. The Khedive was too overwhelmed at the situation to take any decisive course. France hesitated, and England determined that, with or without allies, she would take the matter in hand.



Chapter 2: The Rising In Alexandria.


The harbour was full of merchant ships, as there were, at present, no means of getting their cargoes unloaded. The native boatmen had, for the most part, struck work; and had they been willing to man their boats, they must have remained idle as, in view of the situation, the merchants felt that their goods were much safer on board ship than they would be in their magazines. It was settled, therefore that, for the present, Annie and the child should remain on board the Simoon, while Gregory should take up his residence at the office.

The fleet in the harbour was now an imposing one. Not only were the English and French squadrons there, but some Italian ships of war had arrived, and a United States cruiser; and on the 7th of July, Sir Beauchamp Seymour sent in a decisive message, that he should commence a bombardment of the fort unless the strengthening of the fortifications was, at once, abandoned. No heed was taken of the intimation and, three days later, he sent an ultimatum demanding the cessation of work, and the immediate surrender of the forts nearest to the entrance to the harbour; stating that, if these terms were not complied with in twenty-four hours, the bombardment would commence.

Already the greater part of the European inhabitants had left the town, and taken up their quarters in the merchant ships that had been engaged for the purpose. A few, however, of the bankers and merchants determined to remain. These gathered in the bank, and in Mr. Ferguson's house, to which the most valuable goods in other establishments were removed. They had an ample supply of firearms, and believed that they could hold out for a considerable time. They were convinced that the Egyptian troops would not, for an hour, resist the fire that would be opened upon them, but would speedily evacuate the town; and that, therefore, there would only be the mob to be encountered, and this but for a short time, as the sailors would land as soon as the Egyptian troops fled.

The Egyptians, on the other hand, believed absolutely in their ability to destroy the fleet.

Both parties were wrong. The Europeans greatly undervalued the fighting powers of the Egyptians, animated as they were by confidence in the strength of the defences, by their number, and by their fanaticism; while the Egyptians similarly undervalued the tremendous power of our ships.

That evening, and the next morning, the port presented an animated appearance. Boats were putting off with those inhabitants who had waited on, hoping that the Egyptians would at the last moment give in. Many of the merchantmen had already cleared out. Others were getting up sail. Smoke was rising from the funnels of all the men of war.

An express boat had brought, from France, orders that the French fleet were to take no part in the proceedings, but were to proceed at once to Port Said. This order excited the bitterest feeling of anger and humiliation among the French officers and sailors, who had relied confidently in taking their part in the bombardment; and silently their ships, one by one, left the port. The Italian and American vessels remained for a time; and as the British ships followed, in stately order, their crews manned the rigging and vociferously cheered our sailors, who replied as heartily.

All, save the British men of war, took up their stations well out at sea, in a direction where they would be out of the fire of the Egyptian batteries. It was not until nine o'clock in the evening that the two last British ships, the Invincible and Monarch, steamed out of port. At half-past four in the morning the ships got under weigh again, and moved to the positions marked out for them.

Fort Mex, and the batteries on the sand hills were faced by the Penelope, the Monarch, and the Invincible; the Alexandra, the Superb, and the Sultan faced the harbour forts, Ada, Pharos, and Ras-el-Teen; the Temeraire and Inflexible prepared to aid the Invincible in her attack on Fort Mex, or to support the three battleships engaged off the port, as might be required; and the five gunboats moved away towards Fort Marabout, which lay some distance to the west of the town.

At seven o'clock, the Alexandra began the engagement by firing a single gun. Then the whole fleet opened fire, the Egyptian artillerymen replying with great steadiness and resolution. There was scarcely a breath of wind, and the ships were, in a few instants, shrouded in their own smoke; and were frequently obliged to cease firing until this drifted slowly away, to enable them to aim their guns. The rattle of the machine guns added to the din. Midshipmen were sent aloft, and these signalled down to the deck the result of each shot, so that the gunners were enabled to direct their fire, even when they could not see ten yards beyond the muzzle of the guns.

In a short time, the forts and batteries showed how terrible was the effect of the great shells. The embrasures were torn and widened, there were great gaps in the masonry of the buildings, and the hail of missiles from the machine guns swept every spot near the Egyptian guns; and yet, Arabi's soldiers did not flinch but, in spite of the number that fell, worked their guns as fast as ever.

Had they been accustomed to the huge Krupp guns in their batteries, the combat would have been more equal; and although the end would have been the same, the ships must have suffered terribly. Fortunately, the Egyptian artillerymen had little experience in the working of these heavy pieces, and their shot in almost every case flew high -- sometimes above the masts, sometimes between them, but in only a few instances striking the hull. With their smaller guns they made good practice, but though the shot from these pieces frequently struck, they dropped harmlessly from the iron sides, and only those that entered through the portholes effected any damage.

The Condor, under Lord Charles Beresford, was the first to engage Fort Marabout; and, for a time, the little gunboat was the mark of all the guns of the fort. But the other four gunboats speedily came to her assistance, and effectually diverted the fire of the fort from the ships that were engaging Fort Mex.

At eight o'clock the Monarch, having silenced the fort opposite to her, and dismounted the guns, joined the Inflexible and Penelope in their duel with Fort Mex; and by nine o'clock all the guns were silenced except four, two of which were heavy rifled guns, well sheltered. In spite of the heavy fire from the three great ships, the Egyptian soldiers maintained their fire, the officers frequently exposing themselves to the bullets of the machine guns by leaping upon the parapet, to ascertain the effect of their own shot.

The harbour forts were, by this time, crumbling under the shot of four warships opposed to them. The Pharos suffered most heavily, and its guns were absolutely silenced; while the fire from the other two forts slackened, considerably. At half-past ten, it was seen that the Ras-el-Teen Palace, which lay behind the fort, was on fire; and, half an hour later, the fire from that fort and Fort Ada almost died out.

The British Admiral now gave the signal to cease firing, and as the smoke cleared away, the effects of the five hours' bombardment were visible. The forts and batteries were mere heaps of ruins. The guns could be made out, lying dismounted, or standing with their muzzles pointing upwards.

The ships had not come out scatheless, but their injuries were, for the most part, immaterial; although rigging had been cut away, bulwarks smashed, and sides dinted. One gun of the Penelope had been disabled, and two of the Alexandra. Only five men had been killed, altogether, and twenty-seven wounded.

No sign was made of surrender, and an occasional fire was kept up on the forts, to prevent the Egyptians from repairing damages. At one o'clock, twelve volunteers from the Invincible started to destroy the guns of Fort Mex. Their fire had ceased, and no men were to be seen in the fort; but they might have been lying in wait to attack any landing party.

On nearing the shore, the surf was found to be too heavy for the boat to pass through it, and Major Tulloch and six men swam ashore and entered the fort. It was found to be deserted, and all the guns but two ten-inch pieces dismounted. The charges of gun cotton, that the swimmers brought ashore with them, were placed in the cannon; and their muzzles blown off. After performing this very gallant service, the little party swam back to their boat.

The British admiral's position was now a difficult one. There were no signs of surrender; for aught he could tell, fifteen thousand Egyptian troops might be lying round the ruined forts, or in the town hard by, in readiness to oppose a landing. That these troops were not to be despised was evident, by the gallantry with which they had fought their guns. This force would be aided by the mass of the population; and it would be hazardous, indeed, to risk the loss of fifteen hundred men, and the reversal of the success already gained.

At the same time, it was painful to think that the Europeans on shore might be massacred, and the whole city destroyed, by the exasperated troops and fanatical population. It was known that the number of Englishmen there was not large, two or three hundred at most; but there was a much larger number of the lower class of Europeans -- port labourers, fishermen, petty shopkeepers, and others -- who had preferred taking their chance to the certainty of losing all their little possessions, if they left them.

Anxiously the glasses of those on board the ships were directed towards the shore, in hopes of seeing the white flag hoisted, or a boat come out with it flying; but there were no signs of the intentions of the defenders, and the fleet prepared to resume the action in the morning. Fort Marabout, and several of the batteries on the shore, were still unsilenced; and two heavy guns, mounted on the Moncrieff system (by which the gun rose to a level of the parapet, fired, and instantly sank again), had continued to fire all day, in spite of the efforts of the fleet to silence them.

Next morning, however, there was a long heavy swell, and the ironclads were rolling too heavily for anything like accuracy of aim; but as parties of men could be seen, at work in the Moncrieff battery, fire was opened upon them, and they speedily evacuated it.

All night, the Palace of Ras-el-Teen burned fiercely. Another great fire was raging in the heart of the town, and anxiety for those on shore, for the time, overpowered the feeling of exultation at the victory that had been gained.

At half-past ten a white flag was hoisted at the Pharos battery, and all on board watched, with deep anxiety, what was to follow. Lieutenant Lambton at once steamed into the fort, in the Bittern, to enquire if the government were ready to surrender. It was three o'clock before he steamed out again, with the news that his mission was fruitless; and that the white flag had only been hoisted, by the officer in command of the fort, to enable himself and his men to get away unmolested. Lieutenant Lambton had obtained an interview with the military governor, on behalf of the government, and told him that we were not at war with Egypt, and had simply destroyed the forts because they threatened the fleet; that we had no conditions to impose upon the government, but were ready to discuss any proposal; and that the troops would be allowed to evacuate the forts, with the honour of war.

It was most unfortunate that the fleet had not brought with them two or three thousand troops. Had they done so they could have landed at once, and saved a great portion of the town from destruction; but as he had no soldiers, the admiral could not land a portion of the sailors, as the large Egyptian force in the town, which was still protected by a number of land batteries, might fall upon them.

At five o'clock the Helicon was sent in to say that white flags would not be noticed, unless hoisted by authority; and if they were again shown, the British admiral would consider them the signs of a general surrender. It was a long time before the Helicon returned, with news that no communication had been received from the enemy, that the barracks and arsenals seemed to be deserted and, as far as could be seen, the whole town was evacuated.

As evening wore on, fresh fires broke out in all parts of the town, and a steam pinnace was sent ashore to ascertain, if possible, the state of affairs. Mr. Ross, a contractor for the supply of meat to the fleet, volunteered to accompany it.

The harbour was dark and deserted. Not a light was to be seen in the houses near the water. The crackling of the flames could be heard, with an occasional crash of falling walls and roofs. On nearing the landing place the pinnace paused, for two or three minutes, for those on board to listen; and as all was quiet, steamed alongside. Mr. Ross jumped ashore, and the boat backed off a few yards.

A quarter of an hour later, he returned. That quarter of the town was entirely deserted, and he had pushed on until arrested by a barrier of flames. The great square was on fire, from end to end; the European quarter generally was in flames; and he could see, by the litter that strewed the streets, that the houses had been plundered before being fired.

When daylight broke, a number of Europeans could be seen, at the edge of the water, in the harbour. Boats were at once lowered; and the crews, armed to the teeth, rowed ashore. Here they found about a hundred Europeans, many of them wounded. When rioting had broken out they had, as arranged, assembled at the Anglo-Egyptian Bank. They were taken off to the merchant steamers, lying behind the fleet, and their information confirmed the worst forebodings of the fugitives there.

When the first gun of the bombardment was fired, Gregory had gone up, with the other employees, to the top of the house; where they commanded a view over the whole scene of action. After the first few minutes' firing they could see but little, for batteries and ships were, alike, shrouded in smoke. At first, there had been some feeling of insecurity, and a doubt whether a shot too highly aimed might not come into the town; but the orders to abstain carefully from injuring the city had been well observed, and, except to the Palace and a few houses close to the water's edge, no damage was done.

Towards evening, all those who had resolved to remain behind gathered at the Anglo-Egyptian Bank, or at Mr. Ferguson's. But a consultation was held later, and it was agreed that next morning all should go to the bank, which was a far more massive building, with fewer entrances, and greater facilities for defence. When the town was quiet, therefore, all were employed in transferring valuable goods there, and the house was then locked up and left to its fate. Against a mere rising of the rabble the latter might have been successfully defended; but there was little doubt that, before leaving the town, the troops would join the fanatics; and in that case, a house not built with a special eye for defence could hardly hope to hold out, against persistent attack.

The bank, however, might hope to make a stout defence. It was built of massive stone, the lower windows were barred, and a strong barricade was built against the massive doors. A hundred and twenty resolute men, all well armed, could hold it against even a persistent attack, if unsupported by artillery.

Early in the afternoon, all felt that the critical moment had approached. Throughout the night a fire had raged, from the opposite side of the great square; where several deserted houses had been broken into, and plundered, by the mob; but the soldiers stationed in the square had prevented any further disorder.

Now, however, parties of troops from the forts began to pour in. It was already known that their losses had been very heavy, and that many of the forts had been destroyed. Soon they broke up and, joining the mob, commenced the work of pillage. Doors were blown in, shutters torn off and, with wild yells and shouts, the native population poured in. The work of destruction had begun.

The garrison of the bank saw many Europeans, hurrying, too late, to reach that shelter, murdered before their eyes. In the Levantine quarter, the cracking of pistols and the shouts of men showed that the work of massacre was proceeding there. Soon every door of the houses in the great square was forced in, and ere long great numbers of men, loaded with spoil of all kinds, staggered out.

So far the bank had been left alone; but it was now its turn, and the mob poured down upon it. As they came up, a sharp fire broke out from every window, answered by a discharge of muskets and pistols from the crowd. Here men fell fast, but they had been worked up to such a pitch of excitement, and fanaticism, that the gaps were more than filled by fresh comers.

All the afternoon and evening the fight continued. In vain the mob endeavoured to break down the massive iron bars of the windows, and batter in the doors. Although many of the defenders were wounded, and several killed; by the fire from the windows of the neighbouring houses, and from the road; their steady fire, at the points most hotly attacked, drove their assailants back again and again.

At twelve o'clock the assault slackened. The soldiers had long left and, so far as could be seen from the roof of the house, had entirely evacuated the town; and as this fact became known to the mob, the thought of the consequences of their action cooled their fury; for they knew that, probably, the troops would land from the British ships next day. Each man had his plunder to secure, and gradually the crowd melted away.

By two o'clock all was quiet; and although, occasionally, fresh fires burst out in various quarters of the town, there could be little doubt that the great bulk of the population had followed the example of the army, and had left the city.

Then the besieged gathered in the great office on the ground floor; and, as it was agreed that there would be probably no renewal of the attack, they quietly left the house, locking the doors after them, and made their way down to the shore. They believed that they were the only survivors, but when they reached the end of the town, they found that the building of the Credit Lyonnais had also been successfully defended, though the Ottoman Bank had been overpowered, and all within it, upwards of a hundred in number, killed.

Gregory had done his full share in the defence, and received a musket ball in the shoulder. His wife had passed a terrible time, while the conflagration was raging, and it was evident that the populace had risen, and were undoubtedly murdering as well as burning and plundering; and her delight was indeed great when she saw her husband, with others, approaching in a man-of-war's boat. The fact that one arm was in a sling was scarcely noticed, in her joy at his return, alive.

"Thank God, you are safe!" she said, as he came up the gangway. "It has been an awful time, and I had almost given up hope of ever seeing you alive, again."

"I told you, dear, that I felt confident we could beat off the scum of the town. Of course it was a sharp fight, but there was never any real danger of their breaking in. We only lost about half a dozen, out of nearly a hundred and twenty, and some twenty of us were wounded. My injury is not at all serious, and I shall soon be all right again. It is only a broken collarbone.

"However, it has been a terrible time. The great square, and almost all the European quarter, have been entirely destroyed. The destruction of property is something frightful, and most of the merchants will be absolutely ruined. Fortunately, our firm were insured, pretty well up to the full value."

"But I thought that they could not break in there?"

"We all moved out, the evening before, to the Anglo-Egyptian Bank. The town was full of troops, and we doubted whether we could hold the place. As the bank was much stronger, we agreed that it was better to join the two garrisons and fight it out there; and I am very glad we did so, for I doubt whether we could have defended our place, successfully."

Mr. Ferguson and the clerks had all come off with Gregory to the Simoon, on board which there was plenty of accommodation for them, as it was not one of the ships that had been taken up for the accommodation of the fugitives. Among the party who came on board was a doctor, who had taken part in the defence of the bank, and had attended to the wounded as the fight went on. He did so again that evening, and told Gregory that in a month he would, if he took care of himself, be able to use his arm again.

The next morning there was a consultation in the cabin. Mr. Ferguson had gone on shore, late the previous afternoon; as five hundred sailors had been landed, and had returned in the evening.

"It is certain," he said, "that nothing can be done until the place is rebuilt. The sailors are busy at work, fighting the fire, but there are continued fresh outbreaks. The bulk of the natives have left; but Arabi, before marching out, opened the prisons and released the convicts; and these and the scum of the town are still there, and continue the destruction whenever they get a chance. A score or two have been caught red handed and shot down, and a number of others have been flogged.

"Another batch of sailors will land this morning, and order will soon be restored; unless Arabi, who is encamped, with some ten thousand men, two miles outside the town, makes an effort to recover the place. I don't think he is likely to do so, for now that the European houses have all been destroyed, there would be no longer any reluctance to bombard the town itself; and even if Arabi did recover it, he would very soon be shelled out.

"By the way, a larger number of people have been saved than was imagined. Several of the streets in the poor European quarters have escaped. The people barricaded the ends, and fought so desperately that their assailants drew off, finding it easier to plunder the better quarters. Even if the mob had overcome the resistance of the defenders of the lanes, they would have found little worth taking there; so some five hundred Europeans have escaped, and these will be very useful.

"Charley Beresford has charge of the police arrangements on shore, and he has gangs of them at work fighting the fire, and all the natives are forced to assist. The wires will be restored in a day or two, when I shall, of course, telegraph for instructions; and have no doubt that Mr. Partridge will send out orders to rebuild as soon as order is completely restored.

"I imagine that most of us will be recalled home, until that is done. Even if the place were intact, no business would be done, as our goods would be of little use to the navy or army; for no doubt an army will be sent. Arabi is as powerful as ever, but now that we have taken the matter in hand, it must be carried through.

"At any rate, there will be no clerks' work to be done here. The plans for a new building will naturally be prepared at home, and a foreman of works sent out. It is a bad job for us all, but as it is we must not complain; for we have escaped with our lives, and I hope that, in six months, we may open again. However, we can form no plans, until I receive instructions from home."

Gregory did not go ashore for the next week, by which time order had been completely restored, the fires extinguished, and the streets made, at least, passable. The sailors had been aided by a battalion of marines, which had been telegraphed for from Malta by the admiral, before the bombardment began. The Khedive had returned to Has-el-Teen, which had only been partly destroyed, as soon as the blue-jackets entered. His arrival put an end to all difficulties, as henceforward our operations were carried on, nominally, by his orders.

The American ships entered the harbour the next day and the naval officer in command landed one hundred and twenty-five men, to assist our blue-jackets; and, two days later, the 38th Regiment and a battalion of the 60th Rifles arrived.

The shops in the streets that escaped destruction gradually reopened, and country people began to bring in supplies. Many of the refugees on board the ships sailed for home, while those who found their houses still standing, although everything in them was smashed and destroyed, set to work to make them habitable. Soon temporary sheds were erected, and such portions of the cargoes on board the merchantmen as would be likely to find a sale, were landed.

Before the end of the week, Mr. Ferguson had received an answer to his telegram. Three days previously he had received a wire: "Have written fully." The letter came via Marseilles. After congratulations at the escape of himself and the staff, Mr. Partridge wrote:

"As you say that the house and warehouse are entirely destroyed, with all contents, there can be nothing for you and the clerks to do; and you had best return, at once, to England. I will make the best arrangements that I can for you all.

"As I have a plan of the ground, I have already instructed an architect to prepare a sketch for rebuilding, on a larger scale than before. The insurance companies are sending out agents to verify claims. Looking at your last report, it seems to me that the loss of goods, as well as that of buildings, will be fully covered. Should any of the staff determine to remain in Alexandria, and to take their chance of finding something to do, you are authorized to pay them three months' salary, and to promise to reinstate them, as soon as we reopen.

"I anticipate no further disturbances, whatever. A strong force is being sent out, and there can be no doubt that Arabi will be crushed, as soon as it is ready to take the field."

Other directions followed, but these were only amplifications of those mentioned.

"What do you think, Annie?" Gregory said, when Ferguson had read to his staff that portion of the letter that concerned them. "Shall we take the three months' pay and remain here, or shall we go back to England?"

"What do you think, yourself?"

"There are two lights in which to look at it, Annie. First, which would be best for us? And secondly, which shall we like best? Of course, the first is the more difficult point to decide. You see, Partridge doesn't say that we shall be kept on; he only says that he will do his best for us. I don't think that there is any chance of his keeping us on at full pay. If he intended to do so, it would have been cheaper for him to give us our pay here, in which case he would save our passages back to England and out again. I think we could not reckon on getting anything like full pay, while we were in England, and you know I have lost faith in my literary powers. I think I have improved, but I certainly should not like, after our last experience, to trust to that for keeping us, in England.

"The question is, what should I do here? There will be plenty of openings, for men who can speak the native language, as labour overseers. The contractors for food for the army will want men of that sort; and as I know several of them, through my work in the port and being in Partridge's house, I have no doubt I could get employment that way, and carry on very well till trade is open again, and obtain then a good deal better berth than they would offer me. No doubt, one could get employment in the transport or commissariat of the army, when it comes out. That will be a thing to think seriously of.

"My objections to that are personal ones. In the first place, it would lead to nothing when the affair is over. In the second place, I should be certain to meet men I knew at Harrow, or at the University, or since then; and I own that I should shrink from that. As Gregory Hilliard, I don't mind carrying a parcel or helping to load a dray; but I should not like, as Gregory Hartley, to be known to be doing that sort of thing. Personally I feel not the smallest humiliation in doing so, but I don't think it would be fair to Geoffrey. I should not like it myself, if I were an earl, for fellows who knew him to be able to say that my brother was knocking about in Egypt as an interpreter, or mule driver, or something of that sort. That certainly has to be taken into consideration.

"It is not likely that I should get any sort of berth that an officer would be appointed to, for every officer in the army, whose regiment is not coming out here, will be rushing to the War Office to apply for any sort of appointment that would enable him to come out to the war.

"Again, it is almost certain that, when this business is over -- and I don't suppose it will last long, after we get an army out here -- a fresh Egyptian force will be raised. You may be sure that the greater portion of our troops will be hurried back, as soon as it is over; and that, as the present Egyptian army will be altogether smashed up, it will be absolutely necessary that there should be a force, of some kind or other, that can put a stop to this Mahdi fellow's doings. He has overrun half the Soudan, and inflicted serious defeats on the Egyptian troops there. He has captured a considerable portion of Kordofan; and, of course, it is owing to his insurrection that those rows have occurred down at the Red Sea, where our men have been fighting.

"It is likely enough that they may appoint some British officers to the new force, and I might get a fair position on it. They will want interpreters there. Promotion will be sure to be rapid, and I might have opportunities of distinguishing myself, and get an appointment where I could, without discrediting it, take my own name again.

"These are only among the things that might be; but at the worst, I am certain to get some sort of post, at Alexandria, which would enable us to live without trenching upon the three months' pay that is offered me; and then, if I could see nothing better, I could return to Partridge's employment when they reopen here, and I have no doubt that they would improve my position.

"I don't think that Parrott is likely to come back again. The climate did not suit him, and he is always having attacks of fever. Ferguson has, I know, for he told me so, reported very favourably about my work to headquarters; and, as I have been wounded in defence of the house, I have an additional claim. The others will, of course, be moved up, and I should get the junior clerkship -- no advance in the way of remuneration, but a great improvement in position.

"So I think we had better accept the three months' pay, and take our chances. At any rate, there will be no fear of another disturbance at Alexandria. The mob have had a lesson here that they are not likely to forget, and I should fancy that, although we may withdraw the army, two or three regiments will be left here, and at Cairo, for a long time to come. We should be fools, indeed, if we threw away the money that this business will cost, before it is over, and let Egypt slip altogether out of our fingers again. France has forfeited her right to have anything to say in the matter. In our hands it will be a very valuable possession, and certainly our stay here would be of inestimable advantage to the natives, as we should govern Egypt as we govern India, and do away with the tyranny, oppression, and extortion of the native officials."

Mrs. Hilliard quite agreed with her husband; and accordingly, the next day, Gregory informed Mr. Ferguson that he would accept the three months' pay, and his discharge; and should, at any rate for a time, remain in Alexandria.

"I think you are right, Hilliard. There will be lots of opportunities here for a man who knows the language as you do. If you like, I will speak to Mr. Ross. I saw him yesterday, in the town, and he said that two of his assistants had been killed. He has already obtained a fresh contract, and a very heavy one, for the supply of meat for the troops as they arrive; and I have no doubt he would be very glad to engage you, on good terms, though the engagement could only be made during the stay of the army here."

"Thank you, sir. I shall be much obliged to you if you will do so; and I would rather that the engagement should be a temporary one, on both sides, so that I should be free to leave, at a few days' notice."

The contractor, after a chat with Gregory Hilliard, was glad to secure his services. He saw the advantage that it would be to have a gentleman to represent him, with the army, instead of an agent of a very different kind. Other men would do to purchase animals from the Arabs, or to receive them at the ports when they were brought over from Spain and Italy; but it required a variety of qualities, difficult to obtain in the same person, to act as agent with the army. Gregory was exactly the man required, and he was soon on excellent terms, both with the officers of the quartermaster's department, and the contractors who brought in the cargoes of cattle.

As soon as the bulk of the army sailed from Alexandria to Ismailia, he made the latter town his headquarters; and by his power of work, his tact and good temper, he smoothed away all the difficulties that so often arise between contractors and army officials, and won the goodwill of all with whom he came in contact. When the army removed to Cairo, after the defeat and dispersal of Arabi's force at Tel-el-Kebir, Gregory established himself there, and was joined by his wife and child.

As soon as matters settled down, and a considerable portion of the troops had left Egypt, Mr. Ross said to him:

"Of course, our operations in the future will be comparatively small, Mr. Hilliard, and I must reduce my staff."

"I quite understand that," Gregory replied, "and I knew that I should have to look out for something else."

"I shall be very sorry to lose your services, which have indeed been invaluable, and I am sure have been appreciated, by the army men as much as by myself. I certainly should not think of your leaving me, until you get another berth; and it is only because I see an opening, if you like to take it, that might lead to something better, in the future, than anything I can offer you.

"You know that Colonel Hicks arrived here, a fortnight since, and is to take command of the Egyptian army, and to have the rank of pasha. Several officers have received appointments on his staff. He will shortly be going up to Khartoum. I was speaking to him yesterday, and as I was doing so, two of the officers of Wolseley's staff came in. A question of supplies came up, and I mentioned your name, and said that I thought that you were the very man for him, that you were master of Arabic, and an excellent organizer; and, a very important matter where there were so few English officers together, a gentleman.

"One of the officers, who knew the work that you had done, at once confirmed what I had said, and declared that Wolseley's quartermaster general would speak as warmly in your favour. Hicks told me that, until he got up to Khartoum, he could not say what arrangements would be made for the supplies; but that he would, at any rate, be very glad to have you with him, in the capacity of a first-class interpreter, and for general service with the staff, with the temporary rank of captain; with the special view of your services in organizing a supply train, when he moved forward. I said that I should speak to you, and ascertain your views."

"I am very much obliged to you, indeed. I must take twenty-four hours to think it over. Of course I shall be guided, to some extent, by the question whether the appointment would be likely to be a permanent one."

"That I have no doubt. Indeed, Hicks said as much. I asked him the question, and he replied, 'I can hardly make a permanent appointment now, as I am not quite in the saddle; but I have no doubt, from what you say, that Mr. Hilliard will make a valuable officer; and after our first campaign I shall, without difficulty, be able to obtain him a permanent appointment in the Egyptian army.'"

"I thank you, most heartily, Mr. Ross. It seems to me a grand opening. There is no doubt that, as our troops leave, the Egyptian army will be thoroughly reorganized; and there will be many openings for a man who knows the language, and is ready to work hard; and, no doubt, the regiments will be largely officered by Englishmen."

That evening, Gregory had a long talk with his wife.

"I don't like the thought of leaving you, even for a time; but no doubt, when the Mahdi is settled with, you will be able to join me at Khartoum; which, I believe, is by no means an unpleasant place to live in. Of course, I shall come down and take you up. It is a splendid chance, and will really be my reinstatement. Once holding a commission in the Egyptian army, I should resume my own name, and have the future to look forward to. Entering the service as the army is being reorganized, I should have a great pull, and should be sure to get on, and be able to write to my father and brother, without its appearing that I wanted help of any kind."

There were tears in Mrs. Hilliard's eyes, but she said bravely:

"I quite agree with you, Gregory. Of course, I shall be sorry that you should leave me, even for a time; but it seems to me, too, that it is a grand opportunity. You know what a pain it was to me, all the time that we were at Alexandria, that you should be working in such a subordinate position. Now there is an opening by which you will be in a position, ere long, more worthy of your birth and education. I have no doubt I shall get on very well, here. I believe that Hicks Pasha has brought his wife out with him here; and some of his officers will, no doubt, be married men also; and as the wife of one of his officers I shall, of course, get to know them. I should be selfish, indeed, to say a word to keep you back, and shall be delighted to think of you associating with other English gentlemen, as one of themselves."

And so it was settled. The next day, Gregory called on Hicks Pasha. The latter had made some more enquiries respecting him, and was well pleased with his appearance.

"I have already a gentleman named as staff interpreter, Mr. Hilliard, but I can appoint you, at once, interpreter to the quartermaster's department, attached to my personal staff for the present. I can tell you that the Egyptian army will be largely increased, and I shall be able, after a time, to procure you a better appointment. When we have once defeated the Mahdi, and restored order, there will be many appointments open for the reorganization of the Soudan. There are a good many preparations to be made, before I leave, which I expect to do in the course of three or four weeks; and I shall be glad of your assistance, as soon as you can join us."

"I shall be glad to do so, at once. Mr. Ross has kindly told me that I am at liberty to resign my post, under him, as soon as I like."

"Very well, then. You may consider yourself appointed, today. My intention is to go first to Suakim, and thence up to Berber, and so by water to Khartoum."

The next three weeks passed rapidly. Gregory was, on the following day, introduced to the various officers of Hicks Pasha's staff; and, on learning that he was married, the general asked him and his wife to dinner, to make the acquaintance of Lady Hicks, and the wives of three of his fellow officers.

At last, the time came for parting. Annie bore up well; and although, when alone, she had many a cry, she was always cheerful, and went with her husband and saw him off, at the station of the railway for Ismailia, without breaking down badly.



Chapter 3: A Terrible Disaster.


It was an anxious time for his wife, after Gregory started. He, and those with him, had left with a feeling of confidence that the insurrection would speedily be put down. The garrison of Khartoum had inflicted several severe defeats upon the Mahdi, but had also suffered some reverses. This, however, was only to be expected, when the troops under him were scarcely more disciplined than those of the Dervishes, who had always been greatly superior in numbers, and inspired with a fanatical belief in their prophet. But with British officers to command, and British officers to drill and discipline the troops, there could be no fear of a recurrence of these disasters.

Before they started, Mrs. Hilliard had become intimate with the wife of Hicks Pasha, and those of the other married officers, and had paid visits with them to the harems of high Turkish officials. Visits were frequently exchanged, and what with these, and the care of the boy, her time was constantly occupied. She received letters from Gregory, as frequently as possible, after his arrival at Omdurman, and until he set out with the main body, under the general, on the way to El Obeid.

Before starting, he said he hoped that, in another two months, the campaign would be over, El Obeid recovered, and the Mahdi smashed up; and that, as soon as they returned to Khartoum, Hicks Pasha would send for his wife and daughters, and the other married officers for their wives; and, of course, she would accompany them.

"I cannot say much for Omdurman," he wrote; "but Khartoum is a nice place. Many of the houses there have shady gardens. Hicks has promised to recommend me for a majority, in one of the Turkish regiments. In the intervals of my own work, I have got up drill. I shall, of course, tell him then what my real name is, so that I can be gazetted in it. It is likely enough that, even after we defeat the Mahdi, this war may go on for some time before it is stamped out; and in another year I may be a full-blown colonel, if only an Egyptian one; and as the pay of the English officers is good, I shall be able to have a very comfortable home for you.

"I need not repeat my instructions, darling, as to what you must do in the event, improbable as it is, of disaster. When absolutely assured of my death, but not until then, you will go back to England with the boy, and see my father. He is not a man to change his mind, unless I were to humble myself before him; but I think he would do the right thing for you. If he will not, there is the letter for Geoffrey. He has no settled income at present, but when he comes into the title he will, I feel quite certain, make you an allowance. I know that you would, for yourself, shrink from doing this; but, for the boy's sake, you will not hesitate to carry out my instructions. I should say you had better write to my father, for the interview might be an unpleasant one; but if you have to appeal to Geoffrey, you had better call upon him and show him this letter. I feel sure that he will do what he can.

"Gregory."

A month later, a messenger came up from Suakim with a despatch, dated October 3rd. The force was then within a few days' march of El Obeid. The news was not altogether cheering. Hordes of the enemy hovered about their rear. Communication was already difficult, and they had to depend upon the stores they carried, and cut themselves off altogether from the base. He brought some private letters from the officers, and among them one for Mrs. Hilliard. It was short, and written in pencil:

"In a few days, Dear, the decisive battle will take place; and although it will be a tough fight, none of us have any fear of the result. In the very improbable event of a defeat, I shall, if I have time, slip on the Arab dress I have with me, and may hope to escape. However, I have little fear that it will come to that. God bless and protect you, and the boy!

"Gregory."

A month passed away. No news came from Hicks Pasha, or any of his officers. Then there were rumours current in the bazaars, of disaster; and one morning, when Annie called upon Lady Hicks, she found several of the ladies there with pale and anxious faces. She paused at the door.

"Do not be alarmed, Mrs. Hilliard," Lady Hicks said. "Nizim Pasha has been here this morning. He thought that I might have heard the rumours that are current in the bazaar, that there has been a disaster, but he says there is no confirmation whatever of these reports. He does not deny, however, that they have caused anxiety among the authorities; for sometimes these rumours, whose origin no one knows, do turn out to be correct. He said that enquiries have been made, but no foundation for the stories can be got at. I questioned him closely, and he says that he can only account for them on the ground that, if a victory had been won, an official account from government should have been here before this; and that it is solely on this account that these rumours have got about. He said there was no reason for supposing that this silence meant disaster. A complete victory might have been won; and yet the messenger with the despatches might have been captured, and killed, by the parties of tribesmen hanging behind the army, or wandering about the country between the army and Khartoum. Still, of course, this is making us all very anxious."

The party soon broke up, none having any reassuring suggestions to offer; and Annie returned to her lodging, to weep over her boy, and pray for the safety of his father. Days and weeks passed, and still no word came to Cairo. At Khartoum there was a ferment among the native population. No secret was made of the fact that the tribesmen who came and went all declared that Hicks Pasha's army was utterly destroyed. At length, the Egyptian government announced to the wives of the officers that pensions would be given to them, according to the rank of their husbands. As captain and interpreter, Gregory's wife had but a small one, but it was sufficient for her to live upon.

One by one, the other ladies gave up hope and returned to England, but Annie stayed on. Misfortune might have befallen the army, but Gregory might have escaped in disguise. She had, like the other ladies, put on mourning for him; for had she declared her belief that he might still be alive, she could not have applied for the pension, and this was necessary for the child's sake. Of one thing she was determined. She would not go with him, as beggars, to the father who had cast Gregory off; until, as he had said, she received absolute news of his death. She was not in want; but as her pension was a small one, and she felt that it would be well for her to be employed, she asked Lady Hicks, before she left, to mention at the houses of the Egyptian ladies to whom she went to say goodbye, that Mrs. Hilliard would be glad to give lessons in English, French, or music.

The idea pleased them, and she obtained several pupils. Some of these were the ladies themselves, and the lessons generally consisted in sitting for an hour with them, two or three times a week, and talking to them; the conversation being in short sentences, of which she gave them the English translation, which they repeated over and over again, until they knew them by heart. This caused great amusement, and was accompanied by much laughter, on the part of the ladies and their attendants.

Several of her pupils, however, were young boys and girls, and the teaching here was of a more serious kind. The lessons to the boys were given the first thing in the morning, and the pupils were brought to her house by attendants. At eleven o'clock she taught the girls, and returned at one, and had two hours more teaching in the afternoon. She could have obtained more pupils, had she wished to; but the pay she received, added to her income, enabled her to live very comfortably, and to save up money. She had a Negro servant, who was very fond of the boy, and she could leave him in her charge with perfect confidence, while she was teaching.

In the latter part of 1884, she ventured to hope that some news might yet come to her, for a British expedition had started for the relief of General Gordon, who had gone up early in the year to Khartoum; where it was hoped that the influence he had gained among the natives, at the time he was in command of the Egyptian forces in the Soudan, would enable him to make head against the insurrection. His arrival had been hailed by the population, but it was soon evident to him that, unless aided by England with something more than words, Khartoum must finally fall.

But his requests for aid were slighted. He had asked that two regiments should be sent from Suakim, to keep open the route to Berber, but Mr. Gladstone's government refused even this slight assistance to the man they had sent out, and it was not until May that public indignation, at this base desertion of one of the noblest spirits that Britain ever produced, caused preparations for his rescue to be made; and it was December before the leading regiment arrived at Korti, far up the Nile.

After fighting two hard battles, a force that had marched across the loop of the Nile came down upon it above Metemmeh. A party started up the river at once, in two steamers which Gordon had sent down to meet them, but only arrived near the town to hear that they were too late, that Khartoum had fallen, and that Gordon had been murdered. The army was at once hurried back to the coast, leaving it to the Mahdists -- more triumphant than ever -- to occupy Dongola; and to push down, and possibly, as they were confident they should do, to capture Egypt itself.

The news of the failure was a terrible blow to Mrs. Hilliard. She had hoped that, when Khartoum was relieved, some information at least might be obtained, from prisoners, as to the fate of the British officers at El Obeid. That most of them had been killed was certain, but she still clung to the hope that her husband might have escaped from the general massacre, thanks to his knowledge of the language, and the disguise he had with him; and even that if captured later on he might be a prisoner; or that he might have escaped detection altogether, and be still living among friendly tribesmen. It was a heavy blow to her, therefore, when she heard that the troops were being hurried down to the coast, and that the Mahdi would be uncontested master of Egypt, as far as Assouan.

She did, however, receive news when the force returned to Cairo, which, although depressing, did not extinguish all hope. Lieutenant Colonel Colborne, by good luck, had ascertained that a native boy in the service of General Buller claimed to have been at El Obeid. Upon questioning him closely, he found out that he had unquestionably been there, for he described accurately the position Colonel Colborne -- who had started with Hicks Pasha, but had been forced by illness to return -- had occupied in one of the engagements. The boy was then the slave of an Egyptian officer of the expedition.

The army had suffered much from want of water, but they had obtained plenty from a lake within three days' march from El Obeid. From this point they were incessantly fired at, by the enemy. On the second day they were attacked, but beat off the enemy, though with heavy loss to themselves. The next day they pressed forward, as it was necessary to get to water; but they were misled by their guide, and at noon the Arabs burst down upon them, the square in which the force was marching was broken, and a terrible slaughter took place. Then Hicks Pasha, with his officers, seeing that all was lost, gathered together and kept the enemy at bay with their revolvers, till their ammunition was exhausted. After that they fought with their swords till all were killed, Hicks Pasha being the last to fall. The lad himself hid among the dead and was not discovered until the next morning, when he was made a slave by the man who found him.

This was terrible! But there was still hope. If this boy had concealed himself among the dead, her husband might have done the same. Not being a combatant officer, he might not have been near the others when the affair took place; and moreover, the lad had said that the black regiment in the rear of the square had kept together and marched away; he believed all had been afterwards killed, but this he did not know. If Gregory had been there when the square was broken, he might well have kept with them, and at nightfall slipped on his disguise and made his escape. It was at least possible -- she would not give up all hope.

So years went on. Things were quiet in Egypt. A native army had been raised there, under the command of British officers, and these had checked the northern progress of the Mahdists and restored confidence in Egypt. Gregory -- for the boy had been named after his father -- grew up strong and hearty. His mother devoted her evenings to his education. From the Negress, who was his nurse and the general servant of the house, he had learnt to talk her native language. She had been carried off, when ten years old, by a slave-raiding party, and sold to an Egyptian trader at Khartoum; been given by him to an Atbara chief, with whom he had dealings; and, five years later, had been captured in a tribal war by the Jaalin. Two or three times she had changed masters, and finally had been purchased by an Egyptian officer, and brought down by him to Cairo. At his death, four years afterwards, she had been given her freedom, being now past fifty, and had taken service with Gregory Hilliard and his wife. Her vocabulary was a large one, and she was acquainted with most of the dialects of the Soudan tribes.

From the time when her husband was first missing, Mrs. Hilliard cherished the idea that, some day, the child might grow up and search for his father; and, perhaps, ascertain his fate beyond all doubt. She was a very conscientious woman, and was resolved that, at whatever pain to herself, she would, when once certain of her husband's death, go to England and obtain recognition of his boy by his family. But it was pleasant to think that the day was far distant when she could give up hope. She saw, too, that if the Soudan was ever reconquered, the knowledge of the tribal languages must be of immense benefit to her son; and she therefore insisted, from the first, that the woman should always talk to him in one or other of the languages that she knew.

Thus Gregory, almost unconsciously, acquired several of the dialects used in the Soudan. Arabic formed the basis of them all, except the Negro tongue. At first he mixed them up, but as he grew, Mrs. Hilliard insisted that his nurse should speak one for a month, and then use another; so that, by the time he was twelve years old, the boy could speak in the Negro tongue, and half a dozen dialects, with equal facility.

His mother had, years before, engaged a teacher of Arabic for him. This he learned readily, as it was the root of the Egyptian and the other languages he had picked up. Of a morning, he sat in the school and learned pure Arabic and Turkish, while the boys learned English; and therefore, without an effort, when he was twelve years old he talked these languages as well as English; and had, moreover, a smattering of Italian and French, picked up from boys of his own age, for his mother had now many acquaintances among the European community.

While she was occupied in the afternoon, with her pupils, the boy had liberty to go about as he pleased; and indeed she encouraged him to take long walks, to swim, and to join in all games and exercises.

"English boys at home," she said, "have many games, and it is owing to these that they grow up so strong and active. They have more opportunities than you, but you must make the most of those that you have. We may go back to England some day, and I should not at all like you to be less strong than others."

As, however, such opportunities were very small, she had an apparatus of poles, horizontal bars, and ropes set up, such as those she had seen, in England, in use by the boys of one of the families where she had taught, before her marriage; and insisted upon Gregory's exercising himself upon it for an hour every morning, soon after sunrise. As she had heard her husband once say that fencing was a splendid exercise, not only for developing the figure, but for giving a good carriage as well as activity and alertness, she arranged with a Frenchman who had served in the army, and had gained a prize as a swordsman in the regiment, to give the boy lessons two mornings in the week.

Thus, at fifteen, Gregory was well grown and athletic, and had much of the bearing and appearance of an English public-school boy. His mother had been very particular in seeing that his manners were those of an Englishman.

"I hope the time will come when you will associate with English gentlemen, and I should wish you, in all respects, to be like them. You belong to a good family; and should you, by any chance, some day go home, you must do credit to your dear father."

The boy had, for some years, been acquainted with the family story, except that he did not know the name he bore was his father's Christian name, and not that of his family.

"My grandfather must have been a very bad man, Mother, to have quarreled with my father for marrying you."

"Well, my boy, you hardly understand the extent of the exclusiveness of some Englishmen. Of course, it is not always so, but to some people, the idea of their sons or daughters marrying into a family of less rank than themselves appears to be an almost terrible thing. As I have told you, although the daughter of a clergyman, I was, when I became an orphan, obliged to go out as a governess."

"But there was no harm in that, Mother?"

"No harm, dear; but a certain loss of position. Had my father been alive, and had I been living with him in a country rectory, your grandfather might not have been pleased at your father's falling in love with me, because he would probably have considered that, being, as you know by his photograph, a fine, tall, handsome man, and having the best education money could give him, he might have married very much better; that is to say, the heiress of a property, or into a family of influence, through which he might have been pushed on; but he would not have thought of opposing the marriage on the ground of my family. But a governess is a different thing. She is, in many cases, a lady in every respect, but her position is a doubtful one.

"In some families she is treated as one of themselves. In others, her position is very little different from that of an upper servant. Your grandfather was a passionate man, and a very proud man. Your father's elder brother was well provided for, but there were two sisters, and these and your father he hoped would make good marriages. He lived in very good style, but your uncle was extravagant, and your grandfather was over indulgent, and crippled himself a good deal in paying the debts that he incurred. It was natural, therefore, that he should have objected to your father's engagement to what he called a penniless governess. It was only what was to be expected. If he had stated his objections to the marriage calmly, there need have been no quarrel. Your father would assuredly have married me, in any case; and your grandfather might have refused to assist him, if he did so, but there need have been no breakup in the family, such as took place.

"However, as it was, your father resented his tone, and what had been merely a difference of opinion became a serious quarrel, and they never saw each other, afterwards. It was a great grief to me, and it was owing to that, and his being unable to earn his living in England, that your father brought me out here. I believe he would have done well at home, though it would have been a hard struggle. At that time I was very delicate, and was ordered by the doctors to go to a warm climate, and therefore your father accepted a position of a kind which, at least, enabled us to live, and obtained for me the benefit of a warm climate.

"Then the chance came of his going up to the Soudan, and there was a certainty that, if the expedition succeeded, as everyone believed it would, he would have obtained permanent rank in the Egyptian army, and so recovered the position in life that he had voluntarily given up, for my sake."

"And what was the illness you had, Mother?"

"It was an affection of the lungs, dear. It was a constant cough, that threatened to turn to consumption, which is one of the most fatal diseases we have in England."

"But it hasn't cured you, Mother, for I often hear you coughing, at night."

"Yes, my cough has been a little troublesome of late, Gregory."

Indeed, from the time of the disaster to the expedition of Hicks Pasha, Annie Hilliard had lost ground. She herself was conscious of it; but, except for the sake of the boy, she had not troubled over it. She had not altogether given up hope, but the hope grew fainter and fainter, as the years went on. Had it not been for the promise to her husband, not to mention his real name or to make any application to his father unless absolutely assured of his death, she would, for Gregory's sake, have written to Mr. Hartley, and asked for help that would have enabled her to take the boy home to England, and have him properly educated there. But she had an implicit faith in the binding of a promise so made, and as long as she was not driven, by absolute want, to apply to Mr. Hartley, was determined to keep to it.

A year after this conversation, Gregory was sixteen. Now tall and strong, he had, for some time past, been anxious to obtain some employment that would enable his mother to give up her teaching. Some of this, indeed, she had been obliged to relinquish. During the past few months her cheeks had become hollow, and her cough was now frequent by day, as well as by night. She had consulted an English doctor, who, she saw by the paper, was staying at Shepherd's Hotel. He had hesitated before giving a direct opinion, but on her imploring him to tell her the exact state of her health, said gently:

"I am afraid, madam, that I can give you no hope of recovery. One lung has already gone, the other is very seriously diseased. Were you living in England, I should say that your life might be prolonged by taking you to a warm climate; but as it is, no change could be made for the better."

"Thank you, Doctor. I wanted to know the exact truth, and be able to make my arrangements accordingly. I was quite convinced that my condition was hopeless, but I thought it right to consult a physician, and to know how much time I could reckon on. Can you tell me that?"

"That is always difficult, Mrs. Hilliard. It may be three months hence. It might be more speedily -- a vessel might give way in the lungs, suddenly. On the other hand, you might live six months. Of course, I cannot say how rapid the progress of the disease has been."

"It may not be a week, doctor. I am not at all afraid of hearing your sentence -- indeed, I can see it in your eyes."

"It may be within a week" -- the doctor bowed his head gravely -- "it may be at any time."

"Thank you!" she said, quietly. "I was sure it could not be long. I have been teaching, but three weeks ago I had to give up my last pupil. My breath is so short that the slightest exertion brings on a fit of coughing."

On her return home she said to Gregory:

"My dear boy, you must have seen -- you cannot have helped seeing -- that my time is not long here. I have seen an English doctor today, and he says the end may come at any moment."

"Oh, Mother, Mother!" the lad cried, throwing himself on his knees, and burying his face in her lap, "don't say so!"

The news, indeed, did not come as a surprise to him. He had, for months, noticed the steady change in her: how her face had fallen away, how her hands seemed nerveless, her flesh transparent, and her eyes grew larger and larger. Many times he had walked far up among the hills and, when beyond the reach of human eye, thrown himself down and cried unrestrainedly, until his strength seemed utterly exhausted, and yet the verdict now given seemed to come as a sudden blow.

"You must not break down, dear," she said quietly. "For months I have felt that it was so; and, but for your sake, I did not care to live. I thank God that I have been spared to see you growing up all that I could wish; and though I should have liked to see you fairly started in life, I feel that you may now make your way, unaided.

"Now I want, before it is too late, to give you instructions. In my desk you will find a sealed envelope. It contains a copy of the registers of my marriage, and of your birth. These will prove that your father married, and had a son. You can get plenty of witnesses who can prove that you were the child mentioned. I promised your father that I would not mention our real name to anyone, until it was necessary for me to write to your grandfather. I have kept that promise. His name was Gregory Hilliard, so we have not taken false names. They were his Christian names. The third name, his family name, you will find when you open that envelope.

"I have been thinking, for months past, what you had best do; and this is my advice, but do not look upon it as an order. You are old enough to think for yourself. You know that Sir Herbert Kitchener, the Sirdar, is pushing his way up the Nile. I have no doubt that, with your knowledge of Arabic, and of the language used by the black race in the Soudan, you will be able to obtain some sort of post in the army, perhaps as an interpreter to one of the officers commanding a brigade -- the same position, in fact, as your father had, except that the army is now virtually British, whereas that he went with was Egyptian.

"I have two reasons for desiring this. I do not wish you to go home, until you are in a position to dispense with all aid from your family. I have done without it, and I trust that you will be able to do the same. I should like you to be able to go home at one-and-twenty, and to say to your grandfather, 'I have not come home to ask for money or assistance of any kind. I am earning my living honourably. I only ask recognition, by my family, as my father's son.'

"It is probable that this expedition will last fully two years. It must be a gradual advance, and even then, if the Khalifa is beaten, it must be a considerable time before matters are thoroughly settled. There will be many civil posts open to those who, like yourself, are well acquainted with the language of the country; and if you can obtain one of these, you may well remain there until you come of age. You can then obtain a few months' leave of absence and go to England.

"My second reason is that, although my hope that your father is still alive has almost died out, it is just possible that he is, like Neufeld and some others, a prisoner in the Khalifa's hands; or possibly living as an Arab cultivator near El Obeid. Many prisoners will be taken, and from some of these we may learn such details, of the battle, as may clear us of the darkness that hangs over your father's fate.

"When you do go home, Gregory, you had best go first to your father's brother. His address is on a paper in the envelope. He was heir to a peerage, and has, perhaps, now come into it. I have no reasons for supposing that he sided with his father against yours. The brothers were not bad friends, although they saw little of each other; for your father, after he left Oxford, was for the most part away from England, until a year before his marriage; and at that time your uncle was in America, having gone out with two or three others on a hunting expedition among the Rocky Mountains. There is, therefore, no reason for supposing that he will receive you otherwise than kindly, when once he is sure that you are his nephew. He may, indeed, for aught I know, have made efforts to discover your father, after he returned from abroad."

"I would rather leave them alone altogether, Mother," Gregory said passionately.

"That you cannot do, my boy. Your father was anxious that you should be at least recognized, and afterwards bear your proper name. You will not be going as a beggar, and there will be nothing humiliating. As to your grandfather, he may not even be alive. It is seldom that I see an English newspaper, and even had his death been advertised in one of the papers, I should hardly have noticed it, as I never did more than just glance at the principal items of news.

"In my desk you will also see my bank book. It is in your name. I have thought it better that it should stand so, as it will save a great deal of trouble, should anything happen to me. Happily, I have never had any reasons to draw upon it, and there are now about five hundred and fifty pounds standing to your credit. Of late you have generally paid in the money, and you are personally known to the manager. Should there be any difficulty, I have made a will leaving everything to you. That sum will keep you, if you cannot obtain the employment we speak of, until you come of age; and will, at any rate, facilitate your getting employment with the army, as you will not be obliged to demand much pay, and can take anything that offers.

"Another reason for your going to England is that your grandfather may, if he is dead, have relented at last towards your father, and may have left him some share in his fortune; and although you might well refuse to accept any help from him, if he is alive, you can have no hesitation in taking that which should be yours by right. I think sometimes now, my boy, that I have been wrong in not accepting the fact of your father's death as proved, and taking you home to England; but you will believe that I acted for the best, and I shrank from the thought of going home as a beggar, while I could maintain you and myself comfortably, here."

"You were quite right, Mother dear. We have been very happy, and I have been looking forward to the time when I might work for you, as you have worked for me. It has been a thousand times better, so, than living on the charity of a man who looked down upon you, and who cast off my father."

"Well, you will believe at least that I acted for the best, dear, and I am not sure that it has not been for the best. At any rate I, too, have been far happier than I could have been, if living in England on an allowance begrudged to me."

A week later, Gregory was awakened by the cries of the Negro servant; and, running to Mrs. Hilliard's bedroom, found that his mother had passed away during the night. Burial speedily follows death in Egypt; and on the following day Gregory returned, heartbroken, to his lonely house, after seeing her laid in her grave.

For a week, he did nothing but wander about the house, listlessly. Then, with a great effort, he roused himself. He had his work before him -- had his mother's wishes to carry out. His first step was to go to the bank, and ask to see the manager.

"You may have heard of my mother's death, Mr. Murray?" he said.

"Yes, my lad, and sorry, indeed, I was to hear of it. She was greatly liked and respected, by all who knew her."

"She told me," Gregory went on, trying to steady his voice, "a week before her death, that she had money here deposited in my name."

"That is so."

"Is there anything to be done about it, sir?"

"Not unless you wish to draw it out. She told me, some time ago, why she placed it in your name; and I told her that there would be no difficulty."

"I do not want to draw any of it out, sir, as there were fifty pounds in the house. She was aware that she had not long to live, and no doubt kept it by her, on purpose."

"Then all you have to do is to write your signature on this piece of paper. I will hand you a cheque book, and you will only have to fill up a cheque and sign it, and draw out any amount you please."

"I have never seen a cheque book, sir. Will you kindly tell me what I should have to do?"

Mr. Murray took out a cheque book, and explained its use. Then he asked what Gregory thought of doing.

"I wish to go up with the Nile expedition, sir. It was my mother's wish, also, that I should do so. My main object is to endeavour to obtain particulars of my father's death, and to assure myself that he was one of those who fell at El Obeid. I do not care in what capacity I go up; but as I speak Arabic and Soudanese, as well as English, my mother thought that I might get employment as interpreter, either under an officer engaged on making the railway, or in some capacity under an officer in one of the Egyptian regiments."

"I have no doubt that I can help you there, lad. I know the Sirdar, and a good many of the British officers, for whom I act as agent. Of course, I don't know in what capacity they could employ you, but surely some post or other could be found for you, where your knowledge of the language would render you very useful. Naturally, the officers in the Egyptian service all understand enough of the language to get on with, but few of the officers in the British regiments do.

"It is fortunate that you came today. I have an appointment with Lord Cromer tomorrow morning, so I will take the opportunity of speaking to him. As it is an army affair, and as your father was in the Egyptian service, and your mother had a pension from it, I may get him to interest himself in the matter. Kitchener is down here at present, and if Cromer would speak to him, I should think you would certainly be able to get up, though I cannot say in what position. The fact that you are familiar with the Negro language, which differs very widely from that of the Arab Soudan tribes, who all speak Arabic, is strongly in your favour; and may give you an advantage over applicants who can only speak Arabic.

"I shall see Lord Cromer at ten, and shall probably be with him for an hour. You may as well be outside his house, at half-past ten; possibly he may like to see you. At any rate, when I come down, I can tell you what he says."

With grateful thanks, Gregory returned home.



Chapter 4: An Appointment.


Soon after ten, next morning, Gregory took up his place near the entrance to Lord Cromer's house. It was just eleven when Mr. Murray came down.

"Come in with me," he said. "Lord Cromer will see you. He acknowledged at once, when I told him your story, that you had a strong claim for employment. The only point was as to your age. I told him that you were past sixteen, and a strong, active fellow, and that you had had a good physical training."

They had now entered the house.

"Don't be nervous, Hilliard; just talk to him as you would to me. Many a good man has lost an appointment, from being nervous and embarrassed when he applied for it."

"You want to go up to the Soudan?" Lord Cromer said. "Mr. Murray has told me your reasons for wanting to go. Though I fear it is hardly likely that any new light can be thrown upon the fate of Hicks Pasha, and his officers, I feel that it is a natural desire on your part."

"It was my mother's last wish, sir, and she took particular pains in my training, and education, to fit me for the work."

"You speak Arabic, and the tongue of the Negro blacks, almost as well as English?"

"Yes, sir. Arabic quite as well, and the other nearly as well, I think."

"What sort of post did you hope to get, Mr. Hilliard?"

"Any post for which I may be thought fit, sir. I do not care at all about pay. My mother saved sufficient to keep me for two or three years. I would rather enlist than not go up at all, though I fear I am too young to be accepted; but I am quite ready to turn my hand to anything."

"If it concerned the Egyptian government, or a civil appointment, I would certainly exert my influence in your favour; but this expedition is in the hands of the military. However, if you will take a seat in the anteroom, and do not mind waiting there for an hour or two, I will see what can be done."

"Thank you very much indeed, sir."

Mr. Murray, as they went out together, said:

"I think that you have made a good impression. He told me, before, that it was a matter for Sir Herbert Kitchener, and that he was expecting him in a quarter of an hour. Come and tell me the result, when you leave."

Ten minutes later, a tall man, whom Gregory recognized at once as Sir Herbert Kitchener, whose figure was well known in Cairo, passed through the room; all who were sitting there rising to their feet, as he did so. He acknowledged the salute mechanically, as if scarcely conscious of it. An hour later a bell was rung, and an attendant went into the room. He returned directly.

"Mr. Hilliard," he said.

Gregory rose, and passed through the door held open. Kitchener was sitting at the table with Lord Cromer. His keen glance seemed, to Gregory, to take him in from head to foot, and then to look at something far beyond him.

"This is Mr. Hilliard," Lord Cromer said, "the young gentleman I have spoken of."

"You want to go up?" the general said shortly, in Arabic.

"Yes, sir."

"You do not mind in what capacity you go?"

"No, sir; I am ready to do anything."

"To work on the railway, or in the transport?"

"Yes, sir. Though I would rather not be on the railway, for the railway cannot get on as fast as the troops; but I would enlist in one of the English regiments, if they would take me."

"And you speak the language of the Nubian blacks?"

The question was put in that language.

"Yes; I do not think I speak it quite as well as Arabic, but I speak it fairly."

"Do you think that you could stand the fatigue? -- no child's play, you know."

"I can only say that I hope I can, sir. I have been accustomed to take long walks, and spend an hour a day in gymnastic exercises, and I have had lessons in fencing."

"Can you use a pistol?"

"Yes, fairly; I have practised a good deal with it."

"You are most fitted for an interpreter," the general said, speaking this time in English. "Now the North Staffordshire have come down, there are no British regiments up there, and of course the British officers in the Egyptian army all speak Arabic, to some extent. However, I will send you up to Dongola. Either General Hunter, or Colonel Wingate, of the Intelligence Department, may be able to find some use for you; and when the British troops go up, you can be attached to one of their regiments as their interpreter. You will have temporary rank of lieutenant, with, of course, the pay of that rank.

"Captain Ewart came with me, Lord Cromer. I left him in the anteroom. If you will allow me, I will call him in.

"Captain Ewart," he said, as that officer entered, "Mr. Hilliard here has just received the temporary rank of lieutenant, in the Egyptian army, and is going up to join General Hunter, at Dongola. You are starting in three days, are you not?

"I shall be glad if you will take him under your wing, as far as you go. He speaks the languages, Negro as well as Arabic. You can tell him what kit he had better take, and generally mother him.

"That is all, Mr. Hilliard. Call at my quarters, the day after tomorrow, for the letters for General Hunter and Colonel Wingate."

"I thank you most deeply, sir," Gregory began, but the Sirdar gave a little impatient wave with his hand.

"Thank you most deeply also, Lord Cromer!" Gregory said with a bow, and then left the room.

Captain Ewart remained there for another ten minutes. When he came out, he nodded to Gregory.

"Will you come with me?" he said. "I am going to the bank. I shall not be there many minutes, and we can then have a talk together."

"Thank you, sir! I am going to the bank too. It was Mr. Murray who first spoke to Lord Cromer about me."

"You could not have had a better introduction. Well, you won't have very long to get ready for the start -- that is, if you have not begun to prepare for it. However, there is no rush at present, therefore I have no doubt you will be able to get your khaki uniforms in time. As for other things, there will be no difficulty about them."

"You have been up at the front before, sir?"

"Yes, my work is on the railway. I had a touch of fever, and got leave to come down and recruit, before the hot weather came in. I dare say you think it hot here, sometimes, but this is an ice house in comparison with the desert."

They talked until they arrived at the bank.

"You may as well go in first, and see Murray. I suppose you won't be above two or three minutes. I shall be longer, perhaps a quarter of an hour; so if you wait for me, we will go to Shepherd's, and talk your business over in some sort of comfort."

"I am pleased, indeed," Mr. Murray said, when Gregory told him of his appointment. "It is better than I even hoped. It is bad enough there, in the position of an officer, but it would be infinitely worse in any other capacity. Do you want to draw any money?"

"No, sir; I have fifty pounds by me, and that will be enough, I should think, for everything."

"More than ample. Of course, you have plenty of light underclothing of all sorts, and a couple of suits of khaki will not cost you anything like so much as they would, if you got them at a military tailor's in London. However, if you want more, you will be able to draw it."

"Thank you very much, sir! I will not detain you any longer, now; but will, if you will allow me, come in to say goodbye before I start. Captain Ewart is waiting to speak to you. He came with me from Lord Cromer's."

Captain Ewart then went in, and after settling the business on which he had come, asked Mr. Murray questions about Gregory, and received a sketch of his story.

"He seems to be a fine young fellow," he said, "well grown and active, not at all what one would expect from a product of Cairo."

"No, indeed. Of course, you have not seen him to advantage, in that black suit, but in his ordinary clothes I should certainly take him, if I had not seen him before, to be a young lieutenant freshly come out to join."

"Did you know the father?"

"No, I was not here at that time; but the mother was a lady, every inch. It is strange that neither of them should have friends in England. It may be that she preferred to earn her living here, and be altogether independent."

"She had a pension, hadn't she?"

"A small one, but she really earned her living by teaching. She gave lessons to the ladies in English, French, and music, and had classes for young boys and girls. I once asked her if she did not intend to go back and settle in England, and she said 'Possibly, some day.'

"I fancy that there must have been some mystery about the affair -- what, I can't say; but at any rate, we may take it that such a woman would not have married a man who was not a gentleman."

"Certainly the boy looks a well-bred one," Captain Ewart said, "and I am sure that the Sirdar must have been taken with him. You don't know any more about his father than you have told me?"

"Very little. Once, in talking with his wife, she told me that her husband had been in a commercial house, in Alexandria, for a year; but the place was burned down at the time of the bombardment. Being thus out of harness, he became an assistant to one of the army contractors and, when things settled down at Cairo, obtained a berth as interpreter, with the temporary rank of captain, on Hicks Pasha's staff, as he also spoke Arabic fluently. I can tell you no more about him than that, as I never saw him; though no doubt he came here with his wife, when her account was opened.

"I was interested in her. I looked up the old books, and found that two hundred pounds was paid into her account, before he left. I may say that she steadily increased that amount, ever since; but a few years ago she had the sum then standing transferred to the boy's name, telling me frankly, at the time, that she did so to save trouble, in case anything happened to her. I fancy, from what she said, that for the last year or two she had been going downhill. I had a chat with her, the last time she came in. She told me that she had been consumptive, and that it was for the sake of her health they came out here."

"That accounts for it, Murray. By the date, they were probably only married a year or so before they came out; and a man who loved a young wife, and saw no other way of saving her, would throw up any berth at home, in order to give her the benefit of a warm climate. Still, it is a little curious that, if he had only been out here a year or so before Hicks started, he should have learned Arabic sufficiently well to get a post as interpreter. I have been in the country about three years, and can get on fairly well with the natives, in matters concerning my own work; but I certainly could not act as general interpreter.

"Well, I am glad to have heard this, for you know the sort of men interpreters generally are. From the lad's appearance and manner, there is no shadow of doubt that his mother was a lady. I thought it more than probable that she had married beneath her, and that her husband was of the ordinary interpreter class. Now, from what you have said, I see that it is probable he came of a much better family. Well, you may be sure that I shall do what I can for the lad."

Gregory joined him, as he left the bank.

"I think, Hilliard, we had best go to the tailor, first. His shop is not far from here. As you want to get your things in three days, it is as well to have that matter settled, at once."

The two suits, each consisting of khaki tunic, breeches, and putties, were ordered.

"You had better have breeches," he said. "It is likely you will have to ride, and knickerbockers look baggy."

This done, they went to Shepherd's Hotel.

"Sit down in the verandah," Captain Ewart said, "until I get rid of my regimentals. Even a khaki tunic is not an admirable garment, when one wants to be cool and comfortable."

In a few minutes he came down again, in a light tweed suit; and, seating himself in another lounging chair, two cooling drinks were brought in; then he said:

"Now we will talk about your outfit, and what you had best take up. Of course, you have got light underclothing, so you need not bother about that. You want ankle boots -- and high ones -- to keep out the sand. You had better take a couple of pairs of slippers, they are of immense comfort at the end of the day; also a light cap, to slip on when you are going from one tent to another, after dark. A helmet is a good thing in many ways, but it is cumbrous; and if there are four or five men in a tent, and they all take off their helmets, it is difficult to know where to stow them away.

"Most likely you will get a tent at Dongola, but you can't always reckon upon that, and you may find it very useful to have a light tente d'abri made. It should have a fly, which is useful in two ways. In the first place, it adds to the height and so enlarges the space inside; and in the next place, you can tie it up in the daytime, and allow whatever air there is to pass through. Then, with a blanket thrown over the top, you will find it cooler than a regimental tent.

"Of course, you will want a sword and a revolver, with a case and belt. Get the regulation size, and a hundred rounds of cartridges; you are not likely ever to use a quarter of that number, but they will come in for practice.

"Now, as to food. Of course you get beef, biscuit, or bread, and there is a certain amount of tea, but nothing like enough for a thirsty climate, especially when -- which is sometimes the case -- the water is so bad that it is not safe to drink, unless it has been boiled; so you had better take up four or five pounds of tea."

"I don't take sugar, sir."

"All the better. There is no better drink than tea, poured out and left to cool, and drunk without sugar. You might take a dozen tins of preserved milk, as many of condensed cocoa and milk, and a couple of dozen pots of jam. Of course, you could not take all these things on if you were likely to move, but you may be at Dongola some time, before there is another advance, and you may as well make yourself as comfortable as you can; and if, as is probable, you cannot take the pots up with you, you can hand them over to those who are left behind. You will have no trouble in getting a fair-sized case taken up, as there will be water carriage nearly all the way.

"A good many fellows have aerated waters sent up, but hot soda water is by no means a desirable drink -- not to be compared with tea kept in porous jars; so I should not advise you to bother about it. You will want a water bottle. Get the largest you can find. It is astonishing how much water a fellow can get down, in a long day's march.

"Oh! As to your boots, get the uppers as light as you can -- the lighter the better; but you must have strong soles -- there are rocks in some places, and they cut the soles to pieces, in no time. The sand is bad enough. Your foot sinks in it, and it seems to have a sort of sucking action, and very often takes the sole right off in a very short time.

"I suppose you smoke?"

"Cigarettes, sir."

"I should advise you to get a pipe, in addition, or rather two or three of them. If they get broken, or lost in the sand, there is no replacing them; and if you don't take to them, yourself, you will find them the most welcome present you can give, to a man who has lost his.

"I should advise you to get a lens. You don't want a valuable one, but the larger the better, and the cheapest that you can buy; it will be quite as good as the best, to use as a burning glass. Matches are precious things out there and, with a burning glass, you will only have to draw upon your stock in the evening.

"Now, do you ride? Because all the white officers with the Egyptian troops do so."

"I am sorry to say that I don't, sir. I have ridden donkeys, but anyone can sit upon a donkey."

"Yes; that won't help you much. Then I should advise you to use all the time that you can spare, after ordering your outfit, in riding. No doubt you could hire a horse."

"Yes; there is no difficulty about that."

"Well, if you will hire one, and come round here at six o'clock tomorrow morning, I will ride out for a couple of hours with you, and give you your first lesson. I can borrow a horse from one of the staff. If you once get to sit your horse, in a workman-like fashion, and to carry yourself well, you will soon pick up the rest; and if you go out, morning and evening, for three hours each time, you won't be quite abroad, when you start to keep up with a column of men on foot.

"As to a horse, it would be hardly worth your while to bother about taking one with you. You will be able to pick one up at Dongola. I hear that fugitives are constantly coming in there, and some of them are sure to be mounted. However, you had better take up a saddle and bridle with you. You might as well get an Egyptian one; in the first place because it is a good deal cheaper, and in the second because our English saddles are made for bigger horses. You need not mind much about the appearance of your animal. Anything will do for riding about at Dongola, and learning to keep your seat. In the first fight you have with Dervish horsemen, there are sure to be some riderless horses, and you may then get a good one, for a pound or two, from some Tommy who has captured one."

"I am sure I am immensely obliged to you, Captain Ewart. That will indeed be an advantage to me."

On leaving the hotel Gregory at once made all his purchases, so as to get them off his mind; and then arranged for the horse in the morning. Then he went home, and told the old servant the change that had taken place in his position.

"And now, what about yourself, what would you like to do?"

"I am too old to go up with you, and cook for you."

"Yes, indeed," he laughed; "we shall be doing long marches. But it is not your age, so much. As an officer, it would be impossible for me to have a female servant. Besides, you want quiet and rest. I have been round to the landlord, to tell him that I am going away, and to pay him a month's rent, instead of notice. I should think the best way would be for you to take a large room for yourself, or two rooms not so large -- one of them for you to live in, and the other to store everything there is here. I know that you will look after them, and keep them well. Of course, you will pick out all the things that you can use in your room. It will be very lonely for you, living all by yourself, but you know numbers of people here; and you might engage a girl to stay with you, for some small wages and her food. Now, you must think over what your food and hers will cost, and the rent. Of course, I want you to live comfortably; you have always been a friend rather than a servant, and my mother had the greatest trust in you."

"You are very good, Master Gregory. While you have been away, today, I have been thinking over what I should do, when you went away. I have a friend who comes in, once a week, with fruit and vegetables. Last year, you know, I went out with her and stayed a day. She has two boys who work in the garden, and a girl. She came in today, and I said to her:

"'My young master is going away to the Soudan. What do you say to my coming and living with you, when he has gone? I can cook, and do all about the house, and help a little in the garden; and I have saved enough money to pay for my share of food.'

"She said, 'I should like that, very well. You could help the boys, in the field.'

"So we agreed that, if you were willing, I should go. I thought of the furniture; but if you do not come back here to live, it would be no use to keep the chairs, and tables, and beds, and things. We can put all Missy's things, and everything you like to keep, into a great box, and I could take them with me; or you could have them placed with some honest man, who would only charge very little, for storage."

"Well, I do think that would be a good plan, if you like these people. It would be far better than living by yourself. However, of course I shall pay for your board, and I shall leave money with you; so that, if you are not comfortable there, you can do as I said, take a room here.

"I think you are right about the furniture. How would you sell it?"

"There are plenty of Greek shops. They would buy it all. They would not give as much as you gave for it. Most of them are great rascals."

"We cannot help that," he said. "I should have to sell them when I come back and, at any rate, we save the rent for housing them. They are not worth much. You may take anything you like, a comfortable chair and a bed, some cooking things, and so on, and sell the rest for anything you can get, after I have gone. I will pack my dear mother's things, this evening."

For the next two days, Gregory almost lived on horseback; arranging, with the man from whom he hired the animals, that he should change them three times a day. He laid aside his black clothes, and took to a white flannel suit, with a black ribbon round his straw hat; as deep mourning would be terribly hot, and altogether unsuited for riding.

"You will do, lad," Captain Ewart said to him, after giving him his first lesson. "Your fencing has done much for you, and has given you an easy poise of body and head. Always remember that it is upon balancing the body that you should depend for your seat; although, of course, the grip of the knees does a good deal. Also remember, always, to keep your feet straight; nothing is so awkward as turned-out toes. Besides, in that position, if the horse starts you are very likely to dig your spurs into him.

"Hold the reins firmly, but don't pull at his head. Give him enough scope to toss his head if he wants to, but be in readiness to tighten the reins in an instant, if necessary."

Each day, Gregory returned home so stiff, and tired, that he could scarcely crawl along. Still, he felt that he had made a good deal of progress; and that, when he got up to Dongola, he would be able to mount and ride out without exciting derision. On the morning of the day on which he was to start, he went to say goodbye to Mr. Murray.

"Have you everything ready, Hilliard?" the banker asked.

"Yes, sir. The uniform and the tent are both ready. I have a cork bed, and waterproof sheet to lay under it; and, I think, everything that I can possibly require. I am to meet Captain Ewart at the railway, this afternoon at five o'clock. The train starts at half past.

"I will draw another twenty-five pounds, sir. I have not spent more than half what I had, but I must leave some money with our old servant. I shall have to buy a horse, too, when I get up to Dongola, and I may have other expenses, that I cannot foresee."

"I think that is a wise plan," the banker said. "It is always well to have money with you, for no one can say what may happen. Your horse may get shot or founder, and you may have to buy another. Well, I wish you every luck, lad, and a safe return."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Murray! All this good fortune has come to me, entirely through your kindness. I cannot say how grateful I feel to you."



Chapter 5: Southward.


At the hour named, Gregory met Captain Ewart at the station. He was now dressed in uniform, and carried a revolver in his waist belt, and a sword in its case. His luggage was not extensive. He had one large bundle; it contained a roll-up cork bed, in a waterproof casing. At one end was a loose bag; which contained a spare suit of clothes, three flannel shirts, and his underclothing. This formed the pillow. A blanket and a waterproof sheet were rolled up with it. In a small sack was the tente d'abri, made of waterproof sheeting, with its two little poles. It only weighed some fifteen pounds. His only other luggage consisted of a large case, with six bottles of brandy, and the provisions he had been recommended to take.

"Is that all your kit?" Captain Ewart said, as he joined him.

"Yes, sir. I hope you don't think it is too much."

"No; I think it is very moderate, though if you move forward, you will not be able to take the case with you, The others are light enough, and you can always get a native boy to carry them. Of course, you have your pass?"

"Yes, sir. I received it yesterday, when I went to headquarters for the letter to General Hunter."

"Then we may as well take our places, at once. We have nearly an hour before the train starts; but it is worth waiting, in order to get two seats next the window, on the river side. We need not sit there till the train starts, if we put our traps in to keep our places. I know four or five other officers coming up, so we will spread our things about, and keep the whole carriage to ourselves, if we can."

In an hour, the train started. Every place was occupied. Ewart had spoken to his friends, as they arrived, and they had all taken places in the same compartment. The journey lasted forty hours, and Gregory admitted that the description Captain Ewart had given him, of the dust, was by no means exaggerated. He had brought, as had been suggested, a water skin and a porous earthenware bottle; together with a roll of cotton-wool to serve as a stopper to the latter, to keep out the dust. In a tightly fitting handbag he had an ample supply of food for three days. Along the opening of this he had pasted a strip of paper.

"That will do very well for your first meal, Hilliard, but it will be of no good afterwards."

"I have prepared for that," Gregory said. "I have bought a gum bottle, and as I have a newspaper in my pocket, I can seal it up after each meal."

"By Jove, that is a good idea, one I never thought of!"

"The gum will be quite sufficient for us all, up to Assouan. I have two more bottles in my box. That should be sufficient to last me for a long time, when I am in the desert; and as it won't take half a minute to put a fresh paper on, after each meal, I shall have the satisfaction of eating my food without its being mixed with the dust."

There was a general chorus of approval, and all declared that they would search every shop in Assouan, and endeavour to find gum.

"Paste will do as well," Ewart said, "and as we can always get flour, we shall be able to defy the dust fiend as far as our food goes.

"I certainly did not expect that old campaigners would learn a lesson from you, Hilliard, as soon as you started."

"It was just an idea that occurred to me," Gregory said.

The gum bottle was handed round, and although nothing could be done for those who had brought their provisions in hampers, three of them who had, like Gregory, put their food in bags, were able to seal them up tightly.

It was now May, and the heat was becoming intolerable, especially as the windows were closed to keep out the dust. In spite of this, however, it found its way in. It settled everywhere. Clothes and hair became white with it. It worked its way down the neck, where the perspiration changed it into mud. It covered the face, as if with a cake of flour.

At first Gregory attempted to brush it off his clothes, as it settled upon them, but he soon found that there was no advantage in this. So he sat quietly in his corner and, like the rest, looked like a dirty white statue. There were occasional stops, when they all got out, shook themselves, and took a few mouthfuls of fresh air.

Gregory's plan, for keeping out the dust from the food, turned out a great success; and the meals were eaten in the open air, during the stoppages.

On arriving at Assouan, they all went to the transport department, to get their passes for the journey up the Nile, as far as Wady Halfa. The next step was to go down to the river for a swim and, by dint of shaking and beating, to get rid of the accumulated dust.

Assouan was not a pleasant place to linger in and, as soon as they had completed their purchases, Captain Ewart and Gregory climbed on to the loaded railway train, and were carried by the short line to the spot where, above the cataract, the steamer that was to carry them was lying. She was to tow up a large barge, and two native craft. They took their places in the steamer, with a number of other officers -- some newcomers from England, others men who had been down to Cairo, to recruit. They belonged to all branches of the service, and included half a dozen of the medical staff, three of the transport corps, gunners, engineers, cavalry, and infantry. The barges were deep in the water, with their cargoes of stores of all kinds, and rails and sleepers for the railway, and the steamer was also deeply loaded.

The passage was a delightful one, to Gregory. Everything was new to him. The cheery talk and jokes of the officers, the graver discussion of the work before them, the calculations as to time and distance, the stories told of what had taken place during the previous campaign, by those who shared in it, were all so different from anything he had ever before experienced, that the hours passed almost unnoticed. It was glorious to think that, in whatever humble capacity, he was yet one of the band who were on their way up to meet the hordes of the Khalifa, to rescue the Soudan from the tyranny under which it had groaned, to avenge Gordon and Hicks and the gallant men who had died with them!

Occasionally, Captain Ewart came up and talked to him, but he was well content to sit on one of the bales, and listen to the conversation without joining in it. In another couple of years he, too, would have had his experiences, and would be able to take his part. At present, he preferred to be a listener.

The distance to Wady Halfa was some three hundred miles; but the current was strong, and the steamer could not tow the boats more than five miles an hour, against it. It was sixty hours, from the start, before they arrived.

Gregory was astonished at the stir and life in the place. Great numbers of native labourers were at work, unloading barges and native craft; and a line of railway ran down to the wharves, where the work of loading the trucks went on briskly. Smoke pouring out from many chimneys, and the clang of hammers, told that the railway engineering work was in full swing. Vast piles of boxes, cases, and bales were accumulated on the wharf, and showed that there would be no loss of time in pushing forward supplies to Abu Hamed, as soon as the railway was completed to that point.

Wady Halfa had been the starting point of a railway, commenced years before. A few miles have been constructed, and several buildings erected for the functionaries, military and civil; but Gordon, when Governor of the Soudan, had refused to allow the province to be saddled with the expenses of the construction, or to undertake the responsibility of carrying it out.

In 1884 there was some renewal of work and, had Gordon been rescued, and Khartoum permanently occupied, the line would no doubt have been carried on; but with the retirement of the British troops, work ceased, and the great stores of material that had been gathered there remained, for years, half covered with the sand. In any other climate this would have been destructive, but in the dry air of Upper Egypt they remained almost uninjured, and proved very useful, when the work was again taken up.

It was a wonderful undertaking, for along the two hundred and thirty-four miles of desert, food, water, and every necessary had to be carried, together with all materials for its construction. Not only had an army of workmen to be fed, but a body of troops to guard them; for Abu Hamed, at the other end of the line, for which they were making, was occupied by a large body of Dervishes; who might, at any moment, swoop down across the plain.

Had the Sirdar had the resources of England at his back, the work would have been easier, for he could have ordered from home new engines, and plant of every description; but it was an Egyptian work, and had to be done in the cheapest possible way. Old engines had to be patched up, and makeshifts of all kinds employed. Fortunately he had, in the chief engineer of the line, a man whose energy, determination, and resource were equal to his own. Major Girouard was a young officer of the Royal Engineers and, like all white officers in the Egyptian service, held the rank of major. He was a Canadian by birth, and proved, in every respect, equal to the onerous and responsible work to which he was appointed.

However, labour was cheap, and railway battalions were raised among the Egyptian peasants, their pay being the same as that of the soldiers. Strong, hearty, and accustomed to labour and a scanty diet, no men could have been more fitted for the work. They preferred it to soldiering; for although, as they had already shown, and were still further to prove, the Egyptian can fight, and fight bravely; he is, by nature, peaceable, and prefers work, however hard. In addition to these battalions, natives of the country and of the Soudan, fugitives from ruined villages and desolated plains, were largely employed.

The line had now been carried three-quarters of the distance to Abu Hamed, which was still in the hands of the Dervishes. It had been constructed with extraordinary rapidity, for the ground was so level that only occasional cuttings were needed. The organization of labour was perfect. The men were divided into gangs, each under a head man, and each having its own special work to do. There were the men who unloaded the trucks, the labourers who did the earth work, and the more skilled hands who levelled it. As fast as the trucks were emptied, gangs of men carried the sleepers forward, and laid them down roughly in position; others followed, and corrected the distance between each. The rails were then brought along and laid down, with the fish plates, in the proper places; men put these on, and boys screwed up the nuts. Then plate layers followed and lined the rails accurately; and, when this was done, sand was thrown in and packed down between the sleepers.

By this division of labour, the line was pushed on from one to two miles a day, the camp moving forward with the line. Six tank trucks brought up the water for the use of the labourers, daily, and everything worked with as much regularity as in a great factory at home. Troops of friendly tribesmen, in our pay, scoured the country and watched the wells along the road, farther to the east, so as to prevent any bands of Dervishes from dashing suddenly down upon the workers.

At Wady Halfa, Captain Ewart and two or three other officers left the steamer, to proceed up the line. Gregory was very sorry to lose him.

"I cannot tell you, Captain Ewart," he said, "how deeply grateful I feel to you, for the immense kindness you have shown me. I don't know what I should have done, had I been left without your advice and assistance in getting my outfit, and making my arrangements to come up here."

"My dear lad," the latter said, "don't say anything more. In any case, I should naturally be glad to do what I could, for the son of a man who died fighting in the same cause as we are now engaged in. But in your case it has been a pleasure, for I am sure you will do credit to yourself, and to the mother who has taken such pains in preparing you for the work you are going to do, and in fitting you for the position that you now occupy."

As the officers who had come up with them in the train from Cairo were all going on, and had been told by Ewart something of Gregory's story, they had aided that officer in making Gregory feel at home in his new circumstances; and in the two days they had been on board the boat, he had made the acquaintance of several others.

The river railway had now been carried from Wady Halfa to Kerma, above the third cataract. The heavy stores were towed up by steamers and native craft. Most of the engines and trucks had been transferred to the desert line; but a few were still retained, to carry up troops if necessary, and aid the craft in accumulating stores.

One of these trains started a few hours after the arrival of the steamer at Wady Halfa. Gregory, with the officers going up, occupied two horse boxes. Several of them had been engaged in the last campaign, and pointed out the places of interest.

At Sarras, some thirty miles up the road, there had been a fight on the 29th of April, 1887; when the Dervish host, advancing strong in the belief that they could carry all before them down to the sea, were defeated by the Egyptian force under the Sirdar and General Chermside.

The next stop of the train was at Akasheh. This had been a very important station, before the last advance, as all the stores had been accumulated here when the army advanced. Here had been a strongly entrenched camp, for the Dervishes were in force, fifteen miles away, at Ferket.

"It was a busy time we had here," said one of the officers, who had taken a part in the expedition. "A fortnight before, we had no idea that an early move was contemplated; and indeed, it was only on the 14th of March that the excitement began. That day, Kitchener received a telegram ordering an immediate advance on Dongola. We had expected it would take place soon; but there is no doubt that the sudden order was the result of an arrangement, on the part of our government with Italy, that we should relieve her from the pressure of the Dervishes round Kassala by effecting a diversion, and obliging the enemy to send a large force down to Dongola to resist our advance.

"It was a busy time. The Sirdar came up to Wady Halfa, and the Egyptian troops were divided between that place, Sarras, and Akasheh. The 9th Soudanese were marched up from Suakim, and they did the distance to the Nile (one hundred and twenty miles) in four days. That was something like marching.

"Well, you saw Wady Halfa. For a month, this place was quite as busy. Now, its glories are gone. Two or three huts for the railway men, and the shelters for a company of Egyptians, represent the whole camp."

As they neared Ferket the officer said:

"There was a sharp fight out there on the desert. A large body of Dervishes advanced, from Ferket. They were seen to leave by a cavalry patrol. As soon as the patrol reached camp, all the available horse, two hundred and forty in number, started under Major Murdoch. Four miles out, they came in sight of three hundred mounted Dervishes, with a thousand spearmen on foot.

"The ground was rough, and unfavourable for a cavalry charge; so the cavalry retired to a valley, between two hills, in order to get better ground. While they were doing so, however, the Dervishes charged down upon them. Murdoch rode at them at once, and there was a hand-to-hand fight that lasted for twenty minutes. Then the enemy turned, and galloped off to the shelter of the spearmen. The troopers dismounted and opened fire; and, on a regiment of Soudanese coming up, the enemy drew off.

"Eighteen of the Dervishes were killed, and eighty wounded. Our loss was very slight; but the fight was a most satisfactory one, for it showed that the Egyptian cavalry had, now, sufficient confidence in themselves to face the Baggara.

"Headquarters came up to Akasheh on the 1st of June. The spies had kept the Intelligence Department well informed as to the state of things at Ferket. It was known that three thousand troops were there, led by fifty-seven Emirs. The ground was carefully reconnoitred, and all preparation made for an attack. It was certain that the Dervishes also had spies, among the camel drivers and camp followers, but the Sirdar kept his intentions secret, and on the evening of June 5th it was not known to any, save three or four of the principal officers, that he intended to attack on the following morning. It was because he was anxious to effect a complete surprise that he did not even bring up the North Staffordshires.

"There were two roads to Ferket -- one by the river, the other through the desert. The river column was the strongest, and consisted of an infantry division, with two field batteries and two Maxims. The total strength of the desert column, consisting of the cavalry brigade, camel corps, a regiment of infantry, a battery of horse artillery, and two Maxims -- in all, two thousand one hundred men -- were to make a detour, and come down upon the Nile to the south of Ferket, thereby cutting off the retreat of the enemy.

"Carrying two days' rations, the troops started late in the afternoon of the 6th, and halted at nine in the evening, three miles from Ferket. At half-past two they moved forward again, marching quietly and silently; and, at half-past four, deployed into line close to the enemy's position. A few minutes later the alarm was given; and the Dervishes, leaping to arms, discovered this formidable force in front of them; and at the same time found that their retreat was cut off, by another large body of troops in their rear; while, on the opposite bank of the river, was a force of our Arab allies.

"Though they must have seen that their position was hopeless, the Dervishes showed no signs of fear. They fought with the desperation of rats in a trap. The Egyptians advanced with steady volleys. The Baggara horsemen attacked them furiously, but were repulsed with heavy loss. There was hand-to-hand fighting among their huts; and the second brigade carried, with the bayonet, that rough hill that you see over there.

"It was all over, by seven o'clock. Our loss was only twenty killed, and eighty wounded. About one thousand of the Dervishes were killed, including their chief Emir and some forty of the others, while five hundred were taken prisoners. It was a great victory, and a very important one; but it can hardly be said that it was glorious, as we outnumbered them by three to one. Still, it was a heavy blow to the Dervishes, and the fact that the Khalifa was obliged to send troops down to the Nile, to check an advance that had proved so formidable, must have greatly relieved the pressure on the Italians at Kassala.

"There was a pause, here. It was certain that we should have to meet a much stronger force before we got to Dongola. Well as the Egyptian troops had fought, it was thought advisable to give them a stronger backing.

"The heat was now tremendous, and cholera had broken out. We moved to Koshyeh, and there encamped. The only change we had was a terrific storm, which almost washed us away. In the middle of August, we managed to get the gunboats up through the cataract, and were in hopes of advancing, when another storm carried away twenty miles of the railway, which by this time had come up as far as the cataract."

At Ginnis, twenty miles from Ferket, they passed the ground where, on the 31st of December, 1885, on the retirement of General Wolseley's expedition, Generals Grenfel and Stevenson, with a force of Egyptian troops and three British regiments, encountered the Dervish army which the Khalifa had despatched under the Emir Nejumi, and defeated it. It was notable as being the first battle in which the newly raised Egyptian army met the Mahdists, and showed that, trained and disciplined by British officers, the Egyptian fellah was capable of standing against the Dervish of the desert.

From this point the railway left the Nile and, for thirty miles, crossed the desert. Another twenty miles, and they reached Fareeg.

"It was here," the officer said, "that the North Staffordshires came up and joined the Egyptians. The Dervishes had fallen back before we advanced, after a halt at Sadeah, which we sha'n't see, as the railway cuts across, to Abu Fetmeh. We bivouacked five miles from their camp, and turned out at three next morning. The orders were passed by mouth, and we got off as silently as an army of ghosts.

"I shall never forget our disgust when a small cavalry force, sent on ahead to reconnoitre, reported that the Dervishes had abandoned the place during the night, and had crossed the river in native boats. It was a very clever move, at any rate, on the part of fellows who did not want to fight. There were we facing them, with our whole infantry and cavalry useless, and we had nothing available to damage the enemy except our artillery and the gunboats.

"These opened fire, and the Dervishes replied heavily. They had earthworks, but the boats kept on, pluckily, till they got to a narrow point in the stream; when a couple of guns, which had hitherto been hidden, opened upon them at close range; while a strong force of Dervish infantry poured in such a hot fire that the boats had to fall back.

"After our field guns had peppered the enemy for a bit, the gunboats tried again, but the fire was too hot for them, and the leading boat had to retire.

"Things did not look very bright, till nine o'clock; when we found that, at one point, the river was fordable to a small island, opposite the enemy's lines. Four batteries, and the Maxims, at once moved over, with two companies of Soudanese, and opened fire. The distance across was but six hundred yards, and the fire was tremendous -- shell, shrapnel, and rockets -- while the Soudanese fired volleys, and the Maxims maintained a shower of bullets.

"It seemed that nothing could stand against it, but the Dervishes stuck to their guns with great pluck. However, their fire was so far kept down, that the three gunboats succeeded in forcing their way up; and, passing the Dervish works, sank a steamer and a number of native boats.

"The Dervishes now began to give way, and the gunboats steamed up the river, making for Dongola. The Dervishes, as soon as they had gone, reopened fire, and the duel continued all day; but the great mass of the enemy soon left, and also made their way towards Dongola.

"It was awfully annoying being obliged to remain inactive, on our side, and it was especially hard for the cavalry; who, if they could have got over, would have been able to cut up and disperse the enemy.

"The next morning the Dervishes were all gone, and that was practically the end of the fighting. The gunboats went up and shelled Dongola; and when we got there, two days later, the Dervishes had had enough of it. Of course, there was a little fighting, but it was the effort of a party of fanatics, rather than of an enemy who considered resistance possible.

"We were greeted with enthusiasm by the unfortunate inhabitants, who had been subject to the Dervish tyranny. As a whole, however, they had not been badly treated here, and had been allowed to continue to cultivate their land, subject only to about the same taxation as they had paid to Egypt. Of course, from what they have done elsewhere, the comparative mildness of the conduct of the Dervishes was not due to any feeling of mercy, but to policy. As the most advanced position, with the exception of scattered and temporary posts lower down the river, it was necessary that there should be food for the considerable body of tribesmen encamped at Dongola; especially as an army invading Egypt would provide itself, there, with stores for the journey. It was therefore good policy to encourage the cultivators of land to stay there."

"Thank you very much!" Gregory said, when the officer had concluded his sketch of the previous campaign. "Of course, I heard that we had beaten the Khalifa's men, and had taken Dongola, but the papers at Cairo gave no details. The Staffordshire regiment went down, directly the place was taken, did they not?"

"Yes. They had suffered heavily from cholera; and as there was now no fear that the Egyptians and Soudanese would prove unequal to withstanding a Dervish rush, there was no necessity for keeping them here."

At Abu Fetmeh they left the train, and embarked in a steamer. Of the party that had left Assouan, only four or five remained. The rest had been dropped at other stations on the road.

The boat stopped but a few hours at Dongola, which had for a time been the headquarters of the advanced force. Great changes had been made, since the place was captured from the Dervishes. At that time the population had been reduced to a handful, and the natives who remained tilled but enough ground for their own necessities; for they knew that, at any time, a Dervish force might come along and sweep everything clear. But with the advent of the British, the fugitives who had scattered among the villages along the river soon poured in.

Numbers of Greek traders arrived, with camels and goods, and the town assumed an aspect of life and business. The General established a court of justice, and appointed authorities for the proper regulation of affairs; and by the time Gregory came up, the town was showing signs of renewed prosperity.

But the steamer stopped at Dongola only to land stores needed for the regiment stationed there. The headquarters had, months before, been moved to Merawi, some eighty miles higher up, situated at the foot of the fourth cataract.

Although he had enjoyed the journey, Gregory was glad when the steamer drew up against a newly constructed wharf at Merawi. Now he was to begin his duties, whatever they might be.

At the wharf were a large number of Soudanese soldiers. A telegram, from the last station they touched at, had given notice of the hour at which the boat would arrive; and a battalion of native troops had marched down, to assist in unloading the stores. A white officer had come down with them, to superintend the operation, and the other officers at once went on shore to speak to him.

Gregory had got all his traps together and, as the Soudanese poured on board, he thought it better to remain with them; as, if his belongings once got scattered, there would be little chance of his being able to collect them again. After a short time, he went up to one of the native officers.

"This is my first visit here," he said in Arabic, "and as I have not brought up a servant with me, I do not like to leave my baggage here, while I go and report myself to General Hunter. Will you kindly tell me what I had better do?"

"Certainly. I will place one of my corporals in charge of your things. It would be as well to get them ashore at once, as we shall want the decks clear, in order that the men may work freely in getting the stores up from below. The corporal will see that your baggage is carried to the bank, to a spot where it will be out of the way, and will remain with it until you know where it is to be taken."

Thanking him for his civility, Gregory went on shore. The officer who had told him the story of the campaign was still talking, to the Major who had come down with the blacks. As Gregory came up, he said:

"I wondered what had become of you, Hilliard. I have been telling Major Sidney that a young lieutenant had come up, to report himself to the General for service."

"I am glad to see you, sir," the Major said, holding out his hand. "Every additional white officer is a material gain, and I have no doubt that General Hunter will find plenty for you to do. I hear you can speak the Negro language, as well as Arabic. That will be specially useful here, for the natives are principally Negro, and speak very little Arabic.

"How about your baggage?"

"One of the native officers has undertaken to get it ashore, and to put a corporal in charge of it, until I know where it is to go."

"Well, Fladgate, as you are going to the General's, perhaps you will take Mr. Hilliard with you, and introduce him."

"With pleasure.

"Now, Mr. Hilliard, let us be off, at once. The sun is getting hot, and the sooner we are under shelter, the better."

Ten minutes' walk took them to the house formerly occupied by the Egyptian Governor of the town, where General Hunter now had his headquarters. The General, who was a brevet colonel in the British Army, had joined the Egyptian Army in 1888. He had, as a captain in the Lancashire regiment, taken part in the Nile Expedition, 1884-85; had been severely wounded at the battle of Ginnis; and again at Toski, where he commanded a brigade. He was still a comparatively young man. He had a broad forehead, and an intellectual face, that might have betokened a student rather than a soldier; but he was celebrated, in the army, for his personal courage and disregard of danger, and was adored by his black soldiers.

He rose from the table at which he was sitting, as Captain Fladgate came in.

"I am glad to see you back again," he said. "I hope you have quite shaken off the fever?"

"Quite, General. I feel thoroughly fit for work again. Allow me to present to you Mr. Hilliard, who has just received a commission as lieutenant in the Egyptian Army. He has a letter from the Sirdar, to you."

"Well, I will not detain you now, Captain Fladgate. You will find your former quarters in readiness for you. Dinner at the usual time; then you shall tell me the news of Cairo.

"Now, Mr. Hilliard," and he turned to Gregory, "pray take a seat. This is your first experience in soldiering, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir."

"I think you are the first white officer who has been appointed, who has not had experience in our own army first. You have not been appointed to any particular battalion, have you?"

"No, sir. I think I have come out to make myself generally useful. These are the letters that I was to hand to you -- one is from the Sirdar himself, the other is from his chief of the staff, and this letter is from Captain Ewart."

The General read the Sirdar's letter first. He then opened that from the chief of the staff. This was the more bulky of the two, and contained several enclosures.

"Ah! this relates to you," the General said as, after glancing over the two official despatches, he read through the letter of Captain Ewart, who was a personal friend of his.

The latter had given a full account of Gregory's history, and said that the Sirdar had especially asked him to put him in the way of things; that he had seen a great deal of him on the journey up, and was very greatly pleased with him.

"The lad is a perfect gentleman," he said, "which is certainly astonishing, he being a product of Cairo. I consider him in all respects -- except, of course, a classical education -- fully equal to the average young officer, on first joining. He is very modest and unassuming; and will, I feel sure, perform with credit any work that you may give him to do."

"I see," he said, laying it down, "you have only joined the army temporarily, and with a special purpose, and I am told to utilize your services as I think best. You have a perfect knowledge of Arabic, and of the Negro dialect. That will be very useful, for though we all speak Arabic, few speak the Negro language, which is more commonly used here.

"Your father fell with Hicks Pasha, I am told, and you have joined us with the object of obtaining news as to the manner in which he met his death?"

"That is so, sir. It was always my mother's wish that I should, when I was old enough, come up to the Soudan to make enquiries. As my father was a good Arabic scholar, my mother always entertained a faint hope that he might have escaped; especially as we know that a good many of the Egyptian soldiers were not killed, but were taken prisoners, and made to serve in the Mahdi's army."

"Yes, there are several of them among the Khalifa's artillerymen, but I am very much afraid that none of the officers were spared. You see, they kept together in a body, and died fighting to the last."

"I have hardly any hopes myself, sir. Still, as my father was interpreter, he might not have been with the others, but in some other part of the square that was attacked."

"That is possible; but he was a white man, and in the heat of the battle I don't think that the Dervishes would have made any exception. You see, there were two correspondents with Hicks, and neither of them has ever been heard of; and they must, I should think, have joined in that last desperate charge of his.

"Well, for the present I must make you a sort of extra aide-de-camp, and what with one thing and another, I have no doubt that I shall find plenty for you to do. As such, you will of course be a member of headquarters mess, and therefore escape the trouble of providing for yourself. You have not brought a servant up with you, I suppose?"

"No, sir. Captain Ewart, who most kindly advised me as to my outfit, said that, if I could find an intelligent native here, it would be better than taking a man from Cairo."

"Quite right; and the fellows one picks up at Cairo are generally lazy, and almost always dishonest. The men you get here may not know much, but are ready enough to learn; and, if well treated, will go through fire and water for their master.

"Go down to the stores, and tell the officer in charge there that I shall be glad if he will pick out two or three fellows, from whom you may choose a servant."

When Gregory had given his message, the officer said:

"You had better pick out one for yourself, Mr. Hilliard. Strength and willingness to work are the points I keep my eye upon; and, except for the foremen of the gangs, their intelligence does not interest me. You had better take a turn among the parties at work, and pick out a man for yourself."

Gregory was not long in making his choice. He selected a young fellow who, although evidently exerting himself to the utmost, was clearly incapable of doing his share in carrying the heavy bales and boxes, that were easily handled by older men. He had a pleasant face, and looked more intelligent than most of the others.

"To what tribe do you belong?" Gregory asked him.

"The Jaalin. I come from near Metemmeh."

"I want a servant. You do not seem to be strong enough for this work, but if you will be faithful, and do what I tell you, I will try you."

The young fellow's face lit up.

"I will be faithful, bey. It would be kind of you to take me. I am not at my full strength yet and, although I try my hardest, I cannot do as much as strong men, and then I am abused. I will be very faithful, and if you do not find me willing to do all that you tell me, you can send me back to work here."

"Well, come along with me, then."

He took him to the officer.

"I have chosen this man, sir. Can I take him away at once?"

"Certainly. He has been paid up to last night."

"Thank you very much! I will settle with him for today."

And, followed by the young tribesman, he went to the headquarters camp, near which an empty hut was assigned to him.



Chapter 6: Gregory Volunteers.


The hut of which Gregory took possession was constructed of dry mud. The roof was of poles, on which were thickly laid boughs and palm leaves; and on these a layer of clay, a foot thick. An opening in the wall, eighteen inches square, served as a window. Near the door the floor was littered with rubbish of all kinds.

"What is your name?"

"Zaki."

"Well, Zaki, the first thing is to clear out all this rubbish, and sweep the floor as clean as you can. I am going down to the river to get my baggage up. Can you borrow a shovel, or something of that sort, from one of the natives here? Or, if he will sell it, buy one. I will pay when I return. It will always come in useful. If you cannot get a shovel, a hoe will do. Ah! I had better give you a dollar, the man might not trust you."

He then walked down to the river, and found the black corporal sitting tranquilly by the side of his baggage. The man stood up and saluted, and on Gregory saying that he had now a house, at once told off two soldiers to carry the things.

Arriving at the hut, he found Zaki hard at work, shovelling the rubbish through the doorway. Just as he came up, the boy brought down his tool, with a crash, upon a little brown creature that was scuttling away.

"What is that, Zaki?"

"That is a scorpion, bey; I have killed four of them."

"That is not at all pleasant," Gregory said. "There may be plenty of them, up among the boughs overhead."

Zaki nodded.

"Plenty of creatures," he said, "some snakes."

"Then we will smoke them out, before I go in. When you have got the rubbish out, make a fire in the middle, wet some leaves and things and put them on, and we will hang a blanket over the window and shut the door. I will moisten some powder and scatter it among the leaves, and the sulphur will help the smoke to bring them down."

This was done, the door closed and, as it did not fit at all tightly, the cracks were filled with some damp earth from the watercourse.

"What did you pay for the shovel, Zaki?"

"Half a dollar, bey. Here is the other half."

"Well, you had better go and buy some things for yourself. Tomorrow I will make other arrangements. Get a fire going out here. There is a sauce pan and a kettle, so you can boil some rice or fry some meat."

Gregory then went again to the officer who was acting as quartermaster.

"I have been speaking to the General," the latter said. "You will mess with the staff. The dinner hour is seven o'clock. I am sure you will soon feel at home."

Gregory now strolled through the camp. The troops were in little mud huts, of their own construction; as these, in the heat of the day, were much cooler than tents. The sun was getting low, and the Soudanese troops were all occupied in cooking, mending their clothes, sweeping the streets between the rows of huts, and other light duties. They seemed, to Gregory, as full of fun and life as a party of schoolboys -- laughing, joking, and playing practical tricks on each other.

The physique of some of the regiments was splendid, the men averaging over six feet in height, and being splendidly built. Other regiments, recruited among different tribes, were not so tall, but their sturdy figures showed them to be capable of any effort they might be called upon to make.

One of the officers came out of his tent, as he passed.

"You are a new arrival, I think, sir?" he said. "We have so few white officers, here, that one spots a fresh face at once."

"Yes, I only arrived two or three hours ago. My name is Hilliard. I am not attached to any regiment; but, as I speak the languages well, General Hunter is going, so he said, to make me generally useful. I only received my commission a few days before leaving Cairo."

"Well, come in and have a soda and whisky. The heat out here is frightful. You can tell me the last news from Cairo, and when we are going to move."

"I shall be happy to come in and have a chat," Gregory said, "but I do not drink anything. I have been brought up in Cairo, and am accustomed to heat, and I find that drinking only makes one more thirsty."

"I believe it does," the other said, "especially when the liquid is almost as hot as one is, one's self. Will you sit down on that box? Chairs are luxuries that we do not indulge in here. Well, have you heard anything about a move?"

"Nothing; but the officers I have spoken to all seem to think that it will soon begin. A good many came up with me, to Wady Halfa and the stations on the river; and I heard that all who had sufficiently recovered were under orders to rejoin, very shortly."

"Yes, I suppose it won't be long. Of course we know nothing here, and I don't expect we shall, till the order comes for us to start. This is not the time of year when one expects to be on the move; and if we do go, it is pretty certain that it is because Kitchener has made up his mind for a dash forward. You see, if we take Abu Hamed and drive the Dervishes away, we can, at once, push the railway on to that place; and, as soon as it is done, the troops can be brought up and an advance made to Berber, if not farther, during the cool season -- if you can ever call it a cool season, here."

"Is there any great force at Abu Hamed?"

"No; nothing that could stand against this for a moment. Their chief force, outside Omdurman, is at Metemmeh under Mahmud, the Khalifa's favourite son. You see, the Jaalin made fools of themselves. Instead of waiting until we could lend them a hand, they revolted as soon as we took Dongola, and the result was that Mahmud came down and pretty well wiped them out. They defended themselves stoutly, at Metemmeh, but had no chance against such a host as he brought with him. The town was taken, and its defenders, between two and three thousand fighting men, were all massacred, together with most of the women and children.

"By the accounts brought down to us, by men who got away, it must have been an even more horrible business than usual; and the Dervishes are past masters in the art of massacre. However, I think that their course is nearly up. Of late, a good many fugitives from Kordofan have arrived here, and they say that there will be a general revolt there, when they hear that we have given the Dervishes a heavy thrashing."

"And where do you think the great fight is likely to take place?" Gregory asked.

"Not this side of Metemmeh. Except at Abu Hamed, we hear of no other strong Dervish force between this and Omdurman. If Mahmud thinks himself strong enough, no doubt he will fight; but if he and the Khalifa know their business, he will fall back and, with the forces at Omdurman, fight one big battle. The two armies together will, from what we hear, amount to sixty or seventy thousand; and there is no doubt whatever that, with all their faults, the beggars can fight. It will be a tough affair, but I believe we shall have some British troops here to help, before the final advance. We can depend now on both the Soudanese and the Egyptians to fight hard, but there are not enough of them. The odds would be too heavy, and the Sirdar is not a man to risk failure. But with a couple of brigades of British infantry, there can be no doubt what the result will be; and I fancy that, if we beat them in one big fight, it will be all up with Mahdism.

"It is only because the poor beggars of tribesmen regard the Dervishes as invincible, that they have put up so long with their tyranny. But the rising of the Jaalin, and the news we get from Kordofan, show that the moment they hear the Dervishes are beaten, and Khartoum is in our hands, there will be a general rising, and the Dervishes will be pretty well exterminated. We all hope that Mahmud won't fight, for if he does, and we beat him, the Khalifa and his lot may lose heart and retire before we get to Omdurman; and, once away, the tremendous business of trying to follow him will confront us. Here we have got the river and the railway, but we have no land carriage for an army, and he might keep on falling back to the great lakes, for anything that we could do to overtake him. So we all hope that Mahmud will retire to Omdurman without fighting, and with such a host as the Khalifa would then have, he would be certain to give battle before abandoning his capital."

"They are fine-looking fellows, these blacks," Gregory said.

"They are splendid fellows -- they love fighting for fighting's sake. It is, in their opinion, the only worthy occupation for a man, and they have shown themselves worthy to fight by the side of our men. They have a perfect confidence in us, and would, I believe, go anywhere we led them. They say themselves, 'We are never afraid -- just like English.'"

"There seem to be a good many women about the camps."

"Yes, their women follow them wherever they go. They cook for them, and generally look after them. They are as warlike as their husbands, and encourage them, when they go out to battle, with their applause and curious quavering cries. The men get very little pay; but as they are provided with rations, and draw a certain amount for the women, it costs next to nothing, and I fancy that having the wives with them pays well. I believe they would rather be killed than come back and face their reproaches.

"I could not wish to have more cheery or better fellows with me. They never grumble, they are always merry, and really they seem to be tireless. They practically give no trouble whatever, and it is good to see how they brighten up, when there is a chance of a fight."

"I hope I shall see them at it, before long," Gregory said. "Now I must be going, for I have to change, and put on my mess uniform before dinner. I am rather nervous about that, for I am not accustomed to dine with generals."

"You will find it all very pleasant," the other said. "Hunter is a splendid fellow, and is adored by his men. His staff are all comparatively young men, with none of the stiffness of the British staff officer about them. We are all young -- there is scarcely a man with the rank of captain in the British Army out here. We are all majors or colonels in the Egyptian Army, but most of us are subalterns in our own regiments. It is good training for us. At home a subaltern is merely a machine to carry out orders; he is told to do this, and he does it; for him to think for himself would be a heinous offence. He is altogether without responsibility, and without initiative and, by the time he becomes a field officer, he is hidebound. He has never thought for himself, and he can't be expected to begin to do so, after working for twenty years like a machine.

"You will see, if we ever have a big war, that will be our weak point. If it wasn't for wars like this, and our little wars in India, where men do learn to think and take responsibility, I don't know where our general officers would get their training.

"Well, you must be going. Goodbye! We shall often meet. There are so few of us here, that we are always running against each other. I won't ask you to dine with us, for a few days. No doubt you would like to get accustomed to headquarters mess first. Of course, Hunter and the brigade staff dine together; while we have little regimental messes among ourselves, which I prefer. When there are only three or four of us, one can sit down in one's shirt sleeves, whereas at the brigade mess one must, of course, turn up in uniform, which in this climate is stifling."

The meal was a more pleasant one than Gregory had anticipated. On board the steamer he had, of course, dined with the other officers; and he found little difference here. Ten sat down, including the principal medical officer and a captain -- the head of the station intelligence department, Major Wingate, being at present at Wady Halfa. Except for the roughness of the surroundings, it was like a regimental mess, and the presence of the General commanding in no way acted as a damper to the conversation.

General Hunter had, before sitting down, introduced him to all the members with a few pleasant words, which had put him at his ease. Gregory had, on his way up, learned a good deal as to the officers who were down at Cairo for their health; and he was able to say who were convalescent, and who had sailed, or were on the point of sailing, for England.

The table was formed of two long benches, and had been constructed by the engineers. It was laid under a large tent, of which the walls had been removed to give a free passage of air.

Although scarcely up to the standard of a mess dinner at home, it was by no means a bad one; consisting of soup, fish from the river, a joint of beef at one end and of mutton at the other, curried kidneys, sweet omelettes and cheese, whisky with water or soda to drink at dinner; and, after the meal, four bottles of claret were placed on the table, and cigars or pipes lit. Half an hour later four of the party sat down to whist, and the rest, going outside the tent, sat or threw themselves down on the sand, and smoked or chatted till it was time to turn in.

Gregory's first step, next morning, was to buy a horse. This he purchased from some fugitives, who had come down from Kordofan. It was a good animal, though in poor condition, and would soon pick up flesh, when well attended and fed. To accustom himself to riding, Gregory went out on it for a couple of hours every morning; getting up before daybreak, so as to take exercise before the work of the day began. He also followed the example of the officers of the Egyptian regiments, and purchased a camel for the conveyance of his own baggage.

"You will find it a great advantage," one of them said to him. "Of course, times may arrive when you will have to leave it behind; but, as a rule, there is no trouble about it at all. You hire a native driver, who costs practically nothing, and he keeps with the baggage. No one asks any questions, and when you halt for a day or two, you have comforts. Of course, with a British regiment you are cut down to the last ounce, but with us it is altogether different. There being only three or four white officers to each regiment, the few extra camels in the train make no appreciable difference. Besides, these black fellows consider it quite natural and proper that their white officers should fare in a very different way from themselves; whereas a British Tommy would be inclined to grumble if he saw his officers enjoying luxuries, while he himself had to rough it."

As the horse only cost three pounds, and the camel only five, Gregory's store of money was not seriously affected by the purchases. For both animals, although in poor condition from their journey from Kordofan, a fortnight's rest and good feeding did wonders.

Zaki had not much to do, but Gregory was well satisfied with the selection he had made. He looked after and groomed the horse, saw that the native with the camel took care of it, and went down regularly to the river to water it every evening, while he himself did the same with the horse. He always had a jug of cold tea ready for Gregory, whenever he came in, and the floor of the tent was kept scrupulously clean. Zaki's only regret was that he could not do more for his master, but he was consoled by being told that the time would soon come when he would be more actively engaged.

From the first day of his arrival, Gregory was kept fully employed. Sometimes he assisted the officer of the Intelligence Department, in interviewing fugitives who had arrived from Berber and other points on the river, from Kordofan, or from villages on the White Nile. Sometimes he carried messages from the General to the officers in command of the two Egyptian brigades. He had to listen to disputes between natives returning to their homes, from which they had been driven by the Dervishes, and those they found in possession of their land. He took notes of the arguments on both sides, and submitted them to the General for his decision.

The work would have been trifling in any other climate, but was exhausting in the sweltering heat of the day, and he was not sorry when the sun sank, and he could take off his khaki tunic and go down to the river for a swim.

One evening, as they were sitting after dinner, General Hunter said:

"It is very annoying that, while these natives making their way down the country are able to tell us a good deal of what is taking place on the Nile, from Omdurman down to Metemmeh; and while we also get news of the state of things at Berber and Abu Hamed; we know nothing whatever of Mahmud's intentions, nor indeed anything of what is doing at Metemmeh, itself, since it was captured by the Dervishes and, as we heard, the whole population destroyed.

"Of course, Mahmud has the choice of three courses. He can stay where he is, he can march his whole force to Berber, or he can advance against us here. I don't suppose that he has any idea of the progress the railway is making from Wady Halfa. He may have heard, and no doubt he has heard, that we are making a road of some sort across the desert in the direction of Abu Hamed; but of the capabilities of the railway he can form no idea, and may well believe that the march of an army, across what is practically a waterless desert, is a matter of impossibility.

"On the other hand, he knows that we are gathering a considerable force here; and, with his limited knowledge, doubtless supposes that we are going to cross the Bayuda desert, to Metemmeh, as the Gordon relief column did; or that, if we are not coming that way, we intend to follow the river bank up to Berber. Unquestionably his best course, if he considers, as we may be sure he does, that the force under his command is strong enough to crush us here, would be to push across the desert, and fall upon us before reinforcements arrive. But it is reported, and I believe truly, that the Khalifa, his father, has positively refused to let him do so; still, sons have disobeyed their fathers before now.

"There is, it is true, the difficulty of water; but that is not so serious, in the case of a Dervish force, as it is with us. In the first place, they can march twice as far as we can. In the second place, they are accustomed to go a long time without water, and are but little affected by the heat. Lastly, they have nothing to carry except their weapons, a few handfuls of dates, and their water gourds. Still, we know that the forces that have, one after another, arrived here have been greatly weakened by the journey. However, Mahmud may attempt it, for he must know, from his spies here, that we have at present no such land transport as would be required, were we intending to advance across the desert. He may, therefore, move at least a portion of his force to Berber; trusting to the fact that, even did we make an advance south from here, with the intention of cutting off his retreat to Khartoum, he would be able to reach Metemmeh before we could get there.

"Undoubtedly, a British general, if commanding a force constituted as Mahmud's is, would make a dash across the desert and fall upon us; unless, indeed, he felt certain that, after the difficulties we encountered last time we attempted to take the desert route, we should be certain to advance by the river, step by step, continuing the policy that we have followed since we began to push forward from Assouan.

"Mahmud is in a very difficult position. He is controlled by his father at Khartoum. Among those with him are many important Emirs, men of almost equal rank with himself; and he could hardly hope that whatever decision he might personally arrive at would be generally accepted by all; and those who opposed him would do so with all the more force, as they could declare that, in making any movement, he was acting in opposition to his father's orders.

"However, our total ignorance as to Mahmud's plans and intentions is most unfortunate; but it can hardly be helped, for naturally the natives coming down from Kordofan give Metemmeh a very wide berth. As to sending up any of the natives here, to find out what is going on, it is out of the question, for they would be detected at once, as their language is so different from that of the Baggara."

Later on, the General retired to his quarters. Gregory went there.

"Can I speak to you for a few minutes, sir?" he asked.

"Certainly, Mr. Hilliard. What can I do for you?"

"I have been thinking over what you were saying, regarding information as to Mahmud's intentions. With your permission, I am ready to undertake to go into his camp, and to find out what the general opinion is as to his plans."

"Impossible, Mr. Hilliard! I admire your courage in making the offer, but it would be going to certain death."

"I do not think so, sir. I talk Baggara better than the Negro dialect that passes here. It is among the Baggara that I am likely to learn something of my father's fate; and, as the old nurse from whom I learnt these languages had been for a long time among that tribe, she devoted, at my mother's request, more time to teaching me their Arab dialect than any other, and I am convinced that I could pass unsuspected among them, as far as language is concerned. There is no great difference between Arab features and European, and I think that, when I am stained brown and have my head partly shaved, according to their fashion, there will be little fear of my being detected.

"As to costume, that is easy enough. I have not seen any of the Dervishes yet, but the natives who have come in from El Obeid, or any other neighbourhood where they are masters, could give me an account of their dress, and the way in which they wear the patches on their clothes, which are the distinguishing mark of the Mahdists."

"I could tell you that. So could any of the officers. Their dress differs very little from the ordinary Arab costume. Nearly all wear loose white trousers, coming down to the ankles. In some cases these are the usual baggy Eastern articles, in others the legs are separate. They almost all wear the white garment coming down to the knee, with of course a sash round the waist, and sleeves reaching down to the elbow or an inch or two below it. Some wear turbans, but the majority simply skullcaps. I could get the dress made up in three or four hours. But the risk is altogether too great, and I do not think that I should be justified in allowing you to undertake it."

"I really do not think that there will be any great danger, sir. If there were no great object to be gained, it would be different; but in view of the great importance, as you said this evening, of learning Mahmud's intentions, the risk of one life being lost, even were it great, is nothing. As you say, the Sirdar's plans might be greatly affected by the course Mahmud adopts; and in such a case, the life of a subaltern like myself is a matter scarcely to be considered.

"From childhood I have been preparing to go among the Dervishes, and this is what I propose doing, as soon as Khartoum is recaptured. Therefore sir if, by anticipating my work by a few months, or possibly a year, I can render a service to the army, I would gladly undertake it, if you will give me permission to do so."

The General was, for a minute or two, silent.

"Well, Hilliard," he said at last, "on thinking it over as you put it, I do not know that I should be justified in refusing your offer. It is a very gallant one, and may possibly meet with success."

"Thank you, sir! I shall be really glad to enter upon the work I have looked forward to. Although it may have no direct bearing upon the discovery of my father's fate, it will be a start in that direction. Do you think that I had better go mounted, or on foot?"

"I should say certainly on horseback, but there is no occasion for any hasty determination. Every step should be carefully considered, and we should, as far as possible, foresee and provide for every emergency that may arise. Think it over well, yourself. Some time tomorrow I will discuss it again with you."

Gregory went straight back to his hut.

"Come in, Zaki, I want to speak to you.

"Light the lamp, and shut the door. Now sit down there. Do you know the country between this and Metemmeh?"

"Yes, master; I travelled there with my father, six years ago."

"Is it difficult to find the way?"

"It is not difficult. There are many signs of the passage of caravans. There are skeletons of the camels of the English expedition; there are very many of them. It would not be difficult, even for one who has never passed them, to find the way."

"And there are wells?"

"There are wells at Howeyat and Abu Halfa, at Gakdul and Abu Klea, also at Gubat."

"That is to say, water will be found nearly every day?"

"Quite every day, to one on horseback. The longest distance is from Gakdul to Abu Klea, but that would not be too long for mounted men, and could even be done by a native on foot, in a long day's march."

"Do you know whether Mahmud's army is in Metemmeh, or outside the town?"

"From what I have heard, most of the Dervish force is on the hills behind the town. They say Metemmeh is full of dead, and that even the Dervishes do not care to live there."

"The Baggara are mostly mounted, are they not?"

"Most of them are so, though there are some on foot. The leaders of the tribesmen who fight for the Khalifa are all on horseback, but most of the army are on foot."

"You do not speak the Baggara language, I suppose?"

Zaki shook his head.

"I know a little Arabic, but not much."

"I suppose most of the Arab tribes in the Soudan speak a dialect very much like the Baggara?"

"Yes; it is everywhere Arabic, and there is but little difference. They can all understand each other, and talk together. May your servant ask why you put these questions?"

"Yes, Zaki, but you must not mention what I tell you to a soul."

"Zaki will be as silent as the grave."

"Well, I am going up dressed as a Mahdist. I can speak the Baggara tongue well. I am going to try and find out what they are going to do: whether they will march to Berber, or come here, or remain at Metemmeh."

Zaki stared at his master, in speechless amazement. Gregory could not help smiling at the expression of his face.

"There does not seem much difficulty in it," he said. "I can speak with you in the dialect of Dongola, but the Baggara language is much easier to me, because I have been accustomed to speak Arabic since I was a child. Of course my skin will be dyed, and I shall wear the Dervish dress. There is no difficulty in this matter."

"But they would cut you in pieces, my lord, if they found out that you were a white."

"No doubt they would, but there is no reason why they should find that out. It would be much more dangerous for you to go into their camp than it would be for me. In the first place, you can scarcely speak any Arabic; and in the second, they would see by your features that you are one of the Jaalin. Whereas my features, when stained, would be much more like those of the Arabs than yours would.

"Where should I be most likely to meet the Dervishes first?"

"I do not think any of them are much this side of Metemmeh, at present. Sometimes parties ride down to Gakdul, and they have even passed on till they are within sight of this camp; but when they have found out that the wells are still unoccupied, and the army here quiet, they go back again."

"If I go on horseback, Zaki, I shall want someone with me who will act as a guide; and who will look after his horse and mine at some place near the river, where he can find a hiding place while I am away in the Dervish camp."

"Would you take me, my lord?" Zaki said quickly.

"I would much rather take you than anyone else, if you are willing to go, Zaki."

"Surely I will go with my lord," the native said. "No one has ever been so good to me as he has. If my lord is killed, I am ready to die with him. He may count on me to do anything that he requires, even to go with him into the Dervish camp. I might go as a slave, my lord."

"That would not do, Zaki. I do not wish to travel as a person who could ride attended by a slave. People might say, 'Who is this man? Where does he come from? How is it that no one knows a man who rides with a slave?'

"My great object will be to enter the camp quietly, as one who has but left half an hour before. When I have once entered it, and they ask whence I came, I must tell them some likely story that I have made up: as, for example, that I have come from El Obeid, and that I am an officer of the governor there; that, finding he could not get away himself, he yielded to my request that I might come, and help to drive the infidels into the sea."

Zaki nodded.

"That would be a good tale, my lord, for men who have escaped from El Obeid, and have come here, have said that the Khalifa's troops there have not been called to join him at Omdurman; for it is necessary to keep a strong force there, as many of the tribes of the province would rise in rebellion, if they had the chance. Therefore you would not be likely to meet anyone from El Obeid in Mahmud's camp."

"How is it, Zaki, that when so many in the Soudan have suffered at the hands of the Dervishes, they not only remain quiet, but supply the largest part of the Khalifa's army?"

"Because, my lord, none of them can trust the others. It is madness for one tribe to rise, as the Jaalin did at Metemmeh. The Dervishes wiped them out from the face of the earth. Many follow him because they see that Allah has always given victory to the Mahdists; therefore the Mahdi must be his prophet. Others join his army because their villages have been destroyed, and their fields wasted, and they see no other way of saving themselves from starvation.

"There are many who fight because they are fond of fighting. You see how gladly they take service with you, and fight against their own countrymen, although you are Christians. Suppose you were to conquer the Khalifa tomorrow, half his army would enlist in your service, if you would take them. A man who would be contented to till his fields, if he could do so in peace and quiet, fears that he may see his produce eaten by others and his house set on fire; and would rather leave his home and fight -- he cares not against whom.

"The Mahdist army are badly fed and badly paid. They can scarce keep life together. But in the Egyptian Army the men are well taken care of. They have their rations, and their pay. They say that if they are wounded, or lose a limb, and are no more able to fight, they receive a pension. Is it wonderful that they should come to you and be faithful?"

"Well, Zaki, we won't talk any longer, now. It is agreed, then, that if I go on this expedition, you will accompany me?"

"Certainly, master. Wherever you go I am ready to go. Whatever happens to you will, I hope, happen to me."

On the following afternoon, Gregory was sent for.

"I have given the matter a good deal of thought, Mr. Hilliard," the General said, "and have decided to accept your offer. I suppose that you have been thinking the matter over. Do you decide to go on foot, or mounted?"

"On horseback, sir. My boy is perfectly willing to go with me. He knows the way, and the position of the wells on the road. My plan is that, when we get near Metemmeh, he shall remain with the horses somewhere near the river; and I shall enter the camp on foot. I am less likely to be noticed that way. If questioned, my story will be that my father was at El Obeid, and that the Governor there is, by the Khalifa's orders, holding his force in hand to put down any outbreaks there may be in the province; and that, wishing to fight against the infidel, I have come on my own account. If I am asked why I had not come on horseback, I shall say that I had ridden to within the last two or three miles, and that the horse had then died.

"But I do not expect to be questioned at all, as one man on foot is as nothing, in an army of twenty or thirty thousand, gathered from all over the Soudan."

"You quite understand, Mr. Hilliard, that you are taking your life in your hands? And that there is no possibility, whatever, of our doing anything for you, if you get into trouble?"

"Quite, sir. If I am detected, I shall probably be killed at once. I do not think that there is more risk in it than in going into battle. As I have told you, I have, so far as I know, no relatives in the world; and there will be no one to grieve, if I never come back again.

"As to the clothes, I can easily buy them from one of the natives here. Many of them are dressed in the garments of the Dervishes who were killed when we came up here; except, of course, that the patches were taken off. I will get my man to buy a suit for himself, and one for me. It would be better than having new clothes made; for, even if these were dirtied, they would not look old. When he has bought the clothes, he can give them a good washing, and then get a piece of stuff to sew on as patches.

"I am afraid, sir, that there will be little chance of my being able to obtain any absolute news of Mahmud's intentions; but only to glean general opinion, in the camp. It is not likely that the news of any intended departure would be kept a secret up till the last moment, among the Dervishes, as it would be here."

"Quite so," the General agreed. "We may take it as certain that the matter would be one of common talk. Of course, Mahmud and his principal advisers might change their minds, at any moment. Still I think that, were it intended to make a move against us, or to Berber, it would be generally known.

"I may tell you that we do not intend to cross the Bayuda desert. We shall go up the river, but this is a secret that will be kept till the last moment. And before we start, we shall do all in our power to spread a belief that we are going to advance to Metemmeh. We know that they are well informed, by their spies here, of our movements. We shall send a strong force to make a reconnaissance, as far as Gakdul. This will appear to be a preliminary step to our advance, and should keep Mahmud inactive, till too late. He will not dare advance to Berber, because he will be afraid of our cutting him off from Omdurman.

"You are satisfied with your horse? It is advisable that you should have a good one, and yet not so good as to attract attention."

"Yes; I could not want a better horse, General. He is not handsome, but I have ridden him a great deal, and he is certainly fast; and, being desert bred, I have no doubt has plenty of endurance. I shall, of course, get one for my boy."

"There are plenty in the transport yard. They have been bought up from fugitives who have come in here. I will write you an order to select any one you choose; and if you see one you think better than your own, you can take it also; and hand yours over to the transport, to keep until you return.

"You should take a Martini-Henri with you. I will give you an order for one, on one of the native regiments. They are, as you know, armed with them; and have, of course, a few cases of spare rifles. A good many have fallen into the hands of the Dervishes, at one time or another, so that your carrying such a weapon will not excite any remark. It would not do to take a revolver, but no doubt you will be able to buy pistols that have been brought down by the fugitives. You will certainly be able to get them at some of those Greek shops. They buy up all that kind of thing. Of course, you will carry one of the Dervish long knives.

"Is there anything else that you can think of?"

"Nothing, sir."

"When will you be ready, do you suppose?"

"By the day after tomorrow, sir. I shall start after dark, so that no one will notice my going. With your permission, I will come round before I set off, so that you can see whether the disguise is good enough to pass."



Chapter 7: To Metemmeh.


Zaki at once set to work to collect the articles needed for the journey; and Gregory obtained, from the transport, another horse and two native saddles. He was well satisfied with his own animal; and, even had he found in the transport yard a better horse, he would still have preferred his own, as they were accustomed to each other. He bought pistols for himself and Zaki, and a matchlock for the latter.

Everything was ready by the time Gregory went to the mess to lunch, on the day fixed for his departure. Nothing whatever had been said as to his leaving, as it was possible that some of the native servants, who waited upon them, might have picked up sufficient English to gather that something important was about to take place. When, however, the meal was over and he said carelessly, "I shall not be at mess this evening;" he saw, by the expression of the officers' faces, that they all were aware of the reason for his absence. One after another they either shook hands with him, or gave him a quiet pat on the shoulder, with the words "Take care of yourself, lad," or "A safe journey and a speedy return," or some other kind wish.

Going to his hut, he was shaved by Zaki at the back of the neck, up to his ears; so that the white, closely-fitting cap would completely cover the hair. Outside the tent a sauce pan was boiling with herbs and berries, which the lad had procured from an old woman who was considered to have a great knowledge of simples. At four in the afternoon, Gregory was stained from head to foot, two coats of the dye being applied. This used but a small quantity of the liquor, and the rest was poured into a gourd, for future use. The dresses were ready, with the exception of the Mahdi patches, which were to be sewn on at their first halting place.

Before it was dark, Gregory went across to the General's quarters. The black sentry stopped him.

"The General wants to speak to me," Gregory said, in Arabic.

The man called up the native sergeant from the guard tent, who asked what he wanted.

"I am here by the orders of the General."

The sergeant looked doubtful, but went in. He returned in a minute, and motioned to Gregory to follow him in. The General looked at him, from head to foot.

"I suppose it is you, Hilliard," he said, "but I certainly should not have recognized you. With that yellowish-brown skin, you could pass anywhere as a Soudan Arab. Will the colour last?"

"I am assured that it will last for some days, but I am taking enough with me to renew it, four or five times."

"Well, unless some unexpected obstacle occurs, I think you are safe from detection. Mind you avoid men from El Obeid; if you do not fall in with them, you should be safe. Of course, when you have sewn on those patches, your disguise will be complete.

"I suppose you have no idea how long you will be away?"

"It will take me five days to go there, and five days to come back. I should think that if I am three days in the camp, I ought to get all the information required. In a fortnight I should be here; though, of course, I may be longer. If I am not back within a few days of that time, you will know that it is because I have stayed there, in the hopes of getting more certain news. If I don't return in three weeks, it will be because something has gone wrong."

"I hope it will not be so, lad. As regards appearance and language, I have no fear of your being detected; but you must always bear in mind that there are other points. You have had the advantage of seeing the camps of the native regiments, when the men are out of uniform -- how they walk, laugh uproariously, play tricks with each other, and generally behave. These are all natives of the Soudan, and no small proportion of them have been followers of the Mahdi, and have fought against us, so they may be taken as typical of the men you are going among. It is in all these little matters that you will have to be careful.

"Now, I will not detain you longer. I suppose your horses are on board?"

It had been arranged that Gregory should be taken down to Korti, in a native craft that was carrying some stores required at that camp.

"Yes, sir. My boy put them on board, two hours ago."

"Here is the pass by which you can enter or leave the British lines, at any time. The boat will be there before daylight, but the landing of the stores will not, of course, take place until later. Show this pass to the first officer who comes down. It contains an order for you to be allowed to start on your journey, at once.

"This other pass is for your return. You had better, at your first halt, sew it under one of your patches. It is, as you see, written on a piece of linen, so that however closely you may be examined, there will be no stiffness or crackling, as would be the case with paper.

"Now goodbye, Hilliard! It is a satisfaction to me that you have undertaken this journey on your own initiative, and on your own request. I believe that you have a fair chance of carrying it through -- more so than men with wider shoulders and bigger limbs would have. If you come to grief, I shall blame myself for having accepted your offer; but I shall at least know that I thought it over seriously, and that, seeing the importance of the object in view, I did not feel myself justified in refusing."

With a cordial shake of the hand, he said goodbye to Gregory. The latter went off to his hut. He did not leave it until dusk, and then went down to the boat, where Zaki had remained with the horses.

As soon as it started they lay down alongside some bales, on the deck of the native craft, and were soon asleep. They did not wake until a slight bump told them they were alongside the wharf, at Korti.

Day was just breaking, so no move was made until an hour later. An officer came down, with the fatigue party, to unload the stores that she had brought down. When the horses were ashore, Gregory handed the pass to the officer, who was standing on the bank. He looked at it, with some surprise.

"Going to do some scouting," he muttered, and then called to a native officer, "Pass these two men beyond the outposts. They have an order from General Hunter."

"Will you be away long?" he asked Gregory, in Arabic.

"A week or more, my lord," the latter replied.

"Ah! I suppose you are going to Gakdul. As far as we have heard, there are no Dervishes there. Well, you must keep a sharp lookout. They may be in hiding anywhere about there, and your heads won't be worth much, if they lay hands on you."

"We intend to do so, sir;" and then, mounting, they rode on, the native officer walking beside them.

"You know the country, I suppose?" he said. "The Dervishes are bad, but I would rather fall into their hands than lose my way in the desert. The one is a musket ball or a quick chop with a knife, the other an agony for two or three days."

"I have been along the road before," Zaki said. "There is no fear of my losing my way; and, even if I did so, I could travel by the stars."

"I wish we were all moving," the native said. "It is dull work staying here, month after month."

As soon as they were beyond the lines, they thanked the officer and went off, at a pace native horses are capable of keeping up for hours.

"Korti is a much pleasanter camp to stay in than Merawi," Gregory said. "It really looks a delightful place. It is quite evident that the Mahdists have never made a raid here."

The camp stood on a high bank above the river. There were spreading groves of trees, and the broad avenues, that had been constructed when the Gordon relief expedition was encamped there, could still be seen. Beyond it was a stretch of land which had been partly cultivated. Sevas grass grew plentifully, and acacia and mimosa shrubs in patches.

They rode to the wells of Hambok, a distance of some five-and-thirty miles, which they covered in five hours. There they halted, watered their horses and, after giving them a good feed, turned them out to munch the shrubs or graze on the grass, as they chose. They then had a meal from the food they had brought with them, made a shelter of bushes, for the heat was intense, and afterwards sewed the Mahdi patches upon their clothes.

When the sun went down they fetched the horses in, gave them a small feed, and then fastened them to some bushes near. As there was plenty of water in the wells, they took an empty gourd down and, stripping, poured water over their heads and bodies; then, feeling greatly refreshed, dressed and lay down to sleep.

The moon rose between twelve and one; and, after giving the horses a drink, they mounted and rode to Gakdul, which they reached soon after daybreak. They had stopped a mile away, and Zaki went forward on foot, hiding himself as much as possible from observation. On his return he reported that no one was at the wells, and they therefore rode on, taking every precaution against surprise.

The character of the scenery had completely changed; and they had, for some miles, been winding along at the foot of the Jebel-el-Jilif hills. These were steep and precipitous, with spurs and intermediate valleys. The wells differed entirely from those at Hambok, which were merely holes dug in the sand, the water being brought up in one of the skin bags they had brought with them, and poured into shallow cisterns made in the surface. At Gakdul the wells were large pools in the rock, at the foot of one of the spurs of the hill, two miles from the line of the caravan route. Here the water was beautifully clear, and abundant enough for the wants of a large force.

"It is lucky I had you with me, Zaki, for I should certainly have gone straight on past the wells, without knowing where they were; and as there are no others this side of Abu Klea, I should have had rather a bad day."

The three forts which the Guards had built, when they came on in advance of General Stewart's column, were still standing; as well as a number of smaller ones, which had been afterwards added.

"It is rather a bad place for being caught, Zaki, for the ground is so broken, and rocky, that the Dervishes might creep up without being seen."

"Yes, sir, it is a bad place," Zaki agreed. "I am glad that none of the Dervishes were here, for we should not have seen them, until we were quite close."

Zaki had, on the road, cut a large faggot of dried sticks, and a fire was soon lighted.

"You must give the horses a good allowance of grain," Gregory said, "for they will be able to pick up nothing here, and it is a long ride to Abu Klea."

"We shall have to be very careful there, my lord. It is not so very far from Metemmeh, and we are very likely to find Baggaras at the wells. It was there they met the English force that went through to Metemmeh.

"I think it would be better for us to halt early, this evening, and camp at the foot of Jebel Sergain. The English halted there, before advancing to Abu Klea. We can take plenty of water in the two skins, to give the horses a drink and leave enough for tomorrow. There is grass in abundance there.

"When the moon rises, we can make our way round to avoid Abu Klea, and halt in the middle of the day for some hours. We could then ride on as soon as the sun is low, halt when it becomes too dark to ride, and then start again when the moon rises. In that way we shall reach the river, before it is light."

"I think that would be a very good plan, Zaki. We should find it very difficult to explain who we were, if we met any Dervishes at Abu Klea. I will have a look at my sketch map; we have found it very good and accurate, so far; and with that, and the compass the General gave me before starting, we ought to have no difficulty in striking the river, as the direction is only a little to the east of south."

He opened a tin of preserved meat, of which he had four with him, and placed it to warm near the fire.

"We should have had to throw the other tins away, if we had gone on to Abu Klea," he said. "It would never have done for them to be found upon us, if we were searched."

When the meat was hot they ate it, using some biscuits as plates. Afterwards they feasted on a melon they had brought with them, and were glad to hear their horses munching the leaves of some shrubs near.

When the moon rose, they started. It was slow work at first, as they had some difficulty in passing the rough country lying behind the hill. Once past it, they came upon a level plain, and rode fast for some hours. At ten o'clock they halted, and lay down under the shelter of the shrubs; mounting again at four, and riding for another three hours.

"How far do you think we are from the river now? By the map, I should think we cannot be much more than twenty miles from it."

"I don't know, my lord. I have never been along here before; but it certainly ought not to be farther than that."

"We have ridden nine hours. We travelled slowly for the first four or five, but we have come fast, since then. We must give the horses a good rest, so we will not move on till the moon rises, which will be about a quarter to two. It does not give a great deal of light, now, and we shall have to make our way through the scrub; but, at any rate, we ought to be close to the river, before morning."

When the sun was low they again lit a fire, and had another good meal, giving the greater portion of their stock of biscuits to the horses, and a good drink of water.

"We must use up all we can eat before tomorrow, Zaki, and betake ourselves to a diet of dried dates. There is enough water left to give the horses a drink before we start, then we shall start as genuine Dervishes."

They found that the calculation they had made as to distance was correct and, before daybreak, arrived on the bank of the Nile, and at once encamped in a grove. In the morning they could see the houses of Metemmeh, rising from the line of sandy soil, some five miles away.

"There seems to be plenty of bush and cover, all along the bank, Zaki. We will stay here till the evening, and then move three miles farther down; so that you may be handy, if I have to leave the Dervishes in a hurry."

"Could we not go into the camp, my lord?"

"It would be much better, in some respects, if we could; but, you see, you do not speak Arabic."

"No, master; but you could say I was carried off as a slave, when I was a boy. You see, I do speak a little Arabic, and could understand simple orders; just as any slave boy would, if he had been eight or ten years among the Arabs."

"It would certainly be a great advantage to have you and the horses handy. However, at first I will go in and join the Dervishes, and see how they encamp. They are, no doubt, a good deal scattered; and if we could find a quiet spot, where a few mounted men have taken up their station, we would join them. But before we did that, it would be necessary to find out whether they came from Kordofan, or from some of the villages on the White Nile. It would never do to stumble into a party from El Obeid."

They remained quiet all day. The wood extended a hundred and fifty yards back from the river, and there was little fear that anyone coming down from Omdurman would enter it, when within sight of Metemmeh. At dusk they rode on again, until they judged that they were within two miles of the town; and then, entering a clump of high bushes by the river, halted for the night.



Chapter 8: Among The Dervishes.


In the morning Gregory started alone, as soon as it was light. As he neared the town, he saw that there were several native craft on the river; and that boats were passing to and fro between the town and Shendy, on the opposite bank. From the water side a number of men were carrying what appeared to be bags of grain towards the hills behind the town, while others were straggling down towards the river.

Without being questioned, Gregory entered Metemmeh, but stopped there for a very few minutes. Everywhere were the bodies of men, women, and children, of donkeys and other animals. All were now shrivelled and dried by the sun, but the stench was almost unbearable, and he was glad to hurry away.

Once beyond the walls he made for the hill. Many tents could be seen there, and great numbers of men moving about. He felt sure that, among so many, no one would notice that he was a newcomer; and after moving among the throng, he soon sat down among a number of Dervishes who were eating their morning meal. Taking some dates out of his bag, he munched them quietly.

From the talk going on, he soon perceived that there was a considerable amount of discontent at the long delay. Some of the men were in favour of moving to Berber, on the ground that they would at least fare better there; but the majority were eager to march north, to drive the infidels from Merawi and Dongola.

"Mahmud would do that, I am sure," one of them said, "if he had but his will; but how could we march without provisions? It is said that Mahmud has asked for a sufficient supply to cross the Bayuda, and has promised to drive the infidels before him to Assouan; but the Khalifa says no, it would be better to wait till they come in a strong body, and then to exterminate them. If we are not to fight, why were we sent here? It would have been better to stay at Omdurman, because there we had plenty of food; or, if it ran short, could march to the villages and take what we wanted. Of course the Khalifa knows best, but to us it seems strange, indeed."

There was a general chorus of assent. After listening for some time Gregory rose and, passing over the ridge, came upon the main camp. Here were a number of emirs and sheiks, with their banners flying before the entrance of their tents. The whole ground was thickly dotted with little shelters, formed of bushes, over which dark blankets were thrown to keep out the rays of the sun. Everywhere women were seated or standing -- some talking to each other, others engaged in cooking. Children played about; boys came in loaded with faggots, which they had gone long distances to cut. In some places numbers of horses were picketed, showing where the Baggara cavalry were stationed.

In the neighbourhood of the emirs' tents there was some sort of attempt at order, in the arrangement of the little shelters, showing where the men of their tribes were encamped. Beyond, straggling out for some distance, were small encampments, in some of which the men were still erecting shelters, with the bushes the women and boys brought in. Most of these were evidently fresh arrivals, who had squatted down as soon as they came up; either from ignorance as to where their friends had encamped, or from a preference for a quiet situation. This fringe of new arrivals extended along the whole semicircle of the camp; and as several small parties came up while Gregory wandered about, and he saw that no notice was taken of them by those already established, he thought that he could bring Zaki, and the horses up without any fear of close questioning. He therefore walked down again to the spot where he had left them; and, mounting, they rode to the camp, making a wide sweep so as to avoid the front facing Metemmeh.

"We could camp equally well, anywhere here, Zaki, but we may as well go round to the extreme left; as, if we have to ride off suddenly, we shall at least start from the nearest point to the line by which we came."

There was a small clump of bushes, a hundred yards or so from the nearest of the little shelters. Here they dismounted, and at once began, with their knives, to cut down some of the bushes to form a screen from the sun. They had watered the horses before they left the river, and had also filled their water skins.

"I don't think we could find a better place, Zaki," Gregory said, when, having completed their shelter and thrown their blankets over it, they lay down in the shade. "No doubt we shall soon be joined by others; but as we are the first comers on this spot, it will be for us to ask questions of them, and, after, for them to make enquiries of us.

"I shall go into the camp as soon as the heat abates, and people begin to move about again. Remember our story -- You were carried off from a Jaalin village, in a raid. Your master was a small sheik, and is now with the force at El Obeid. You had been the companion of his son, and when the latter made up his mind to come and fight here your master gave you your freedom, so that you might fight by his son's side. You might say that I have not yet settled under whose banner I shall fight. All I wish is to be in the front of the battle, when we meet the infidels. That will be quite sufficient. There are men here from almost every village in the Soudan, and no one will care much where his neighbours come from.

"Mention that we intend to fight as matchlock men, not on horseback, as the animals are greatly fatigued from their long journey, and will require rest for some time; and, being so far from home, I fear that we might lose them if we went into the fight with them; and in that case might have to journey on foot, for a long time, before we could get others.

"I don't at all suppose that it will be necessary for you to say all this. People will be too much occupied with their own affairs to care much about others; still, it is well not to hesitate, if questioned."

Talk and laughter in the great camp ceased now, and it was not until the sun lost its power that it again began. Gregory did not move, till it began to get dusk.

"I shall be away some time," he said, "so don't be at all uneasy about me. I shall take my black blanket, so that I can cover myself with it and lie down, as if asleep, close to any of the emirs' tents where I hear talk going on; and so may be able to gather some idea as to their views. I have already learned that the tribesmen have not heard of any immediate move, and are discontented at being kept inactive so long. The leaders, however, may have their plans, but will not make them known to the men, until it is time for action."

The camp was thoroughly alive when he entered it. Men were sitting about in groups; the women, as before, keeping near their little shelters, laughing and chatting together, and sometimes quarrelling. From the manner of the men, who either sat or walked about, it was not difficult for Gregory to distinguish between the villagers, who had been dragged away from their homes and forced to enter the service of the Khalifa, and the Baggara and kindred tribes, who had so long held the Soudan in subjection. The former were quiet in their demeanour, and sometimes sullen in their looks. He had no doubt that, when the fighting came, these would face death at the hands of the infidels as bravely as their oppressors, for the belief in Mahdism was now universal. His followers had proved themselves invincible; they had no doubt that they would destroy the armies of Egypt, but they resented being dragged away from their quiet homes, their families, and their fields.

Among these the Baggara strode haughtily. Splendid men, for the most part, tall, lithe, and muscular; men with the supreme belief in themselves, and in their cause, carrying themselves as the Norman barons might have done among a crowd of Saxons; the conquerors of the land, the most trusted followers of the successor of the Mahdi, men who felt themselves invincible. It was true that they had, so far, failed to overrun Egypt, and had even suffered reverses, but these the Khalifa had taught them to consider were due to disobedience of his orders, or the result of their fighting upon unlucky days. All this was soon to be reversed. The prophecies had told that the infidels were about to be annihilated, and that then they would sweep down without opposition, and possess themselves of the plunder of Egypt.

Gregory passed wholly unnoticed among the crowd. There was nothing to distinguish him from others, and the thought that an Egyptian spy, still less one of the infidels, should venture into their camp had never occurred to one of that multitude. Occasionally, he sat down near a group of the Baggara, listening to their talk. They were impatient, too, but they were convinced that all was for the best; and that, when it was the will of Allah, they would destroy their enemy. Still, there were expressions of impatience that Mahmud was not allowed to advance.

"We know," one said, "that it is at Kirkeban that the last great destruction of the infidel is to take place, and that these madmen are coming to their fate; still, we might move down and destroy those at Dongola and along the river, and possess ourselves of their arms and stores. Why should we come thus far from Omdurman, if we are to go no farther?"

"Why ask questions?" another said contemptuously. "Enough that it is the command of the Khalifa, to whom power and knowledge has been given by the Mahdi, until he himself returns to earth. To the Khalifa will be revealed the day and the hour on which we are to smite the infidel. If Mahmud and the great emirs are all content to wait, why should we be impatient?"

Everywhere Gregory went, he heard the same feelings expressed. The men were impatient to be up and doing, but they must wait the appointed hour.

It was late before he ventured to approach the tents of the leaders. He knew that it was impossible to get near Mahmud himself, for he had his own bodyguard of picked men. The night, however, was dark and, enveloping himself from head to foot in his black blanket, he crawled out until well beyond the line of tents, and then very cautiously made his way towards them again. He knew that he should see the white figures of the Dervishes before they could make him out; and he managed, unnoticed, to crawl up to one of the largest tents, and lie down against it. He heard the chatter of the women in an adjoining tent, but there was no sound in that against which he lay.

For an hour all was quiet. Then he saw two white figures coming from Mahmud's camp, which lay some fifty yards away. To his delight, they stopped at the entrance of the tent by which he was concealed, and one said:

"I can well understand, Ibrahim Khalim, that your brother Mahmud is sorely vexed that your father will not let him advance against the Egyptians, at Merawi. I fully share his feelings; for could I not, with my cavalry, sweep them before me into the river, even though no footmen came with me? According to accounts they are but two or three thousand strong, and I have as many horsemen under my command."

"That is so, Osman Azrakyet. But methinks my father is right. If we were to march across the desert, we would lose very many men and great numbers of animals, and we should arrive weakened and dispirited. If we remain here, it is the Egyptians who will have to bear the hardships of the march across the desert. Great numbers of the animals that carry the baggage and food, without which the poor infidels are unable to march, would die, and the weakened force would be an easy prey for us."

"That is true," the other said, "but they may come now, as they came to Dongola, in their boats."

"They have the cataracts to ascend, and the rapid currents of the Nile at its full to struggle against. There is a strong force at Abu Hamed, and our Governor at Berber will move down there, with all his force, when he hears that the Egyptians are coming up the cataracts. Should it be the will of Allah that they should pass them, and reach Berber, we shall know how to meet them. Mahmud has settled this evening that many strong forts are to be built on the river bank here, and if the infidels try to advance farther by water, they will be all sunk.

"I agree with you and Mahmud, and wish that it had been otherwise, and that we could hurl ourselves at once upon the Egyptians and prevent their coming farther -- but that would be but a partial success. If we wait, they will gather all their forces before they come, and we shall destroy them at one blow. Then we shall seize all their stores and animals, cross the desert to Dongola, march forward to Assouan, and there wait till the Khalifa brings his own army; and then who is to oppose us? We will conquer the land of the infidel. I am as eager for the day of battle as you are, but it seems to me that it is best to wait here, until the infidels come; and I feel that it is wise of the Khalifa thus to order. Now I will to my tent."

As soon as Ibrahim Khalim had entered his tent, Gregory crawled away, well satisfied that he had gained exactly the information he had come to gather. He had gone but a few paces when he saw a white figure striding along, in front of the tents. He stopped, and threw himself down.

Unfortunately, the path taken by the sheik was directly towards him. He heard the footsteps advancing, in hopes that the man would pass either in front or behind him. Then he felt a sudden kick, an exclamation, and a heavy fall. He leapt to his feet, but the Arab sheik was as quick and, springing up, also seized him, at the same time drawing his knife and uttering a loud shout.

Gregory grasped the Arab's wrist, and without hesitation snatched his own knife from the sash, and drove it deep into his assailant's body. The latter uttered another loud cry for help, and a score of men rushed from behind the tents.

Gregory set off at the top of his speed, dashed over the brow of the bridge, and then, without entering the camp there, he kept along close to the crest, running at the top of his speed and wrapping his blanket as much as possible round him. He heard an outburst of yells behind, and felt sure that the sheik he had wounded had told those who had rushed up which way he had fled. With loud shouts they poured over the crest, and there were joined by others running up from the camp.

When Gregory paused for a moment, after running for three or four hundred yards, he could hear no sound of footsteps behind him. Glancing round, he could not see white dresses in the darkness. Turning sharply off, he recrossed the crest of the hill and, keeping close to it, continued his flight until well past the end of the camp.

The alarm had by this time spread everywhere, and a wild medley of shouts rose throughout the whole area of the encampment. He turned now, and made for the spot where he had left Zaki and the horses. In five minutes he reached it.

"Is that you, my lord?" Zaki asked, as he came up.

"Yes, we must fly at once! I was discovered, and had to kill -- or at least badly wound -- a sheik, and they are searching for me everywhere."

"I have saddled the horses, and put the water skins on them."

"That is well done, Zaki. Let us mount and be off, at once. We will lead the horses. It is too dark to gallop among these bushes, and the sound of the hoofs might be heard. We will go quietly, till we are well away."

Not another word was spoken, till they had gone half a mile.

"We will mount now, Zaki. The horses can see better than we. We will go at a walk. I dare not strike a light to look at the compass, but there are the stars. I do not see the north star, it must be hidden by the mist, lower down; but the others give us the direction, quite near enough to go by.

"It is most unfortunate that the fellow who rushed against me was a sheik. I could see that, by the outline of his robe. If it had been a common man, there would not have been any fuss over it. As it is, they will search for us high and low. I know he wasn't killed on the spot, for he shouted after I had left him; and they are likely to guess, from his account, that I had been down at one of the emirs' tents, and was probably a spy.

"I know that I ought to have paused a moment, and given him another stab, but I could not bring myself to do it. It is one thing to stab a man who is trying to take one's life, but it is quite another when he has fallen, and is helpless."

Zaki had made no reply. He could scarcely understand his master's repugnance to making matters safe, when another blow would have done so, but it was not for him to blame.

They travelled all night and, when the moon rose, were able to get along somewhat faster; but its light was now feeble and uncertain. As soon as day broke, they rode fast, and at ten o'clock had left behind the range of hills, stretching between the wells of Abu Klea and Jebel Sergain.

"We ought to be safe now," Gregory said, as they dismounted. "At any rate, the horses must have a rest. We have done over forty miles."

"We are safe for the present, my lord. It all depends whether or not they think you are a spy. If they come to that conclusion, they will send at once to Abu Klea; and if a strong body is stationed there, they may have sent a party on to Gakdul, or even to El Howeyat, for they will feel sure that we shall make for one of the wells."

"How much water have you got in the bags?"

Zaki examined them.

"Enough for ourselves for five or six days; but only enough for two drinks each, for the horses and for ourselves, for a couple of days."

"That is bad. If we had had any idea of coming away so soon, we would have filled the large bags yesterday. I had intended to send down the horses in the morning, therefore left them only half full, and they must have leaked a good deal to get so low. See if one leaks more than the other."

It was found that one held the water well, but from the other there was a steady drip. They transferred the water from this to the sound bag.

"We must drink as little as we can, Zaki, and give the horses only a mouthful, now and then, and let them munch the shrubs and get a little moisture from them. Do you think there is any fear of the Dervishes following our tracks?"

"No, my lord. In the first place, they do not know that there are two of us, or that we are mounted. When those who camped near us notice, when they get up this morning, that we have moved; they will only think that we have shifted our camp, as there was no talk of horsemen being concerned in this affair. No, I do not think they will attempt to follow us, except along the caravan road, but I feel sure they will pursue us on that line."

They rested for some hours, in the shade of a high rock, leaving the horses to pick what herbage they could find. At four o'clock they started again. They had ridden two hours, when Zaki said:

"See, my lord, there are two men on the top of Jebel Sergain!"

Gregory gazed in that direction.

"Yes, I can notice them now, but I should not have done so, if you had not seen them."

"They are on watch, my lord."

"Well, they can hardly see us, at this distance."

"You may be sure that they see us," Zaki said; "the eyes of an Arab are very keen, and could not fail to catch two moving objects -- especially horsemen."

"If they are looking for us, and have seen us, Zaki, they would not be standing stationary there."

"Not if they were alone. But others may have been with them. When they first caught sight of us, which may have been half an hour ago, the others may have gone down to Abu Klea, while those two remained to watch which course we took. The Arabs can signal with their lances, or with their horses, and from there they would be able to direct any party in pursuit of us."

"Well, we must keep on as hard as we can, till dark; after that, we can take it quietly. You see, the difficulty with us will be water. Now that they have once made out two horsemen riding north, they must know that we have some special object in avoiding them; and will, no doubt, send a party to Gakdul, if not farther."

They crossed the rough country as quickly as they could, and then again broke into a canter. An hour later, as they crossed a slight rise, Zaki looked back.

"There are some horsemen in pursuit, my lord. They have evidently come from Abu Klea."

Gregory looked round.

"There are about fifteen of them," he said. "However, they are a good three miles behind, and it will be dark in another half hour. As soon as it is so, we will turn off to the right or left, and so throw them off our track. Don't hurry your horse. The animals have made a very long journey, since we started, and we shall want them badly tomorrow."

In another half hour the sun went down. Darkness comes on quickly in the Soudan, and in another quarter of an hour they had lost sight of their pursuers, who had gained about a mile upon them.

"Another five minutes, Zaki, to allow for their eyes being better than ours. Which way do you think we had better turn?"

"I should say to the left, my lord. There is another caravan route from Metemmeh to Ambukol. It cannot be more than fifteen miles to the west."

"Do you know anything about it?"

"I have never been along there. It is a shorter route than the one to Korti, but not so much used, I believe, because the wells cannot be relied upon."

"Well, I feel sure we shall not be able to get at the wells on the other line, so we had better take that. As we shall be fairly safe from pursuit, we may as well bear towards the northwest. By doing so we shall be longer in striking the track, but the journey will be a good bit shorter than if we were to ride due west.

"Now we can safely dismount. It is getting pitch dark, and we will lead our horses. I can feel that mine is nearly dead beat. In a few minutes we will halt, and give them half a gourd full of water, each. After that, we had better go on for another six or seven miles, so as to be well out of sight of anyone on the hills."

Ten minutes later they heard the dull sound of horses' hoofs on the sand. They waited five minutes, until it died away in the distance, and then continued their course. It was slow work, as they had to avoid every bush carefully; lest, if their pursuers halted, they should hear the crackling of a dry stick in the still air. Zaki, who could see much better in the dark than his master, went on ahead; while Gregory led the two horses.

A good hour passed before they stopped. They gave the horses a scanty drink, and took a mouthful or two each; and then, throwing themselves down, allowed the horses to crop the scanty herbage.

After four hours' halt they pursued their way on foot for three hours, laying their course by the stars. They calculated that they must have gone a good fifteen miles from the point where they turned off, and feared that they might miss the caravan track, if they went on before daybreak.



Chapter 9: Safely Back.


As soon as the sun was up they pursued their journey, Gregory's compass being now available.

In half an hour, Zaki said, "There is a sign of the track, my lord," and he pointed to the skeleton of a camel.

"How many more miles do you think we have to go, Zaki?"

"We must be a good half way, my lord."

"Yes, quite that, I should think. Looking at the map, I should say that we must be about abreast of the line of Gakdul. This route is only just indicated, and there are no halting places marked upon it. Still, there must be water, otherwise caravans could not use it. We have about sixty miles farther to go, so that if the horses were fresh we might be there this evening; but as it is, we have still two, if not three days' journey before us.

"Well, we must hope that we shall find some water. Just let the horses wet their mouths; we can keep on for a bit, before we have a drink.

"How much more is there left?" he asked, after the lad had given a little water to each horse.

"Not above two gourdfuls."

"Well, we must ride as far as we can and, at any rate, must keep one gourdful for tomorrow. If we cover twenty-five miles today -- and I don't think the horses can do more -- we can manage, if they are entirely done up, to walk the other thirty-five miles. However, as I said, there must be wells, and even if they are dry, we may be able to scratch the sand out and find a little water. What food have we got?"

"Only about two pounds of dates."

"That is a poor supply for two days, Zaki, but we must make the best of them. We will only eat a few today, so as to have a fair meal in the morning. We shall want it, if we have to walk thirty-five miles over the sand."

"It will not be all sand," Zaki said; "there is grass for the last fifteen miles, near the river; and there were cultivated fields about ten miles out, before the Dervishes came."

"That is better. Now we will be moving."

The herbage the horses had cropped during the halt had served, to a certain degree, to supply the place of water; and they proceeded at a brisker pace than Gregory had expected.

"Keep a sharp lookout for water. Even if the wells are dry, you will see a difference in the growth of the bushes round them; and as it is certain that this route has not been used for some time, there may even be grass."

They rode on at an easy canter, and avoided pressing the horses in the slightest degree, allowing them to walk whenever they chose. The heat was very great, and after four hours' riding Gregory called a halt.

"We must have done twenty miles," he said. "The bushes look green about here, and the horses have got something of a feed."

"I think this must be one of the old halting places," Zaki said, looking round as they dismounted. "See, my lord, there are some broken gourds, and some rags scattered about."

"So there are," Gregory said. "We will take the bridles out of the horses' mouths, so that they can chew the leaves up better; and then we will see if we can find where the wells were."

Twenty yards farther away they found a deep hole.

"This was one of them," the lad said, "but it is quite dry. See, there is an old bucket lying at the bottom. I will look about; there may be some more of them."

Two others were discovered, and the sand at the bottom of one of them looked a somewhat darker colour than the others.

"Well, we will dig here," Gregory said. "Bring down those two half gourds; they will help us to shovel the sand aside."

The bottom of the hole was some six feet across, and they set to work in the middle of it. By the time they had got down two feet, the sand was soft and clammy.

"We will get to water, Zaki, if we have to stay here all day!" said Gregory.

It was hard work, and it was not until after four hours' toil that, to their delight, they found the sand wet under their feet. They had taken it by turns to use the scoop, for the labour of making the hole large enough for them both to work at once would have been excessive.

In another hour there was half an inch of water in the hole. Gregory took a gourd, and buried it in the soft soil until the water flowed in over the brim.

"Give me the other one down, Zaki. I will fill that, too, and then we will both start drinking together."

Five minutes later, the two took a long draught. The scoops were then refilled and carried to the horses, who drank with an eagerness that showed how great was their thirst. Three times the gourds were filled, and emptied.

"Now hand me down that water bag."

This was half filled, and then, exhausted with their work, they threw themselves down and slept for some hours. When they awoke, the sun was setting.

"Bring up the horses, Zaki. Let them drink as much as they like."

The gourds had each to be filled six times, before the animals were satisfied. The riders then took another deep drink, ate a handful of dates, and mounted.

"We are safe now, and only have to fear a band of marauding Arabs; and it would be hard luck, were we to fall in with them. We had better ride slowly for the first hour or so. We must not press the horses, after they have had such a drink."

"Very well, master."

"There is no particular reason for hurry, and even if we miss the trail we know that, by keeping straight on, we shall strike the river somewhere near Korti or Ambukol."

For an hour they went at a walk, and then the horses broke into their usual pace, of their own accord. It was getting dark, now, and soon even Zaki could not make out the track.

"The horses will keep to it, my lord," he said; "their sight is a great deal better than ours, and I dare say their smell may have something to do with it. Besides, the track is clear of bushes, so we should know at once, if they strayed from it."

They rode for five hours, and then felt that the horses were beginning to fag.

"We will halt here," Gregory said. "We certainly cannot be more than five-and-twenty miles from the river; and, if we start at dawn, shall be there before the heat of the day begins. We can have another handful of dates, and give the horses a handful each, and that will leave us a few for the morning."

The horses, after being given the dates, were again turned loose; and it was not long before they were heard pulling the leaves off bushes.

"Our case is a good deal better this evening than it was yesterday," Gregory said. "Then it looked as if it would be rather a close thing, for I am sure the horses could not have gone much farther, if we had not found the water. I wish we had a good feed to give them."

"They will do very well on the bushes, my lord. They get little else, when they are with the Arabs; a handful of durra, occasionally, when they are at work; but at other times they only get what they can pick up. If their master is a good one, they may get a few dates. They will carry us briskly enough to the river, tomorrow."

They did not talk long, and were soon sound asleep. Zaki was the first to wake.

"Day is just breaking, master."

"You don't say so!" Gregory grumbled, sleepily. "It seems to me that we have only just lain down."

They ate the remainder of their dates, took a drink of water, and gave two gourdfuls to the horses; and, in a quarter of an hour, were on their way again. They had ridden but two or three miles, when Zaki exclaimed:

"There are some horsemen!"

"Eight of them, Zaki, and they are evidently riding to cut us off! As far as I can see, only four of them have guns; the others have spears.

"I think we can manage them. With my breech-loader I can fire two shots to their one, and we have pistols, as well."

The Arabs drew up ahead of them, and remained quiet there until the others came to within fifty yards, and checked their horses. A man who appeared to be the leader of the party shouted the usual salutation, to which Gregory replied.

The leader said, "Where are my friends going and why do they halt?"

"We are on a mission. We wish to see if the infidels are still at Ambukol."

"For that you will not want guns," the man said, "and we need them badly. I beg of you to give them to us."

"They may be of use to us. We may come upon infidel scouts."

"Nevertheless, my friends, you must hand them over to us. We are, as you see, eight, and you are only two. The law of the desert is that the stronger take, and the weaker lose."

"It may be so, sometimes," Gregory said quietly, "but not in this case. I advise you to ride your way, and we will ride ours."

Then he said to Zaki, "Dismount and stand behind your horse, and fire over the saddle; but don't fire the first shot now."

He threw himself from his saddle. Scarcely had he done so when four shots were fired, and Gregory took a steady aim at the chief. The latter threw up his arms, and fell. With a yell of fury, the others dashed forward. Zaki did not fire until they were within twenty yards, and directly afterwards Gregory fired again. There were now but five assailants.

"Now for your pistols, Zaki!" he cried, glancing round for the first time.

He then saw why Zaki had not fired when he first did so -- his horse was lying dead in front of him, shot through the head.

"Stand by me! Don't throw away a shot! You take the man on the other side of the horse. I will take the others."

Steadily the four pistols were fired. As the Arabs rode up, two of them fell, and another was wounded. Dismayed at the loss of so many of their number, the three survivors rode off at full speed.

"Are you hurt, Zaki?"

"A spear grazed my cheek, my lord; that is all. It was my own fault. I kept my last barrel too long. However, it tumbled him over.

"Are you hurt, master?"

"I have got a ball in the shoulder. That fellow without a spear has got pistols, and fired just as I did; or rather, an instant before. That shook my aim, but he has a ball in him, somewhere.

"Just see if they have got some dates on their saddles," for the horses of the fallen men had remained by the side of their masters' bodies.

"Yes, my lord," Zaki said, examining them. "Two bags, nearly full."

"That is satisfactory. Pick out the best horse for yourself, and then we will ride on. But before we go, we will break the stocks of these four guns, and carry the barrels off, and throw them into the bushes, a mile or two away."

As soon as this was done, they mounted and rode on. They halted in a quarter of an hour and, after Gregory's arm had been bound tightly to his side with his sash, both they and their horses had a good meal of dates. Then they rode on again, and in three hours saw some white tents ahead.

There was a slight stir as they were seen coming, and a dozen black soldiers sprang up and ran forward, fixing bayonets as they did so.

"We are friends!" Gregory shouted, in Arabic; and Zaki repeated the shout in his own language.

The soldiers looked doubtful, and stood together in a group. They knew that the Dervishes were sometimes ready to throw away their own lives, if they could but kill some of their enemy.

One of them shouted back, "Stay where you are until I call an officer!"

He went back to the tents, and returned with a white officer, whom Gregory at once recognized as one of those who had come up with him from Wady Halfa.

"Leslie," he shouted in English, "will you kindly call off your soldiers? One of their muskets might go off, accidentally. I suppose you don't remember me. I am Hilliard, who came up with you in the steamer."

The officer had stopped in astonishment, at hearing this seeming Dervish address him, by name, in English. He then advanced, giving an order to his men to fall back.

"Is it really you, Hilliard?" he said, as he approached the horsemen, who were coming forward at a walk. "Which of you is it? For I don't see any resemblance, in either of you."

"It is I, Leslie. I am not surprised that you don't know me."

"But what are you masquerading for, in this dress; and where have you come from?"

"Perhaps I had better not say, Leslie. I have been doing some scouting across the desert, with my boy here. We have had a long ride. In the first place, my arm wants attending to. I have a bullet in the shoulder. The next thing we need is something to eat; for the last three days we have had nothing but dates, and not too many of them.

"Is there any chance of getting taken up to Merawi? We came down from there to Korti, in a native vessel."

"Yes; a gunboat with some native craft will be going up this afternoon. I will give orders, at once, that your horses shall be put on board."

When the ball had been extracted from his shoulder, and the wound dressed and bandaged by the surgeon in charge, Gregory went up to the tents again, where he was warmly received by the three white officers of the Negro regiment. Breakfast already had been prepared, Zaki being handed over to the native officers. After having made a hearty meal, Gregory related the adventure with the Arabs in the desert, merely saying that they had found there were no Dervishes at Gakdul.

"But why didn't you go straight back, instead of coming down here?"

"I wanted to see whether this line was open, and whether there were any wells on it. We only found one, and it took us four or five hours' hard work to get at the water. It is lucky, indeed, that we did so; for our horses were getting very done up, and I had begun to think that they would not reach our destination alive."

In the afternoon, the adventurers started with the boats going up to Merawi and, the next morning, arrived at the camp. The Dervish patches had been removed from their clothes, as soon as they arrived at Ambukol. Gregory could have borrowed a white suit there; but as the stain on his skin, although somewhat lighter than when first put on, was too dark, he declined the offer.

"No one may notice me as I land, now," he said, "but everyone would stare at a man with a brown face and white uniform."

Leaving Zaki to get the horses on shore, Gregory went straight to the General's quarters. He told the sentry that he wished to see the General, on business.

"You cannot go in," the man said. "The General is engaged."

"If you send in word to him that his messenger has returned, I am sure he will see me."

"You can sit down here, then," the sentry said. "When the officer with him comes out, I will give your message to his orderly."

Gregory, however, was in no humour to be stopped; and in an authoritative voice called, "Orderly!"

A soldier came down directly from the guard room.

"Tell the General, at once, that Mr. Hilliard has returned."

With a look of wonder, the orderly went into the tent. Half a minute later, he returned.

"You are to come in," he said.

As the General had seen Gregory in his disguise, before starting, he of course recognized him.

"My dear Hilliard," he said, getting up and shaking him cordially by the hand, "I am heartily glad to see you back. You have been frequently in my thoughts; and though I had every confidence in your sharpness, I have regretted, more than once, that I allowed you to go.

"I suppose you failed to get there. It is hardly possible that you should have done so, in the time. I suppose, when you got to Gakdul, you learned that the Dervishes were at Abu Klea."

"They were at Abu Klea, General; but I made a detour, and got into their camp at Metemmeh."

"You did, and have returned safely! I congratulate you, most warmly.

"I told you, Macdonald," he said, turning to the officer with whom he had been engaged, "that I had the greatest hope that Mr. Hilliard would get through. He felt so confident in himself that I could scarce help feeling confidence in him, too."

"He has done well, indeed!" Colonel Macdonald said. "I should not have liked to send any of my officers on such an adventure, though they have been here for years."

"Well, will you sit down, Mr. Hilliard," the General said, "and give us a full account? In the first place, what you have learned? And in the second, how you have learned it?"

Gregory related the conversations he had heard among the soldiers; and then that of Mahmud's brother and the commander of the Dervish cavalry. Then he described the events of his journey there, his narrow escape from capture, and the pursuit by the Dervishes at Abu Klea; how he gave them the slip, struck the Ambukol caravan road, had a fight with a band of robber Arabs, and finally reached the Egyptian camp.

"An excellently managed business!" the General said, warmly. "You have certainly had some narrow escapes, and seem to have adopted the only course by which you could have got off safely. The information you have brought is of the highest importance. I shall telegraph, at once, to the Sirdar that there will assuredly be no advance on the part of Mahmud from Metemmeh; which will leave him free to carry out the plans he has formed. I shall of course, in my written despatch, give him full particulars of the manner in which I have obtained that information."

"It was a very fine action," Macdonald agreed. "The lad has shown that he has a good head, as well as great courage.

"You will make your way, Mr. Hilliard -- that is, if you don't try this sort of thing again. A man may get through it once, but it would be just tempting providence to try it a second time."

"Now, Mr. Hilliard," the General said, "you had best go to your quarters. I will ask the surgeon to attend to you, at once. You must keep quiet, and do no more duty until you are discharged from the sick list."

Ten days later, orders were issued that the brigade under Macdonald; consisting of the 3rd Egyptians, and the 9th, 10th, and 11th Soudanese, together with a mule battery; were to move forward the next day to Kassinger, the advanced post some ten miles higher up the river. This seemed only a preliminary step, and the general opinion was that another fortnight would elapse before there would be a general movement.

A reconnaissance with friendly Arabs had, however, been made ahead towards Abu Hamed, and had obtained certain information that the garrison at that place was by no means a strong one. The information Gregory had gathered had shown that Mahmud had no intention of advancing against Merawi; and that no reinforcements had, as yet, started to join the force at Abu Hamed; the Dervish leader being convinced that the Nile was not yet high enough to admit of boats going up the cataract.

Thus, everything favoured the Sirdar's plan to capture Abu Hamed, and enable the railway to be constructed to that place before Mahmud could receive the news that the troops were in motion. He therefore directed General Hunter to push forward, with only one brigade, leaving the rest to hold Merawi; and ordered the camel corps, and the friendly Arabs, to advance across the desert as far as the Gakdul wells, where their appearance would lead Mahmud to believe that they were the advance guard of the coming army.

Two days later Gregory, on going to the headquarters tent, was told that General Hunter and his staff would start, in an hour's time, to inspect the camp at Kassinger.

"Do you think you are fit to ride?" the chief of the staff asked him.

"Perfectly, sir. The doctor discharged me yesterday as fit for duty, but advised me to keep my arm in a sling, for a time."

"In that case, you may accompany us.

"It is a little uncertain when we shall return," the officer said, with a smile; "therefore I advise you to take all your belongings with you. Have them packed up quietly. We do not wish any suspicions to arise that we are not returning this evening."

"Thank you, sir!" Gregory said, gratefully. "I shall be ready to start in an hour."

He returned in high glee to his hut, for he felt certain that an immediate advance was about to take place.

"Zaki," he said, "I am going to ride with the General; and, as it is possible I may be stationed at Kassinger for a short time, you had better get the camel brought up, and start as soon as you have packed the things on it. I am going to ride over with the staff, in an hour, and shall overtake you by the way. How long will you be?"

"Half an hour, bey."

"I will be there by that time, and will take my horse; then you can go on with the camel."

Behind the headquarter camp the work of packing up was also going on; the camels being sent off in threes and fours, as they were laden, so as to attract no attention. Half an hour later the General came out, and without delay started with the staff, Captain Fitton remaining behind to see that the rest of the stores were sent off, and a small tent for the use of the General. All heavy packages were to be taken up by water.

The arrival of the General at Kassinger excited no surprise, as he had ridden over the day before; but when, in the afternoon, orders were issued that the camels should all be laden, in preparation for a march that evening; the Soudanese could with difficulty be restrained from giving vent to their exuberant joy that, at length, their long halt was at an end, and they were to have another chance of getting at the enemy.

A large train of camels had been quietly collected at Kassinger, sufficient to carry the necessary supplies for the use of the column, for some three weeks' time; and it was hoped that, before long, the gunboats and many of the native craft, with stores, would join them at Abu Hamed.

The force started at sunset. The distance to be travelled was a hundred and eighteen miles, and the road was a very difficult one. The ground rose steeply, almost from the edge of the river; and at times had to be traversed in single file.

As night came on, the scene was a weird one. On one side the rocky ascent rose, black and threatening. On the other, the river rushed foaming, only broken by the rocks and little islands of the cataract.

Gregory had been ordered to remain with the camel train; to keep them, as much as possible, together, and prevent wide gaps from occurring in the ranks. It was tedious work; and the end of the train did not arrive, until broad daylight, at the spot where the infantry halted. He at once told Zaki to pitch his little tent, which he had already shown him how to do, while he went to see if there were any orders at headquarters.

He found the staff were just sitting down to a rough breakfast. Being told, after the meal, that he would not be wanted during the day; but that at night he was to continue his work with the camels; he went back to his tent, and threw himself on his bed. But, in spite of the fly being fastened up, and a blanket thrown over the tent, the heat was so great that he was only able to doze off occasionally.

He observed that even the black troops suffered from the heat. They had erected screens, with their blankets placed end to end, supported by their guns; and lay there, getting what air there was, and sheltered from the direct rays of the sun. Few slept. Most of them talked, or smoked.

There was some argument, among the officers, as to the relative advantages of night and day marches. All agreed that, if only one march had to be done, it was better to do it at night; but when, as in the present case, it would last for seven or eight days, many thought that, terrible as would be the heat, it would be better to march in the day, and permit the troops to sleep at night. This opinion certainly seemed to be justified; for, at the end of the third day, the men were so completely worn out from want of sleep that they stumbled as they marched; and were with difficulty restrained from throwing themselves down, to get the much-needed rest.

Gregory always went down, as soon as the column arrived at its halting place, as he did before starting in the evening, to bathe in some quiet pool or backwater; and, much as he had set himself against taking spirits, he found that he was unable to eat his meals, unless he took a spoonful or two with his water, or cold tea.

On the evening of the third day, they passed the battlefield of Kirkeban, where General Earle fell when the River Expedition was attacked by the Dervishes. Next day they halted at Hebbeh, where Colonel Stewart, on his way down with a number of refugees from Khartoum, was treacherously murdered. A portion of the steamer was still visible in the river.

Day after day the column plodded on, for the most part strung out in single file, the line extending over many miles; and, late on the evening of the 6th of August, they reached a spot within a mile and a half of Abu Hamed, the hundred and eighteen miles having been accomplished in seven days and a half.

So far as they knew, the enemy had, as yet, received no news of their approach. Three hours' rest was given the troops, and then they marched out, in order of battle.

A fair idea of the position had been obtained from the friendly natives. Abu Hamed lay on the river. The desert sloped gradually down to it, on all sides; with a sharp, deep descent within two hundred yards of the town. The houses were all loopholed, for defence.

When within a mile of the town, they must have been sighted by the Dervish sentries on a lofty watchtower. No movement, however, was visible, and there was a general feeling of disappointment, as the impression gained ground that the enemy had retreated. The 9th and 10th Soudanese made a sweep round, to attack from the desert side. The 11th, and half of the Egyptian battalion -- the other half having been left to guard the baggage -- followed the course of the river.

Major Kincaid rode forward, to the edge of the steep slope that looked down to the town. He could see no one moving about. The Dervish trenches, about eighty yards away, appeared empty; and he was about to write a message to the General, saying that the place was deserted, when a sharp fire suddenly opened upon him. He turned to ride back to warn the General, but he was too late; for, at the same moment, Hunter with his staff galloped up to the edge of the slope, and was immediately saluted by a heavy volley; which, however, was fired so wildly that none of the party was hit.

The artillery were now ordered to bombard the place. At first, they could only fire at the tops of the houses; but, changing their position, they found a spot where they could command the town. For half an hour this continued. The infantry were drawn up just beyond the brow, where they could not be seen by the defenders. The Dervishes gave no signs of life, and as the artillery could not depress their guns sufficiently to enable them to rake the trenches, the infantry were ordered to charge.

As soon as they reached the edge of the dip, a storm of musketry broke out from the Dervish trenches, but, fortunately, the greater portion of the bullets flew overhead. Macdonald had intended to carry the place at the point of the bayonet, without firing; but the troops, suddenly exposed to such a storm of musketry, halted and opened fire without orders; the result being that they suffered a great deal more than they would have done, had they crossed the eighty yards, which divided them from the trench, by a rush. Standing, as they did, against the skyline, the Dervishes were able to pick them off; they themselves showing only their heads above the trenches. Two of the mounted officers of the 10th were killed, and two had their horses shot under them.

Macdonald and his officers rushed along in front of the line, knocking up the men's muskets; and abusing them, in the strongest terms, for their disobedience to orders. The moment the fire ceased, the troops rushed forward; and the Dervishes at once abandoned their trenches, and ran back to the line of houses. These were crowded together, divided by narrow winding lanes, and here a desperate struggle took place.

The Dervishes defended themselves with the greatest tenacity, sometimes rushing out and hurling themselves upon their assailants, and defending the houses to the last, making a stand when the doors were burst open, until the last of the inmates were either shot or bayoneted. So determined was the defense of some of the larger houses, that it was necessary to bring up the guns and batter an entrance. Many of the houses were found, when the troops burst in, to be tenanted only by dead; for the Soudanese always heralded their attack by firing several volleys, and the bullets made their way through and through the mud walls, as if they had been paper.

About seventy or eighty horsemen and a hundred Dervish infantry escaped, but the rest were either killed or made prisoners, together with Mahomed Zein, the governor. A quantity of arms, camels, and horses were also captured. The loss on our side was two British officers killed, and twenty-one of the black troops; and three Egyptian officers, and sixty-one men wounded.

When the convoy halted, previous to the troops marching to the attack, Gregory, whose duties with the baggage had now ended, joined the General's staff and rode forward with them. Hunter had glanced round, as he rode up, and answered with a nod when he saluted, and asked if he could come.

He felt rather scared on the Dervishes opening fire so suddenly, when the General's impatience had led him to ride forward, without waiting for Major Kincaid's report. After the troops rushed into the town, the General maintained his position at the edge of the dip, for the narrow streets were so crowded with men that a group of horsemen could hardly have forced their way in, and it would be impossible to see what was going on, and to issue orders.

Mahomed Zein had not followed the example of some of his followers, and died fighting to the last. He was found hiding under a bed, and was brought before General Hunter; who asked him why he fought, when he must have known that it was useless; to which he replied:

"I knew that you had only three times as many as I had, and every one of my men is worth four of yours. You could not fire till you were quite close up, and at that range our rifles are as good as yours."

The General asked what he thought Mahmud would do, to which he replied:

"He will be down here in five days, and wipe you out!"

It was necessary to halt at Abu Hamed, until stores came up. Captain Keppel, Royal Navy, and the officers commanding the gunboats were toiling at the cataracts to bring them up. Nevertheless one of these was capsized, and only three got through safely. Major Pink, with a large number of troops from Merawi, succeeded in hauling the sailing boats through.

A large column of laden camels was, at the same time, being pushed forward by the caravan route from Korosko. It was a time of much anxiety, till stores began to arrive; for, had Mahmud advanced at once, the passage up the river would have been arrested, and the land column cut off; in which case the little force would have been reduced to sore straits, as they must have stood on the defensive until reinforcements reached them.

There was, too, some anxiety as to the safety of the forces at Ambukol and Korti; for Mahmud, on learning that the garrisons had been weakened by the despatch of troops to Abu Hamed, might have crossed the desert with all his force and fallen upon them. Mahmud had indeed, as it turned out, believed that the expedition to Abu Hamed was only undertaken to cover the flank of the Egyptian army from attack, from that quarter; and still believed that it was from Merawi that the main British force would advance against him.

Before the supplies had all arrived, the position changed; as news came that Berber was being evacuated by the Dervishes. The information was telegraphed to the Sirdar, who at once ordered that a force of the friendly Arabs, escorted by a gunboat, should go up to Berber to find if the news was true. One gunboat had already arrived, and General Hunter decided on going up in her himself. Two hundred of the Arabs, under Ahmed Bey, were to ride along the bank. They were to be mounted on the fastest camels that could be picked out; so that, if they encountered the Dervishes, they would have a fair chance of escaping, and getting under cover of the gunboat's fire.

"Mr. Hilliard," the General said, "I shall be obliged if you will accompany Ahmed Bey. The Arabs are always more steady, if they have an English officer with them. They will be ready to start in an hour. A signaller from the 11th Soudanese shall go with you; and you can notify, to us, the approach of any strong party of the enemy, and their direction; so that the gunboat can send a shell or two among them, as a hint that they had better keep out of range."

As his baggage camel was by no means a fast one, Gregory at first decided to leave it behind in charge of Zaki; but on going across to the Arab camp, Ahmed Bey at once offered to place a fast one at his disposal. He accordingly sent his own animal into the transport yard, committed the heavy wooden case, with the greater portion of his remaining stores, to the charge of the sergeant of the mess, retaining only three or four tins of preserved milk, some tea, four or five tins of meat, a bottle of brandy, and a few other necessaries. To these were added half a sheep and a few pounds of rice. These, with his tent and other belongings, were packed on the Arab camel; and Zaki rode beside it with great satisfaction, for he had been greatly cast down when his master first told him that he would have to remain behind. All the preparations were made in great haste, but they were completed just as Ahmed Bey moved out of his camp, with his two hundred picked men and camels.

Five minutes later, a whistle from the steamer told them that General Hunter, and the party with him, were also on the point of starting. The distance to be traversed to Berber was a hundred and thirty miles, and the expedition was undoubtedly a hazardous one. Even if the news was true, that the five thousand Dervishes who had been holding Berber had evacuated the town, it was quite possible that a part of the force had been sent down the river, to oppose any advance that might be made; or, if unable to do this, to carry the news of the advance to Mahmud. The Arabs were to keep abreast of the gunboat; and would, where the shores were flat, be covered by its guns. But at spots where the ground was high and precipitous, this assistance could scarcely avail them in case of an attack, unless the hundred soldiers on board the steamer could be landed.

As they rode along, Ahmed Bey explained to Gregory the plan that he should adopt, if they were attacked in such a position, and found their retreat cut off.

"The camels will all be made to lie down, and we shall fight behind them, as in an entrenchment. My men are all armed with rifles the government has given them, and we could beat off an attack by a great number; while, if we were on our camels and pursued, we should soon lose all order, and our shooting would be bad."

"I think that would be by far the best plan, sheik. Your two hundred men, and the hundred the gunboat could land, ought to be able to make a tough fight of it, against any number of the enemy.

"How long do you think we shall be, on the way?"

"About four days. The camels can easily travel thirty-five miles a day. We have six days' provisions with us, in case the gunboat cannot make its way up. Fortunately we have not to carry water, so that each camel only takes twenty pounds of food, for its rider; and forty pounds of grain, for itself. If we were pursued, we could throw that away, as we should only have to ride to some point where the gunboat could protect us. We could not hope to escape by speed, for the Dervishes could ride and run quite as fast as the camels could go."



Chapter 10: Afloat.


The first three days' journey passed without any adventure. From the natives who still remained in the little villages they passed, they learned that the report that the Dervishes had left Berber was generally believed; but whether they had marched for Metemmeh, or for some other point, was unknown. The people were delighted to see the gunboat; as, until its arrival, they had been in hourly fear of raiding parties. They had heard of the capture of Abu Hamed, by the British, from horsemen who had escaped; but all these had said, confidently, that Mahmud would speedily drive them out again; and they had been in hourly fear that the Dervishes would swoop down upon them, and carry off the few possessions still remaining to them.

When within thirty miles of Berber the Arabs had halted on the bank, watching the gunboat as, with great difficulty, it made its way up a cataract. Suddenly it was seen to stop, and a great bustle was observed on board. An exclamation of grief burst from the Arabs.

"She has struck on a rock!" Ahmed Bey exclaimed.

"I am afraid she has," said Gregory; who had, all along, ridden by his side at the head of the party. "I am afraid so. I hope she is not injured."

Unfortunately, the damage was serious. A hole had been knocked through her side, under water, and the water poured in, in volumes. A rush was made by those on board; and beds, pillows, and blankets were stuffed into the hole. This succeeded, to some extent, and she was brought alongside the bank.

The sheik and Gregory went down to meet her. General Hunter came to the side.

"A large hole has been knocked in her," he said, to the sheik. "We shall have to get the guns and stores on shore, to lighten her; and then heel her over, to get at the hole. It will certainly take two or three days; by that time, I hope, the other gunboat will be up.

"In the meantime, you must go on to Berber. I think there can be no doubt that the Dervishes have all left, but it is most important that we should know it, for certain. You must push straight on, and as soon as you arrive there, send word on to me by the fastest camel you have. If you are attacked, you will, of course, defend yourselves. Take up a position close to the river, and hold it until you are relieved. If you can send off news to me by a camel, do so; if not, seize a boat -- there are some at every village -- and send the news down by water. I will come on at once, with everyone here, to assist you."

"I will do as you order," the sheik said; "and if you see us no more, you will know that we died as brave men."

"I hope there is no fear of that," the General said, cheerfully. "You will defend yourselves as brave men if you are attacked, I am sure; but as I am convinced that the Dervishes have left Berber, I think there is little fear of your falling in with them."

Then he went on, in English, to Gregory.

"Keep them moving, Mr. Hilliard. Let them go as fast as they can. They are less likely to get nervous, if they are riding hard, than they would be if they dawdled along. If they press their camels, they will be in Berber this afternoon. See that a man starts at once, to bring me the news."

"Very well, sir. I will keep them at it, if I can."

The sheik rejoined his band, which gathered round to hear the result of his interview with the white general.

"The steamer is injured," he said, "but she will soon be made right, and will follow us. We are to have the honour of going on and occupying Berber, and will show ourselves worthy of it. There is little chance of our meeting the Dervishes. Had they been in Berber, we should have heard of them before this. If we meet them we will fight; and you, Abu, who have the fastest camel among us, will ride back here at all speed, and the General and his soldiers will come up to help us.

"Now, let us not waste a moment, but push forward. In five hours we shall be at Berber; and throughout your lives, you will be proud to say that you were the first to enter the town that the Dervishes have so long held."

A few of the men waved their guns, and shouted. The rest looked grave. However, they obeyed their chief's orders, and the cavalcade at once started. As they did so, Gregory drew his horse up alongside Zaki.

"Look here," he said, "if we see the Dervishes coming in force, I shall come to you, at once. You shall take my horse, it is faster than yours. I shall give you a note for the General, and you will ride back at full gallop, and give it to him. The horse is fast, and there will be no fear of their catching you, even if they chase; which they will not be likely to do, as they will be thinking of attacking us."

"Very well, master. I will do as you order me, but I would rather stop and fight, by your side."

"That you may be able to do some other time, Zaki. This time, you have got to fetch aid."

Then he rode on to join the chief. There was no talking along the line, every man had his rifle unslung and in his hand, every eye scanned the country. Hitherto, they had had unlimited faith in the power of the gunboat to protect them; now that they might have to face the Dervishes unaided, they felt the danger a serious one. They had come to fight the Dervishes, and were ready to do so, in anything like equal numbers; but the force they might meet would possibly be greatly stronger than their own -- so strong that, although they might sell their lives dearly; they would, in the end, be overpowered.

For the first three hours, the camels were kept going at the top of their speed; but as they neared Berber, there was a perceptible slackness. Ahmed Bey and Gregory rode backwards and forwards along the line, keeping them together, and encouraging them.

"We shall get in without fighting," the Bey said. "We should have heard before this, had they been there. Do you think that they would have remained so long in the town, if they had learned that there are but two hundred of us, and one steamer? Mahmud would never have forgiven them, had they not fallen upon us and annihilated us. I only hope that two hundred will have been left there. It will add to our glory, to have won a battle, as well as taken the town. Your children will talk of it in their tents. Your women will be proud of you, and the men of the black regiments will say that we have shown ourselves to be as brave as they are.

"We will halt for half an hour, rest the camels, and then push on at full speed again; but mind, you have my orders: if you should see the enemy coming in force, you are to ride at once to the river bank, dismount, and make the camels lie down in a semicircle; then we have but to keep calm, and shoot straight, and we need not fear the Dervishes, however many of them there may be."

After the halt they again pushed forward. Gregory saw, with pleasure, that the Arabs were now thoroughly wound up to fighting point. The same vigilant watch was kept up as before; but the air of gloom that had hung over them, when they first started, had now disappeared; each man was ready to fight to the last. As the town was seen, the tension was at its highest; but the pace quickened, rather than relaxed.

"Now is the moment!" the Bey shouted. "If they are there, they will come out to fight us. If, in five minutes, they do not appear; it will be because they have all gone."

But there were no signs of the enemy, no clouds of dust rising in the town, that would tell of a hasty gathering. At last, they entered a straggling street. The women looked timidly from the windows; and then, on seeing that their robes did not bear the black patches worn by the Dervishes, they broke into loud cries of welcome.

"Are the Dervishes all gone?" Ahmed Bey asked, reining in his camel.

"They are all gone. The last left four days ago."

The sheik waved his rifle over his head; and his followers burst into loud shouts of triumph, and pressed on, firing their muskets in the air. As they proceeded, the natives poured out from their houses in wild delight. The Arabs kept on, till they reached the house formerly occupied by the Egyptian governor.

"I should say that you had better take possession of this, Bey. There seems to be a large courtyard, where you can put your camels. It is not likely that the Dervishes will return, but it is as well to be prepared. The house is strong, and we could hold out here against a host, unless they were provided with cannon.

"I have money, and you had better buy up as much food as possible, so that we could stand a siege for some time. I shall give my horse a good feed and an hour's rest, and then send my man down to the General, telling him that the Dervishes have deserted the town, and that we have taken possession of the place, and can defend it for a long time should they return."

An hour later, Zaki started with Gregory's report. The inhabitants, finding that they would be paid, brought out their hidden stores; and by evening, enough was collected to last the garrison ten days.

Zaki returned at noon next day, with a letter from General Hunter to the sheik, praising him highly for the energy and courage of his men and himself. He also brought a note for Gregory, saying that he hoped to get the repairs finished the next day; and that he expected, by that time, the other two steamers would be up, when he should at once advance to Berber.

On the third day the smoke of the steamers was seen in the distance; and an hour later the gunboats arrived, and were greeted with cries of welcome by the natives, who thronged the bank. The three boats carried between three and four hundred men. These were disembarked on an island, opposite the town, and the gunboats moored alongside.

General Hunter at once landed, with those of his staff who had accompanied him. He shook hands, very cordially, with the sheik.

"You have done well, indeed!" he said. "It was a dangerous enterprise and, had I not known your courage, and that of your men, I should not have ventured to send you forward. You have fully justified my confidence in you.

"In the first place, I will go and see the house you have occupied. I shall leave you still in possession of it, but I do not intend that you should hold it. In case Mahmud comes down upon you, at once embark in boats, and cross to the islands. It will be some time before I can gather, here, a force strong enough to hold the town against attack. Indeed, it will probably be some weeks; for, until the railway is finished to Abu Hamed, I can only get up stores sufficient for the men here; certainly we have no transport that could keep up the supply for the whole force. However, all this will be settled by the Sirdar, who will very shortly be with us."

It was now the 6th of September and, the same afternoon, two gunboats were sent up to Ed Damer, an important position lying a mile or two beyond the junction of Atbara river with the Nile. On the opposite bank of the Nile, they found encamped the Dervishes who had retired from Berber. The guns opened fire upon them, and they retired inland; leaving behind them fourteen large boats, laden with grain. These were at once sent down to Berber, where they were most welcome; and a portion of the grain was distributed among the almost starving population, nearly five thousand in number, principally women and children.

Supplies soon began to arrive from below, being brought up in native craft, from Abu Hamed, as far as the cataract; then unloaded and carried up past the rapids on camels; then again placed in boats, and so brought to Berber. Macdonald's brigade started a fortnight after the occupation, their place at Abu Hamed having been taken by a brigade from Kassinger, each battalion having towed up boats carrying two months' supply of provisions.

A fort was now erected at the junction of the two rivers, and occupied by a small force, under an English officer. Two small steamers were employed in towing the native craft from Abu Hamed to Berber. Still, it was evident that it would be impossible to accumulate the necessary stores for the whole force that would take the field; accordingly, as soon as the railway reached Abu Hamed, the Sirdar ordered it to be carried on as far as Berber. He himself came up with Colonel Wingate, the head of the Intelligence Department; and, diligently as all had worked before, their exertions were now redoubled.

On the morning after the Sirdar's arrival, an orderly came across to General Hunter's quarters, with a request that Mr. Hilliard should at once be sent to headquarters. Gregory had to wait nearly half an hour, until the officers who had been there before him had had their audience, and received their orders. He was then shown in.

"You have done very valuable service, Mr. Hilliard," the Sirdar said. "Exceptionally valuable, and obtained at extraordinary risk. I certainly did not expect, when I saw you a few months ago in Cairo, that you would so speedily distinguish yourself. I was then struck with your manner, and thought that you would do well, and you have much more than fulfilled my expectations. I shall keep my eye upon you, and shall see that you have every opportunity of continuing as you have begun."

That evening, General Hunter suggested to Colonel Wingate that Gregory should be handed over to him.

"There will be nothing for him to do with me, at present," he said; "and I am sure that you will find him very useful. Putting aside the expedition he undertook to Metemmeh, he is a most zealous young officer. Although his wound was scarcely healed, he took charge of the baggage animals on the way up from Merawi to Abu Hamed, and came forward here with Ahmed Bey and his followers, and in both cases he was most useful. But at the present, I cannot find any employment for him."

"I will have a talk with him," Colonel Wingate said. "I think I can make good use of him. Captain Keppel asked me, this morning, if I could furnish him with a good interpreter. He is going up the river in a day or two, and as neither he nor the other naval officers know much Arabic, Mr. Hilliard would be of considerable service to them, in questioning any prisoners who may be captured as to hidden guns, or other matters. I should think, from what you tell me, Mr. Hilliard will be very suitable for the post."

"The very man for it. He is a very pleasant lad -- for he is not more than that -- quiet and gentlemanly, and yet full of life and go, and will be certain to get on well with a naval man."

On returning to his quarters, General Hunter sent for Gregory.

"You will please go to Colonel Wingate, Mr. Hilliard. I have been speaking to him about you; and, as it may be months before things are ready for the final advance, and I am sure you would prefer to be actively employed, I proposed to him that he should utilize your services; and it happens, fortunately, that he is able to do so. The gunboats will be running up and down the river, stirring up the Dervishes at Metemmeh and other places; and as neither Keppel, nor the commanders of the other two boats can speak Arabic with anything like fluency, it is important that he should have an interpreter.

"I think you will find the berth a pleasant one. Of course, I don't know what arrangements will be made, or whether you would permanently live on board one of the boats. If so, I think you would be envied by all of us, as you would get away from the dust, and all the discomforts of the encampment."

"Thank you very much, sir! It would indeed be pleasant, and I was beginning to feel that I was very useless here."

"You have not been useless at all, Mr. Hilliard. The Sirdar asked me about you, and I was able to give him a very favourable report of your readiness to be of service, for whatever work I have found for you to do. I have told him that I had great doubts whether Ahmed Bey would have pushed forward to this place, after he had lost the protection of the gunboats, if you had not been with him."

Gregory at once went to the quarters of Colonel Wingate, and sent in his name. In two or three minutes he was shown in. A naval officer was in the room with the colonel.

"You have come at the right time, Mr. Hilliard. I was just speaking of you to Captain Keppel. I suppose General Hunter has told you how I proposed utilizing your services?"

"Yes, sir, he was good enough to tell me."

"You speak both Arabic and the Negro dialect perfectly, I am told?"

"I speak them very fluently, almost as well as English."

"Just at present, you could not be of much use to me, Mr. Hilliard. Of course, I get all my intelligence from natives, and have no occasion to send white officers out as scouts. Otherwise, from the very favourable report that I have received from General Hunter, I should have been glad to have you with me; but I have no doubt that you would prefer to be in one of the gunboats. They are certain to have a more stirring time of it, for the next few weeks, than we shall have here."

"I should like it greatly, sir, if Captain Keppel thinks I shall do."

"I have no doubt about that," the officer said, with a smile. "I shall rate you as a first lieutenant and midshipman, all in one; and I may say that I shall be very glad to have a white officer with me. There are one or two spare cabins, aft, and you had better have your traps moved in, at once. I may be starting tomorrow."

"Shall I take my servant with me, sir?"

"Yes, you may take him if you like. I suppose you have a horse?"

"Yes, sir, a horse and a camel; but I shall have no difficulty in managing about them. Excuse my asking, sir, but I have a few stores. Shall I bring them on board?"

"No, there is no occasion for that. You will mess with me. Thank goodness, we left naval etiquette behind us when we came up the Nile, and it is not imperative that I should dine in solitary state. Besides, you have been on Hunter's staff, have you not?"

"Yes."

"I know his staff all mess together. I shall be very glad to have you with me. It is lonely work, always messing alone.

"My boat is the Zafir, you know. You had better come on board before eight o'clock, tomorrow morning. That is my breakfast hour."

Gregory needed but little time to make his arrangements. The transport department took over Zaki's horse and camel, and gave him a receipt for them; so that, when he returned, those or others could be handed over to him. One of the staff, who wanted a second horse, was glad to take charge of his mount. The tent, and the big case, and his other belongings were handed over to the stores.

Zaki was delighted, when he heard that he was going up in a gunboat that would probably shell Metemmeh, and knock some of the Dervish fortifications to pieces.

"What shall I have to do, master?" he asked.

"Not much, Zaki. You will brush my clothes, and make my bed, and do anything that I want done; but beyond that I cannot tell you. I am really taking you, not because I think you will be of much use, but because I like to have you with me. Besides, I sha'n't have much to do, and the English officer who commands will have plenty to look after, so that I shall be glad to talk, occasionally, with you.

"However, as I know the gunboats carry Maxim guns, and each have two sergeants of the marine artillery, I will hand you over to them, and ask them to put you in the Maxim crew. Then you will have the satisfaction of helping to fire at your old enemies."

Zaki's eyes glistened at the prospect.

"They killed my mother," he said, "and carried off my sisters, and burned our house. It will be good to fire at them. Much better this, bey, than to load stores at Merawi."

Gregory was much gratified, that evening after mess, at the kindly manner in which the members of the staff all shook hands with him, and said that they were sorry that he was going to leave them. General Hunter was dining with the Sirdar. The next morning, when Gregory went to say "Goodbye" to him, he said:

"I was telling Sir Herbert Kitchener, yesterday evening, that you were transferred to the naval branch. He said:

"'The gunboats will all take up troops, and there will be native officers on board. It is a rule in our army, you know, that all white officers have the honorary rank of major, so as to make them senior to all Egyptian officers. Will you tell Mr. Hilliard that I authorize him to call himself Bimbashi? There is no occasion to put it in orders. My authorization is sufficient. As long as he was on your staff it did not matter; but as, presently, he may be attached to an Egyptian regiment, it is as well that he should bear the usual rank, and it may save misunderstanding in communicating with the natives. He will be much more respected, as Bimbashi, than he would be as lieutenant, a title that they would not understand.'

"A good many lieutenants in the British Army are Bimbashis, here, so that there is nothing unusual in your holding that honorary rank."

"I would just as soon be lieutenant, sir, so far as I am concerned myself; but of course, I feel honoured at receiving the title. No doubt it would be much more pleasant, if I were attached to an Egyptian regiment. I do not know whether it is the proper thing to thank the Sirdar. If it is, I shall be greatly obliged if you will convey my thanks to him."

"I will tell him that you are greatly gratified, Hilliard. I have no doubt you owe it, not only to your ride to Metemmeh, but to my report that I did not think Ahmed Bey would have ventured to ride on into Berber, had you not been with him; and that you advised him as to the defensive position he took up here, and prepared for a stout defence, until the boats could come up to his assistance. He said as much to me."

At the hour named, Gregory went on board the Zafir; Zaki accompanying him, with his small portmanteau and blanket.

"I see you are punctual, Mr. Hilliard," the commander said, cheerily; "a great virtue everywhere, but especially on board ship, where everything goes by clockwork. Eight bells will sound in two minutes, and as they do so, my black fellow will come up and announce the meal. It is your breakfast, as much as mine; for I have shipped you on the books this morning, and of course you will be rationed. Happily, we are not confined to that fare. I knew what it was going to be, and laid in a good stock of stores. Fortunately, we have the advantage over the military, that we are not limited as to baggage."

The breakfast was an excellent one. After it was over, Commander Keppel asked Gregory how it was that he had -- while still so young -- obtained a commission, and expressed much interest when he had heard his story.

"Then you do not intend to remain in the Egyptian Army?" he said. "If you have not any fixed career before you, I should have thought that you could not do better. The Sirdar and General Hunter have both taken a great interest in you. It might be necessary, perhaps, for you to enter the British Army and serve for two or three years, so as to get a knowledge of drill and discipline; then, from your acquaintance with the languages here you could, of course, get transferred to the Egyptian Army, where you would rank as a major, at once."

"I have hardly thought of the future yet, sir; but of course, I shall have to do so, as soon as I am absolutely convinced of my father's death. Really, I have no hope now; but I promised my mother to do everything in my power to ascertain it, for a certainty. She placed a packet in my hands, which was not to be opened until I had so satisfied myself. I do not know what it contains, but I believe it relates to my father's family.

"I do not see that that can make any difference to me, for I certainly should not care to go home to see relations to whom my coming might be unwelcome. I should greatly prefer to stay out here, for a few years, until I had obtained such a position as would make me absolutely independent of them."

"I can quite understand that," Captain Keppel said. "Poor relations seldom get a warm welcome, and as you were born in Alexandria, they may be altogether unaware of your existence. You have certainly been extremely fortunate, so far; and if you preferred a civil appointment, you would be pretty certain of getting one when the war is over.

"There will be a big job in organizing this country, after the Dervishes are smashed up; and a biggish staff of officials will be wanted. No doubt most of these will be Egyptians, but Egyptian officials want looking after, so that a good many berths must be filled by Englishmen; and Englishmen with a knowledge of Arabic and the Negro dialect are not very easily found. I should say that there will be excellent openings, for young men of capacity."

"I have no doubt there will," Gregory said. "I have really never thought much about the future. My attention, from childhood, has been fixed upon this journey to the Soudan; and I never looked beyond it, nor did my mother discuss the future with me. Doubtless she would have done so, had she lived; and these papers I have may give me her advice and opinion about it."

"Well, I must be going on deck," Captain Keppel said. "We shall start in half an hour."

The three gunboats were all of the same design. They were flat bottomed, so as to draw as little water as possible; and had been built and sent out, in sections, from England. They were constructed entirely of steel, and had three decks, the lower one having loophole shutters for infantry fire. On the upper deck, which was extended over the whole length of the boat, was a conning tower. In the after portion of the boat, and beneath the upper deck, were cabins for officers. Each boat carried a twelve-pounder quick-firing gun forward, a howitzer, and four Maxims. The craft were a hundred and thirty-five feet long, with a beam of twenty-four feet, and drew only three feet and a half of water. They were propelled by a stern wheel.

At half-past nine the Zafir's whistle gave the signal, and she and her consorts -- the Nazie and Fatteh -- cast off their warps, and steamed out into the river. Each boat had on board two European engineers, fifty men of the 9th Soudanese, two sergeants of royal marine artillery, and a small native crew.

"I expect that we shall not make many more trips down to Berber," the Commander said, when they were once fairly off. "The camp at Atbara will be our headquarters, unless indeed Mahmud advances; in which case, of course, we shall be recalled. Until then we shall be patrolling the river up to Metemmeh; and making, I hope, an occasional rush as far as the next cataract."

When evening came on, the steamer tied up to an island, a few miles north of Shendy. So far they had seen no hostile parties -- indeed, the country was wholly deserted.

Next morning they started before daybreak. Shendy seemed to be in ruins. Two Arabs, only, were seen on the bank. A few shots were fired into the town, but there was no reply.

Half an hour later, Metemmeh was seen. It stood half a mile from the river. Along the bank were seven mud forts, with extremely thick and solid walls. Keeping near the opposite bank, the gunboats, led by the Zafir, made their way up the river. Dervish horsemen could be seen, riding from fort to fort, doubtless carrying orders.

The river was some four thousand yards wide and, at this distance, the gunboats opened fire at the two nearest forts. The range was soon obtained to a nicety, and the white sergeants and native gunners made splendid practice, every shell bursting upon the forts, while the Maxims speedily sent the Dervish horsemen galloping off to the distant hills, on which could be made out a large camp.

The Dervish gunners replied promptly, but the range was too great for their old brass guns. Most of the shot fell short, though a few, fired at a great elevation, fell beyond the boats. One shell, however, struck the Zafir, passing through the deck and killing a Soudanese; and a shrapnel shell burst over the Fatteh.

After an hour's fire, at this range, the gunboats moved up opposite the position; and again opened fire with shell and shrapnel, committing terrible havoc on the forts, whose fire presently slackened suddenly. This was explained by the fact that, as the gunboats passed up, they saw that the embrasures of the forts only commanded the approach from the north; and that, once past them, the enemy were unable to bring a gun to bear upon the boats. Doubtless the Dervishes had considered it was impossible for any steamer to pass up, under their fire; and that it was therefore unnecessary to widen the embrasures, so that the guns could fire upon them when facing the forts, or going beyond them.

Suddenly, as all on board were watching the effect of their fire, an outburst of musketry broke out from the bushes that lined the eastern bank, a hundred yards away. Fortunately, the greater part of the bullets flew overhead, but many rattled against the side. The Maxims were instantly turned upon the unseen enemy, the Soudanese fired volleys, and their rash assailants went at once into the thicker bush, many dropping before they gained it.

The gunboats now steamed slowly up the river; and then, turning, retired downstream again, shelling the enemy's position as they passed. As they were going down they came upon a number of Dervishes, who were busy unloading half a dozen native craft. The Maxim soon sent them flying; and the boats, which contained horses, donkeys, grain, and other goods, were taken in tow by the gunboats, which anchored at the same island as on the previous night.

"Well, Bimbashi," Captain Keppel said, when the work for the day was over, "so you have had your first brush with the enemy. What do you think of it?"

"I would rather that you did not call me Bimbashi, Captain Keppel. The title is ridiculous for me, and it was only given me that it might be useful when with Egyptian or Soudanese soldiers. I should feel really obliged, if you would simply call me Hilliard.

"I felt all right, sir, during the fight; except that I envied the gunners, who were doing something, while I had nothing to do but look on. It certainly made me jump, when that shell struck the boat, because I had quite made up my mind that their guns would not carry so far, and so it was a complete surprise to me."

"Yes, it was a very harmless affair. Still, it was good as a preparation for something more severe. You have got accustomed to the noise, now, and that is always as great a trial to the nerves as actual danger."

"I wish I could be doing something, sir. Everyone else had some duty, from yourself down to the black firemen -- even my servant made himself useful, in carrying up shot."

"I tell you what I will do, Mr. Hilliard. I will get those marine sergeants to instruct you in the working of the Maxim, and in the duties of the men attending on it. Then next time we come up, I will put you in command of one of them. Your duties will not be severe, as you would simply direct the men as to the object at which they are to aim, watch the effect and direction of the bullets, and see that they change their aim, as circumstances may direct. The black gunners are well trained, and know their work; still, if by any chance the gun jams, it will be useful for you to be able to show them what to do; even though they know it as well as, or better than, you do yourself. The blacks like being commanded by a white officer, and will feel pleased, rather than otherwise, at your being appointed to command their gun. Your lessons cannot begin for a day or two, for I have not done with Metemmeh, yet."

"I am very much obliged to you, indeed," Gregory said warmly. "I will take care not to interfere with the men's working of the gun."

"No, you will not have to do that; but a word or two of commendation, when they make good practice, pleases them immensely; and they will work all the better, and faster, for your standing by them."

At daybreak next morning the gunboats went up again, and engaged the forts, as before. The Dervishes had placed more guns in position, but again the shells fell short, while those of the boats played havoc with the enemy's defences. Some ten thousand of the Dervish horse and foot came down near the town, in readiness to repel any attempt at a landing.

After some hours' bombardment, the gunboats retired. As they steamed away, the Dervish host were shouting and waving their banners, evidently considering that they had won a great victory.

Having fulfilled their object, which was to retain Mahmud at Metemmeh by showing him that, if he advanced against Merawi and Dongola, we had it in our power to occupy the town; and so cut off his retreat, and prevent reinforcements or stores from reaching him from Omdurman, the gunboats returned to Berber.

So far, Gregory had had no duties to perform in his capacity of interpreter, for no prisoners had been taken. On the way down the river, one of the artillery sergeants explained the working of the Maxim to him, taking the weapon to pieces, and explaining to him how each part acted, and then showing him how to put it together again. The sergeant having done this several times, Gregory was then told to perform the operation himself, and the lessons continued after their arrival at Berber.

In the course of a week he was able to do this smartly; and had learned, in case of a breakdown, which parts of the mechanism would most probably have given way, and how to replace broken parts by spare ones, carried up for the purpose.

There was no long rest at Berber, and on the 1st of November the gunboats again went up the river, reinforced by the Metemmeh, which had now arrived. Each boat, as before, carried fifty soldiers; and Major Stuart-Wortley went up, as staff officer. The evening before starting, they received the welcome news that the railway line had, that day, reached Abu Hamed.

This time there was but a short pause made opposite Metemmeh, and after shelling the forts, which had been added to since the last visit, they proceeded up the river. Shortly after passing the town, a large Dervish camp was seen in a valley, and this, they afterwards found, was occupied by the force that had returned from Berber. A heavy fire of shell and shrapnel was opened upon it, and it was speedily destroyed.

The gunboats then went up as high as the sixth cataract. The country was found to be absolutely deserted, neither a peasant nor a Dervish being visible. Having thus accomplished the object of their reconnaissance, the flotilla returned, exchanged fire with the Metemmeh batteries, and then kept on their way down to Berber.



Chapter 11: A Prisoner.


Rather than remain unoccupied on board the gunboat, Gregory went to Colonel Wingate's headquarters and said that he should be very glad if he would allow him, while the flotilla remained at Berber, to assist in interrogating the fugitives who arrived from the south, and the spies employed to gain early information of the intentions and movements of the enemy. The position of the Dervishes at Metemmeh was becoming critical. The Khalifa was desirous that Mahmud should return with his force to Omdurman, there to take part in the battle in which, as he was convinced, the invaders would be annihilated. Mahmud, who was of an eager and impetuous disposition, was anxious to take the offensive at once, and either to march upon Merawi and Dongola, or to drive the British out of Berber.

There could be no doubt that his view was a more sagacious one than that of his father; and that the best tactics to be adopted were to harass the British advance, fall upon their convoys, cut their communications, and so oblige them to fall back for want of supplies. The Khalifa's mistake was similar to that made by Theodore in Abyssinia, and Koffee Kalkalli in Ashanti. Had either of these leaders adopted the system of harassing the invaders, from the moment they left the coast, it would have been next to impossible for the latter to arrive at their destination. But each allowed them to march on, unmolested, until within striking distance; then hazarded everything on the fortune of a single battle, and lost.

Mahmud made no movement in obedience to the Khalifa's orders to retire to Omdurman, and the latter thereupon refused to send any further supplies to him, and Mahmud's army was therefore obliged to rely upon raids and plunder for subsistence. These raids were carried out with great boldness, and villages situated within a few miles of Berber were attacked. The Dervishes, however, met with a much warmer reception than they had expected, for rifles and ammunition had been served out freely to the villagers; and these, knowing the fate that awaited them were the Dervishes victorious, offered so obstinate a resistance that the latter fell back, discomfited.

Early in January, the Sirdar learned that the Khalifa had changed his mind, and had sent peremptory orders to Mahmud to advance and drive the British out of Berber, and destroy the railway. Mahmud had now been joined by Osman Digna, with five thousand men; and as the Egyptian troops, well as they had fought, had never yet been opposed to so formidable a force as that which Mahmud commanded, the Sirdar telegraphed to England for white troops.

His request was at once complied with. The Warwickshires, Lincolnshires, and Cameron Highlanders were ordered to proceed from Cairo and Alexandria to the front; and the Seaforth Highlanders at Malta, and the Northumberland Fusiliers at Gibraltar were also despatched, without delay. Major General Gatacre was appointed to the command of the brigade.

At the end of the third week in January, the three regiments from Lower Egypt had arrived at Wady Halfa, and the Seaforths at Assouan. At the beginning of February the British brigade was carried, by railway, to Abu Dis. Here they remained until the 26th, when they marched to Berber, and then to a camp ten miles north of the Atbara, where they arrived on the 4th of March, having covered a hundred and forty-four miles in six days and a half, a great feat in such a climate.

Mahmud had made no movement until the 10th of February, when he began to cross the Nile to Shendy. This movement had not been expected by the Sirdar, and was hailed by him with satisfaction. Had Mahmud remained at Metemmeh he could, aided by the forts, his artillery, and the walled town, have offered a very formidable resistance. Had he marched along the banks of the Nile, he would have been exposed to the fire of the gunboats, but these could not have arrested his course. The country round Berber was favourable to the action of his cavalry, and if defeated he could have fallen back, unmolested, through Metemmeh on Omdurman; but by crossing the river he practically cut himself off from the Dervish base, and now had only a desert behind him; for we had taken over Kassala from the Italians, and the Egyptian battalion there, and a large force of friendly Arabs, would prevent him from retiring up the banks of the Atbara.

Mahmud's plan was to march along the Nile to Ahab, then to cross the desert to Hudi, at an angle of the river; whence a direct march, of twenty-five miles, would take him to Berber, and in this way he would avoid our strong position at the junction of the Atbara and the Nile. It would have been easy for the gunboats to prevent Mahmud from crossing the Nile, but the Sirdar was glad to allow him to do so. The movement afforded him time to concentrate his force, and to get up large supplies. For, each day, the distance that these could be transported by the railway had increased; and he saw that, when the time for fighting came, the victory would be a decisive one; and that few, indeed, of Mahmud's men would ever be able to make their way to Omdurman, and swell the Khalifa's force there.

On one occasion, however, the gunboats went up to watch what was going on, and take advantage of any opportunity that might offer to destroy some of Mahmud's boats, and thus render the work of his getting his force over slower and more difficult. An entrenchment had been thrown up at the point where the Dervishes crossed, and this had been manned by two hundred and fifty riflemen. The Zafir steamed up close to the bank and opened fire with her Maxims. Another gunboat sank one large craft and captured two others, and the troops landed and, covered by the fire of the guns, captured a fourth which had grounded in shallow water.

A smaller boat was halfway across the river when the gunboats arrived. It was seen that there were several women on board, and as the capture would have been of no value, no regard was paid to it. As it would have been as dangerous to return as to keep on, the boatmen plied their hardest to get across, but the stream carried them down near the Zafir. The boat was quite unnoticed, all eyes being intent upon the shore. She was passing about thirty yards astern of the gunboat, when a badly aimed shell from a Dervish battery struck her, and she sank almost instantly.

Gregory, who was superintending the working of the Maxim nearest the stern, looked round at the sound of the explosion. Several of the occupants had evidently been killed, but two or three of the boatmen started to swim to shore. Only two of the women came to the surface, struggling wildly and screaming for help. With scarcely a thought of what he was doing, Gregory unclasped his sword belt, dropped his pistol, and sprang overboard.

One of the women had sunk before he reached them, the other was on the point of doing so, when he caught her by the arm. She at once clung to him, and he had hard work to disengage her arm from his neck; then, after turning her so that her face was above water, he looked round. The gunboat was already a hundred yards away. Her wheel was revolving, so as to keep her in her place facing the redoubt, and the stream was driving him fast away from her.

Within ten yards of him was a black head, and a moment later Zaki was beside him. He had been working at Gregory's Maxim, and had suddenly missed his master. Looking round, he had seen him struggling with the woman in the stream, and without hesitation had leapt overboard.

"I am sorry you came," Gregory said, "for it is only throwing away your life. It is of no use shouting, for they could not hear us in that din; and if they happened to catch sight of us, would take us for two of the black boatmen. I see the stream is taking us nearer to the bank."

Zaki had taken hold of the woman while he was speaking.

"We might swim a long way down, master, if we let go of her."

"I won't do that, Zaki. I know now that I was a fool to jump overboard; but now that I have done so, I will save her life. Besides, I could not swim very far even without her. I am feeling the weight of my boots and clothes.

"Will you swim with us till I can touch the ground, and then leave us? Strike right into the river again -- I know that you are a good swimmer -- and drop down the stream until you reach one of the islands, and then you can land and hail the gunboats as they come down. Tell Captain Keppel why I jumped over."

"I am not going to leave you, master. No doubt the Dervishes will shoot me, but my life is of no consequence, and I shall be glad to die by the side of so good a master."

The woman, who had ceased to struggle when Gregory shook off her grasp, was now conscious; as, with one of them supporting her on each side, her head was above water.

"They will not kill you," she said. "You have saved me, and they will be grateful."

Gregory had no faith whatever in Dervish gratitude.

"Well, Zaki," he said, "if you will not leave us, we will strike at once for the shore. The gunboats are nearly half a mile away now. There is just a chance that we may not have been noticed by the Dervishes, and may be able to hide in the bushes till the gunboats return. When they see me, they will at once send a boat ashore, under cover of their fire, and take us off."

"There is a good chance of that, master," Zaki said cheerfully, "and the Dervishes are busy up there fighting, and will not think much of a little boat."

Three or four minutes later they were in shallow water. As soon as they landed, Gregory threw himself down, utterly exhausted; and the woman sank down beside him, but not before hastily rearranging her veil. In a couple of minutes, Gregory roused himself.

"I can climb the bank, now," he said, "and the sooner we are hidden among the bushes, the better."

But as he spoke he heard the sound of galloping horsemen, and almost immediately an Emir, on a magnificent animal, followed by a dozen Dervishes, dashed up.

"Mahmud!" the woman cried, as she rose to her feet; "it is I, Fatma!"

Mahmud gave a cry of joy, and waved his hand to his followers, who had already pointed their rifles at Gregory.

"These have saved me, my lord," the woman went on. "They jumped from their boat, and reached me just as I was sinking, and have borne me up. For my sake you must spare their lives."

Mahmud frowned. He dismounted and went up to his wife.

"Have I not sworn, Fatma," he said, "that I would slay every unbeliever who falls into my hands? How, then, can I spare even one who has saved your life?"

"Others have been spared who have been of service, my lord," she said. "There are Greeks and Egyptians who work your guns, and they were spared because they were useful. There is Neufeld, who lives under the protection of the Khalifa. Surely these men have done far more to deserve, not only life, but honour at your hands. They risked their lives to save mine. What follower of the Prophet could do more? They could not have known who I was, a woman they saw drowning. Are there any among the bravest of the tribes who would have done the same?"

"I have sworn an oath," Mahmud said, gloomily.

"But you have not sworn to slay instantly. You can keep them, at least, until you can take them before the Khalifa, and say to him:

"'Father, I have sworn to kill unbelievers, but these men have saved Fatma's life; and I pray you to absolve me from the oath, or order them to be taken from me, and then do you yourself pardon them and set them free for the service that they have rendered me.'

"If he refuses, if these men are killed, I also swear that, as my life is due to them, I myself will perish by my own hands, if they die for saving it!"

"It needs not that, Fatma. You think that I am ungrateful, that I do not feel that these men have acted nobly, thus to risk their lives to save a strange woman whose face they have never seen. It is my oath that lies heavily upon me. I have never been false to an oath."

"Nor need you be now," Fatma said earnestly. "You swore to slay any unbeliever that fell into your hands. This man has not fallen into your hands. I have a previous claim to him. He is under my protection. I cover him with my robe" -- and she swept a portion of her garment round Gregory -- "and as long as he is under it he is, according to tribal laws, safe even from the vengeance of my husband!

"As to the other, he is not an unbeliever. Your oath concerns him not. Him you can honour and reward, according to the value you place upon my life."

The Arab's face cleared.

"Truly you have discovered a way out of it, Fatma, at any rate for the present."

He turned to Gregory for the first time.

"Do you speak our tongue?" he asked.

"Yes, Emir, as well as my own."

"Then you understand what we have said. Had I not been bound by my oath, I would have embraced you as a brother. We Arabs can appreciate a brave deed, even when it is done by an enemy. When one of the boatmen ran into the battery where I was directing the guns against your boat, and said that the boat in which my wife, with other women, were crossing had been sunk, by a shell from our batteries on the other side, I felt that my blood was turned to water. He said he believed that all had been killed or drowned, but that he looked back as he swam, and saw a white man jump overboard, and a short time after another followed him; and that, when he reached the shore, they were supporting a woman in the water.

"I rode hither, having but small hope indeed that it was my wife, but marvelling much that a white officer should thus risk his life to save a drowning woman. My oath pressed heavily upon me, as I rode. Even had it been but a slave girl whom you rescued, I should no less have admired your courage. I myself am said to be brave, but it would never have entered my mind thus to risk my life for a stranger. When I found that it was my wife who was saved, I still more bitterly regretted the oath that stood between me and her preserver, and truly glad am I that she has herself shown me how I can escape from its consequences.

"Now I see you, I wonder even more than before at what you have done; for indeed, in years, you are little more than a boy."

"What I did, Emir, I believe any white officer who was a good swimmer would have done. No Englishman would see a woman drowning without making an effort to save her, if he had it in his power. As to the fact that she was not of the same race or religion, he would never give it a thought. It would be quite enough for him that she was a woman."

"And you," Mahmud said, turning to Zaki, "you are a Jaalin, are you not?"

"I am."

"Jaalin or Baggara, you are my friend," Mahmud said, placing his hand on Zaki's shoulders. "And so you, too, leapt overboard to save a woman?"

"No, Emir," he replied, "I jumped over because my master jumped over. I had not thought about the woman. I jumped over to aid him, and it was to give him my help that I took my share in supporting the woman. The Bimbashi is a good master, and I would die for him."

Mahmud smiled at this frank answer.

"Nevertheless, whatever may have been your motive, you were enabled to save the life of my wife, and henceforth you are my friend."

Then he turned to the horsemen, who were still grouped on the bank above.

"You have heard what has been said? The white man is under the protection of my harem; the Jaalin is henceforth my friend."

Mahmud was a fine specimen of the tribesmen of the Soudan -- tall, well built, and with pure Arab features. He was the Khalifa's favourite son; and was generous, with kindly impulses, but impatient of control. Of late, he had given way to outbursts of passion, feeling acutely the position in which he was placed. He had advanced from Omdurman confident that he should be able to drive the infidels before him, and carry his arms far into Egypt. His aspirations had been thwarted by the Khalifa. His requests for stores and camels that would have enabled him to advance had been refused, and he had been ordered to fall back. His troops had been rendered almost mutinous, from the want of supplies.

He had seen the invaders growing stronger and stronger, and accomplishing what had seemed an impossibility -- the bringing up of stores sufficient for their sustenance -- by pushing the railroad forward towards Berber. Now that their forces had been very greatly increased, and the issue of the struggle had become doubtful, he had received the order for which he had been craving for months; and had been directed to march down and attack the Egyptian army, drive them across the Nile, and destroy the railway.

By means of spies he had heard that, ere long, a large force of British soldiers would come up to reinforce the Egyptians; so that what might have been easy work, two months before, had now become a difficult and dangerous enterprise. The manner in which the Dervishes had been defeated in their attacks upon Wolseley's desert column, and in the engagements that had since taken place, showed how formidable was the fighting power, not only of the British troops, but of the native army they had organized; and his confidence in the power of the tribesmen to sweep all before them had been shaken.

The Dervishes scowled, when they heard that they were not to have the satisfaction of massacring this Englishman, whose countrymen were still keeping up a terrible fire on their redoubt. It was not one of their wives who had been rescued, and Gregory's act of jumping overboard seemed to them to savour of madness; and if that plea had been advanced, they would have recognized it as rendering the person of the man who had performed it inviolable. However, as he was under the protection of their leader's harem, there was nothing more to be said; and at an order from Mahmud all but four of them rode off, while the others fell in behind him.

Mahmud did not mount again, but walked with his wife to a deserted mud hut, two hundred yards away. There he left her, telling Gregory and Zaki to sit down outside, and placing the four men on guard.

"I must rejoin my men," he said, as he mounted. "When your vessels have gone, I will return."

Half an hour later, the fire ceased. Soon afterwards Mahmud rode up with a score of men, followed by some dozen women, and a slave leading a donkey. On this Fatma took her seat, and the women surrounded her. Gregory and Zaki walked close behind them. Mahmud, with his horsemen, rode in front.

After proceeding for a mile, they came upon a group of tents. Mahmud's banner was flying on a pole in front of the largest of these. Behind, and touching it, was another almost as large. This was the abode of the ladies of Mahmud's harem. The other tents were occupied by his principal Emirs. A hundred yards away was the encampment of the army, which was sheltered in hastily constructed huts, or arbours, made of bushes.

By Mahmud's order, a small tent was erected, with blankets, close to the after entrance into the harem tent, for Gregory's use; so that, should he be attacked by fanatics, he could at once take refuge in the harem, whose sanctity not even the most daring would dare to violate.

A handsome robe was brought for Zaki; and as Mahmud presented it to him, he said:

"You are my friend, but you must now go back to your vessels, or to Berber. My orders were to kill all the Jaalin, and we have spared none who fell into our hands, at Metemmeh or since. I cannot keep you here. As long as you stay by my side, you will be safe; but you could not leave me for a moment. It is as much as I can do to save the life of this infidel officer, and it is to him that I owe most, for it was he who first leapt into the river.

"The white men's boats have already fastened up, behind the island where they before stationed themselves. Make your way down there, at daybreak, and wave a white cloth. Doubtless they will send a boat ashore, thinking that you bear a message from me; or if you see they do not do this, you can swim out to them."

"I would rather stay with my master. Cannot you let him go, too?"

"That is impossible," Mahmud said shortly. "It is known throughout the camp that I have a white man here. The news will travel fast to the Khalifa. My actions have already been misrepresented to him, and were I to let this officer go, my father might recall me to Omdurman and send another to command here.

"He must stay, but you may go without harm. You can scarcely have been noticed yet, and I can well declare, should the Khalifa hear of you, that you have escaped."

"May I speak with my master?" Zaki said. "If he says stay, I shall stay, though it might cost me my life. If he says go, I must go."

"You may speak to him," Mahmud said.

Zaki went round to Gregory's tent, and told him what Mahmud had said.

"Go, certainly, Zaki. You can do me no good by remaining here, and might even do me harm; for if you were killed I also might be murdered. Moreover, I wish to send the news of my capture, and how it occurred. I do not think any, save yourself, noticed that I was missing; and when the fight was over, and they found that I was absent, they might suppose that I had been shot and had fallen overboard.

"I will write a note for you to carry. It is, in all respects, better that you should go. Were we to be seen talking together, it might be supposed that we were planning some way of escape, and I should be more closely watched. As it is, I see that Mahmud will have difficulty in protecting me. Were you to ride about with him, as he says, your presence would remind his followers that he has a white man a captive here; whereas, if I remain almost in concealment near the harem, the fact that there is a white man here will pass out of the minds of those who know it, and will not become the common talk of the camp.

"Mahmud is running some risk in having spared my life, and I do not wish to make it harder for him. Go, therefore, and tell him that you will leave tonight. I cannot write now; my pocketbook is soaked through. But I will tear out some leaves and dry them in the sun; and write what I have to say, before you start. I shall speak highly of you in my letter, and recommend you to Colonel Wingate; who will, I have no doubt, give you employment.

"I hope I shall see you again, before long. I am very sorry that we must part, but it is best for us both."

Very reluctantly, Zaki returned to Mahmud.

"My master says I must go, Emir; and I must obey his orders, though I would rather stay with him. Tonight, I will leave."

"It is well. I would that I could let him go, also, but my oath prevents me from giving him his freedom. I trust, however, that when the Khalifa hears of his noble action, and how he has made me his debtor, he will say that Allah himself would not blame me for that. Gratitude is even more binding than an oath.

"Still, until I hear from him, I can do nothing. We have not seen matters in the same light, for some time. When I wanted to strike, he was unwilling that I should do so. Now, when it seems to me that the time for that has passed, and that I had best retire on Omdurman, he says go forward and fight. It is not for me to question his commands, or his wisdom. But I may not give him cause for anger.

"My advice to you is, when you get to Berber, do not stay there. We shall assuredly be there before long, and as none would know that you were under my protection, you would be slain. Go straight to Abu Hamed; and when you hear that we have defeated the infidels, and have entered Berber, leave by this road they have made, upon which, as they tell me, carriages run without horses, and stay not until you reach Cairo.

"There you can live quietly, until you hear that the Khalifa's army is approaching. After that, fly. I cannot say whither, but seek a shelter until the black flag waves over the whole of the land. When there is no more fighting, then come to me and I will give you a post of honour."

"I will do so, Emir. When the time comes, I will remind you of your promise."

"I have neither silver nor gold with which I can reward you, now; but we shall gather these things in Egypt, and I will make you wealthy."

Zaki thought that it would be unwise to wander from Mahmud's encampment, and he accordingly sat down by his tent. Presently, one of the slaves came out, with a large dish of food that Mahmud had sent him. As evening approached, he went round to Gregory's little tent, with the intention of trying to persuade him to attempt to escape with him; but two of the tribesmen, with rifles in their hands, were stationed there. They offered no opposition to his entry, but their presence showed that Mahmud was determined that his master should appear to be a close prisoner; as, indeed, his escape might well jeopardize the Emir's position, even among his followers.

Gregory had a letter ready for him to carry to Captain Keppel. It ran as follows:

"Dear Captain Keppel,

"I am a prisoner in Mahmud's hands. This is the result of my own impetuosity -- I will not say folly, for I cannot regret that I yielded to the sudden impulse that seized me. A boat containing some women was sunk by a shell, when but a few yards astern of the gunboat. Most of its occupants were killed, but I saw a woman struggling in the water and, without thinking of the consequences, jumped overboard to save her, my servant following me. When we reached her, we found that the current was too strong to regain the gunboat, and so landed about half a mile down, hoping to find shelter in the bushes until the boat came down the stream. What I did, however, had been observed by the Dervishes; and as soon as I landed a party rode up, headed by Mahmud himself, who was aware that his favourite wife was in the boat that had sunk.

"Most fortunately, it turned out that she was the woman I had saved. Upon her appeal Mahmud spared our lives. He has released my man, who will carry this to you; but, having sworn that he would spare no white man, he retains me in his hands as a prisoner, until he can lay the facts before the Khalifa and obtain his permission to let me go. I trust that all will be well, and that some day I may rejoin the army. However, there is no saying how matters may turn out.

"I am happy in knowing that there is no one who, if the worst comes to the worst, will grieve over my loss. I recommend my faithful servant to you. I should wish the balance of pay coming to me to be handed to him, as well as my camel and horse, and all other belongings. By the sale of these he would be able, at the end of the war, to buy a piece of land and settle down among his own people.

"Will you kindly report my capture to Colonel Wingate or General Hunter? Thanking you for your kindness to me, I remain,

"Yours faithfully,

"Gregory Hilliard.

"P. S. In my cabin is a tin box containing documents of importance to me. I shall be greatly obliged if you will take charge of these, until -- as I hope will be the case -- I rejoin you."

He handed the paper to Zaki, who took his hand and raised it to his forehead, with tears in his eyes.

"I go because you order me, master," he said, in a broken voice; "but I would a thousand times rather remain, and share your fate, whatever it might be."

Then he turned, and abruptly left the tent.

Twice that day, Gregory had received food from a female slave of the harem. Although he knew that he should miss Zaki greatly, he was very glad that he had been sent away; for he felt that, although for the time he had been reprieved, his position was very precarious, and that his servant's would have been still more so. A white prisoner was a personage of some consequence, but the death of a Jaalin was a matter that would disturb no one. Thousands of them had been massacred; and one, more or less, could not matter at all. But, however much the Dervishes might hate a white infidel, it would be a serious matter for even the most powerful Emir to harm a prisoner under the protection of the harem of the Khalifa's son.

Mahmud had been very popular among them, but his position had been gravely shaken by the events of the last six months. Having unlimited confidence in themselves; the Baggara had seen, with increasing fury, the unopposed advance of the Egyptians. They could not understand why they should not have been allowed, after the capture of Metemmeh, to march across the desert to Merawi, and annihilate the infidels assembled there. It was true that these had repulsed the force defending Dongola, but this was a comparatively small body; and it was the gunboats, and not the Egyptian troops, who had forced them to evacuate the town.

The fall of Abu Hamed had added to their discontent, and they were eager to march with all speed to Berber, to join the five thousand men comprising its garrison, and to drive the invaders back across the Nile.

But they had been kept inactive, by the orders of the Khalifa and by the want of stores. They had, for months, been suffering great privations; and while remaining in enforced inactivity, they had known that their enemy's strength was daily increasing; and that what could have been accomplished with the greatest of ease, in August, had now become a very serious business.

Mahmud had chafed at the situation in which he found himself placed, by his father's refusal to support him or to allow him to take any action. This had soured his temper, and he had taken to drinking heavily. He had become more harsh with his men, more severe in the punishment inflicted for any trifling disobedience of orders. Although no thought that the rule of the Khalifa could be seriously threatened entered their minds, fanatical as they were, they could not but feel some uneasiness at the prospect.

A great army was gathering at Berber. Kassala was in the hands of the British, and the forces that had been beleaguering it had been defeated, with heavy loss. Abyssinia had leagued itself against them. The insurrection of the Jaalin had been crushed, but there were signs of unrest in Kordofan, and other parts.

Of course, all this would be put right. An army of sixty thousand men was at Omdurman; and this, with Mahmud's command, would suffice to sweep away all their enemies. Their enthusiasm would never have wavered, had they been called upon for action; but these months of weary waiting, and of semi-starvation, without the acquisition of any booty or plunder -- for little, indeed, had been obtained at the capture of Metemmeh -- sapped their energy; and the force that crossed the Nile for an advance upon Berber was far less formidable than it would have been, had it been led forward against Merawi and Dongola directly after the capture of Metemmeh. Still, it needed only the prospect of a battle to restore its spirits.

A fortnight after Gregory's capture, the Dervish army was set in motion. A few thousand men had already been sent forward, along the banks of the river, to check any advance that might be made from Fort Atbara. Had it not been for this, Gregory might have attempted to escape. It would not have been very difficult for him to creep out at the back of his little tent, unperceived by his guards; but the dangers to be encountered in making his way to the British fort would have been immense.

It would have been necessary for him to keep by the river, for from this source alone could water be obtained. The country had been stripped of its crops, of all kinds, by the Dervishes; the villages had been razed to the ground; and the last head of maize, and other grain, gleaned by the starving people who had taken refuge in the bush and jungle.

Therefore, although by keeping near the river he could quench his thirst at will, he would assuredly have to face starvation. Moreover, he would have no chance of searching for any ears of corn which might have escaped the eyes of the searchers, for he must travel only by night and lie up by day, to avoid capture by one or other of the bands that had gone on; in which case he would at once be killed, being beyond the influence of Mahmud, and the protection of the harem.

On the other hand, he had nothing to complain of, except the monotony and uncertainty of his position. Fatma kept him well supplied with food; and, from the gossip of the slaves who brought this to him, he learnt how matters were progressing. He was longing for the Dervish army to make a move, for he felt that when they neared the British position, the greater would be the chance of escape; and none among the followers of Mahmud rejoiced more than he did, when he knew that the long-expected advance was about to take place.

Once in motion, the spirits of the Dervishes revived. At last they were going to meet these insolent invaders, and none doubted that they would easily defeat them. The greater portion of the harem and attendants were left behind, at Shendy, for but few camels were available. Fatma and another of Mahmud's wives rode on one. A tent was carried by another. Half a dozen slaves followed, and Gregory walked with these.

He could not help admiring the attitude of the tribesmen -- tall, powerful men, inured to hardship, and walking or riding with an air of fierce independence, which showed their pride in themselves, and their confidence in their prowess.

The party always started early in the morning, so as to get the tents erected at the halting place before the main body of the Dervishes came up. On the march, they kept some distance from the river and, being but a small group, the gunboats did not waste their shot upon them; but each day there was a sharp exchange of fire between them and Mahmud's force.

Gregory supposed that Mahmud's plan was to cross the Atbara, which was fordable at several points, and to attack the fort there; in which case, he had no doubt the Arabs would be driven off, with much loss. The Sirdar was of the same opinion, and in order to tempt them to do so, he maintained only one Egyptian brigade in the fort, the remainder of the force being concentrated at Kennur, four miles away. From this point they would be able to advance and take the Dervishes in flank, while they were engaged in the attack of the fort.

Mahmud, however, was kept well informed of the movements of the troops, and instead of continuing his course down the river bank when he reached Gabati, he struck across the desert; and, after two days' march, crossed the Atbara at Nakheila. From this point, owing to the bend in the river, he would be able to march direct to Berber, avoiding the Atbara fort and the force gathered round it.

Altogether the desert march, although only lasting two days, was a trying one. The heat was overpowering, and even the ladies of the harem had the scantiest supply of water. They had, at starting, given Gregory a gourd of water for his own use. This he had taken sparingly, and it lasted him until they reached the Atbara.

It was now dead low water, and the river offered no obstacle to crossing, as the bed was for the most part dry, with pools here and there. The Arab encampment was formed in a thick grove of trees, which afforded some shelter from the sun.

Day after day passed. Mahmud was now informed as to the strength of the force he should have to encounter, and for the first time felt some doubt as to the issue of the fight. He determined, therefore, to stand on the defensive. This decision, however, he kept to himself. The Dervishes were burning to be led to the assault, and became almost mutinous, on account of the delay. Mahmud was obliged to take the strongest measures, and several of those who were loudest in their dissatisfaction were summarily executed. The rest were pacified with the assurance that he was only waiting for a fortunate day.

In the meantime, the men were employed in fortifying the position. Deep holes were dug along the edge of the wood, and behind these were trenches and pitfalls. Mahmud's own temper grew daily more sullen and fierce. His own fighting instinct was in favour of the attack his followers longed to deliver, but in his heart he was afraid that the result might be fatal. It was not the rifles of the infantry that he feared -- of these he had no experience -- but the artillery, which he had learned, already, could be used with terrible effect.

As Mahmud was drinking heavily, and as the fact that the white soldiers were near at hand added to the fanatical hatred of the emirs and tribesmen, Fatma sent a message by a slave to Gregory, warning him not to show himself outside the little shelter tent, composed of a single blanket, in which he now lived.

At length it became known that the English host was approaching. As soon as the gunboats brought down news that the Dervishes were no longer following the river bank, but were disappearing into the desert, the Sirdar guessed their intentions. Nothing could have suited him better. A battle now must be a decisive one. There was no way of retreat open to the Dervishes, except to cross the waterless desert; or to fly south, keeping to the course of the Atbara, which would take them farther and farther from the Nile with every mile they marched.

Bringing up all his force, therefore, from Kennur and the Atbara fort, which one battalion was left to guard, the Sirdar took up his post at Hudi. The position was well chosen. It lay halfway between Mahmud's camp at Nakheila and the Atbara fort, and left Mahmud only the option of attacking him; or of making a long detour, through the desert to the east, in order to reach Berber. The British, on the other hand, could receive their supplies by camels from the Atbara fort.

The cavalry went out to reconnoitre, and had constant skirmishes with the enemy's horse; but when day after day passed, and Mahmud did not come, as the Sirdar had expected, to attack him, it was determined to take the offensive. General Hunter was ordered to move forward, with the whole of the cavalry and a Maxim-gun battery, to discover the exact position of the enemy.

The camp had been well chosen; for, like Abu Hamed, it lay in a depression, and could not be seen until an enemy came within six hundred yards of it. Thus the superiority of range of the British rifles was neutralized, and their guns could not be brought into play until within reach of the Dervish muskets. The wood was surrounded by a high zareba, behind which a crowd of Dervishes were assembled. They had anticipated an attack, and held their fire until the cavalry should come nearer. This, however, General Hunter had no intention of doing, and he retired with the information he had gained. His account of the strength of the position showed the difficulty of taking it by assault.

Next day he again went out with the same force, but this time the Dervishes were prepared. Their mounted men dashed out from the wood, and galloped round to cut off the cavalry; while the footmen crowded out to attack them in front. The cavalry fell back in perfect order, and one squadron charged forty of the Dervish cavalry, who barred the line of retreat. These they drove off, but the main body still pressed forward, and the Maxims opened upon them. The hail of bullets was too much for the horsemen, and they drew off. Several times they gathered again for a charge, but on each occasion the Maxims dispersed them. The unmounted Dervishes were soon left behind, but the horsemen, in spite of the lesson they had received, followed almost to the camp.

On the afternoon of the 7th of April, the Anglo-Egyptian force marched out. They started at five in the afternoon, and halted at seven. The horses were first taken down to water, the infantry by half battalions; all then lay down to sleep. At one o'clock the word to advance was passed round quietly. The moon was full and high overhead, so there was no difficulty in avoiding obstacles. Each brigade marched in square, accompanied by the guns and the Maxims, and the camels with provisions and spare ammunition.

At four o'clock they halted again. They had been well guided, and were now but a short distance from the enemy's position. At sunrise the men were again on their feet, and advanced to within two hundred yards of the position from which they were to deliver their attack. The British brigade -- the Camerons, Warwicks, Seaforths, and Lincolns -- were on the left. Next to them came Macdonald's brigade -- the three Soudanese regiments in front, the 2nd Egyptian in support. Farther still to the right, and touching the river, was Maxwell's brigade, comprising also three Soudanese regiments and an Egyptian one. Two of the three Egyptian battalions of Lewis's brigade were placed on the left rear of the British brigade, the third battalion was in square round the camels. Two field batteries were in front of the infantry, and two to the right of Maxwell's brigade.

Half a mile from the zareba the infantry halted, and the artillery and Maxims opened fire. For an hour a tremendous fire was poured into the enemy's position, but not a shot was fired in reply, although the Dervishes could be seen moving among the trees, apparently unconcerned at the storm of shell and bullets.

Gregory's position had been growing more critical every day. Food was extremely short; the scanty supplies that the force had brought with them had been long since exhausted, and they were now subsisting upon palm nuts. Of these, two were served out daily to each man, a quantity barely sufficient to keep life together. In spite of the vigilant watch kept by the more fanatical of Mahmud's followers, desertions had become frequent, notwithstanding the certain death that awaited those who were overtaken.

The evening after the cavalry made their first reconnaissance, the slave who brought Gregory's food told him that Fatma wished to speak to him. It was but three paces to the entrance of the tent, and his guards made no objection. The entrance was closed as the slave entered, but half a minute later it was opened an inch or two, and, without showing herself, Fatma said:

"Listen to me."

"I am listening," Gregory replied.

"I am in great fear for you. You are in much danger. The Emirs say to Mahmud that you ought to be killed; their followers are well-nigh starving -- why should an infidel prisoner be eating? His friends are now close to us, and there will be a battle. None will be spared on either side -- why should this man be spared?

"Mahmud has many cares. The men are furious because he will not lead them out to fight. Even the emirs are sullen; and Osman Digna, who was on bad terms with him a short time ago, and who, Mahmud suspects, is intriguing with them against him, is foremost in urging that an attack should take place; though everyone knows he is a coward, and never shows himself in battle, always running away directly he sees that things are going against him. Still, he has five thousand followers of his own.

"Mahmud told me today that he had done all in his power but, placed as he was, he could not withstand the words of the emirs, and the complaints of the tribesmen. When the battle comes -- as it must come in a day or two -- it will need all his influence and the faith of the men with him to win; and with so much at stake, how can he risk everything for the sake of a single life, and that the life of an infidel? If you would agree to aid in working his guns, as the Greeks and Egyptians do, it would content the emirs."

"That I cannot do," Gregory said. "If I am to be killed, it is the will of God; but better that, a thousand times, than turn traitor!"

"I knew that it would be so," Fatma said sorrowfully. "What can we do? At other times, the protection of the harem would cover even one who had slain a chief; but now that the Baggara are half starving, and mad with anger and disappointment, even that no longer avails. If they would brave the anger of the son of the Khalifa, they would not regard the sanctity of the harem. I wish now that I had advised you to try and escape when we left Shendy, or even when we first came here. It would have been difficult, but not impossible; but now I can see no chance. There is the thorn hedge round the wood, with few openings, and with men on watch all round to prevent desertion. Several tried to escape last night -- all were caught and killed this morning. Even if it were possible to pass through, there are bands of horsemen everywhere out on the plain, keeping watch alike against the approach of the enemy and the desertion of cowards.

"I have been in despair, all day, that I cannot save the life of one who saved mine. I have told Mahmud that my honour is concerned, and that I would give my life for yours. Months ago, he would have braved the anger of all his army for me, but he has changed much of late. It is not that he loves me less, but that he has been worried beyond bearing, and in his troubles he drinks until he forgets them.

"My only hope is that your people will attack tomorrow. Mahmud says that they will assuredly be beaten; they will be shot down as they approach, and none will ever be able to get through the hedge. Then, when they fall back, the Baggara will pour out, horse and foot, and destroy them. They will then see how right he has been in not letting them go out into the plain to fight. His influence will be restored, and your life will be safe.

"We are to be removed to the farther side of the wood, when the fighting begins; and there all the women are to be gathered, and wait, till the infidels are utterly destroyed.

"If your people come tomorrow morning, you may be saved. Otherwise I fear the worst."

"I thank you for what you have done for me," replied Gregory, "and whatever comes of it, be sure that I shall feel grateful to you, and shall not blame you for not having been able to do what was impossible. I hope my friends may come tomorrow, for, whatever my fate may be, anything is better than uncertainty."

"May Allah protect you!" the woman said, with a sob; "and go now. I hear Mahmud calling me."



Chapter 12: The Battle Of Atbara.


Gregory had little sleep that night. It was clear to him that there was absolutely no chance of making his escape. Even were his two guards withdrawn, it would not improve his position. He had no means of disguise, and even if he had an Arab dress and could stain his face, he could not hope to make his way through the crowds of sleeping men, the pitfalls and trenches, and pass out through the jealously guarded zareba. There was nothing, for him, but to wait till the end.

He could not blame Mahmud. A leader on the eve of a great battle could not, for the sake of a single captive, risk his influence and oppose the wishes of his followers. It was much that he had, for his wife's sake, postponed the fulfilment of his oath; and had so long withstood the wishes of his most influential emirs. More could not be expected. At any rate, he was better off than others who had been in the same position. He had not, so far as he knew, a relation in the world -- no one who would be anywise affected by his death; and at least he would have the satisfaction of knowing that it was a kind action which had brought him to his end. He prayed earnestly, not that his life might be spared, but that his death might be a painless one; and that he might meet it as an English officer should, without showing signs of fear.

The next day he heard orders given, and a great stir in camp; and he gathered, from those who passed near the tent, that the enemy's cavalry were again approaching; and that the mounted men were to ride out and cut them off from retreating, while the dismounted men were to pour out and annihilate them. Then, for a time, all was silence in the camp.

Suddenly an outburst of shouts and cries broke out and, almost simultaneously, he heard the rattle of Maxim guns -- the fight had begun. Would the Egyptian horsemen stand firm, or would they give way to panic? If they broke and fled, none whatever would return to their camp through the host of Baggara horsemen.

For a time, the roll of the fire from the machine guns was incessant. Then there was a pause. Two or three minutes later it broke out again, but it was evidently somewhat farther off; and so it went on, with intervals of silence, but ever getting farther away. It was clear that the horsemen had not been able to bring the cavalry to a standstill, and that these were steadily falling back, covered by the fire of the Maxims. At last the sound grew faint in the distance and, soon afterwards, the noise in the camp showed that the infantry were returning.

It was not till two hours later that he heard the mounted men ride in; and gathered, from the talk outside, that they had lost nearly two hundred men, and had been unable to prevent the Egyptian cavalry from returning to camp. Towards evening he heard angry talking, and could distinguish Mahmud's voice. Then the blanket was pulled off its supports, and two men ordered him to follow them.

This was doubtless the end, and he nerved himself for what was to come; and, with head erect and a steady face, he accompanied the men to the front of Mahmud's tent. The chief was standing, with frowning face; and several Emirs were gathered in front of him, while a number of tribesmen stood a short distance away.

"Now," Mahmud said, "let one of you speak."

One of the Emirs stepped forward.

"I, Osman Digna, demand that this infidel be put to death. His countrymen have slain many of my men, and yours."

Feeling now that Mahmud, after doing his best, had ceased to struggle for him, and that his death was certain, Gregory took a step forward towards the speaker, and said scornfully:

"So you are Osman Digna! I am one of the first of my countrymen to see your face, though many have seen your back, at a distance."

Instead of provoking a pistol shot, as he had intended, his remark was followed by a roar of laughter from the emirs; for Osman's cowardice was a byword among them, and his nickname was "One who always runs."

Osman, indeed, had put his hand on the stock of one of the pistols in his belt, but Mahmud said imperiously:

"The man's life is mine, not yours, Osman Digna. If you shoot him, I shoot you!"

The fearlessness of the lad had pleased the other emirs; for, recklessly brave themselves, the Baggara appreciated and esteemed courage and honour. One of the others said:

"This is a brave young fellow and, infidels as his people are, we admit that they are brave. Were it for ourselves only, we would say let him live, until we see what comes of it. But our people complain. They say his folk, with whom we had no quarrel, come here and aid the Egyptians against us. They slew many yesterday. It is not right that this man should be living among us, when his countrymen are fighting against us."

There was a murmur of assent among the others, then Mahmud spoke.

"I have promised that he should not be killed, unless by order of the Khalifa. But this I will do: he shall be placed in the front rank. If Allah wills it, he will be killed by the bullets of his countrymen. If, when the fight is over, he is unharmed, you shall all agree that the matter be left for the Khalifa to decide. But, mind, I wash my hands of his death. On the eve of a battle, it is not for me to set my wishes above those of my emirs and my tribesmen; and I yield to your demands, because it is necessary that all be of one mind. If he is killed, which surely he will be, unless Allah protects him, his blood be upon your heads!"

He waved his hand, and the men came forward and again took Gregory to his tent.

The latter was well contented with the decision that he should be killed. He had no doubt that, at least, his death would be swift and sudden; he would not be speared, or cut to pieces with knives. He would see his countrymen advancing. He would know that he would be speedily avenged.

Two days passed, when the news came that the Egyptians had advanced to Umdabieh, seven miles nearer; and, on the following morning, the Dervish camp was disturbed early. There was joy in every face, and renewed vigour in the bearing of the men. Scouting Dervishes had brought in word that the infidels had marched, during the night, and were now halting but a mile and a half away.

The hour had come, at last. They were confident in themselves, and their trust in their leader was renewed. The fight, two days before, had shown them that the guns of the white men were terrible on the plain; and that it was, after all, wise to await them in the position which had been made impregnable, and against which the foe would hurl themselves in vain; then they were to pour out, and annihilate them.

The slave came to Gregory's tent, at daybreak.

"Fatma is praying to Allah for your safety," he said.

There was no time for more, for already the tents were being pulled down, and soon the women were hurried away to the rear. Four men surrounded Gregory, and led him to the edge of the camp, and there fastened him to the stump of a tree that had been cut off six feet from the ground, the upper portion being used in the construction of the zareba. Ten or twelve men were similarly fastened, in a line with him. These had been detected in trying to sneak away.

Gregory had not seen anything of the camp before and, as he was taken along, he was astounded at the amount of work that had been done. Everywhere the ground was pitted with deep holes, capable of sheltering from fifteen to twenty men. The hedge was a high one, and was formed for the most part of prickly bushes. The position was, indeed, a formidable one; manned, as it was, by nearly twenty thousand desperate fighters.

At six o'clock the first gun was fired; and, for an hour and a half, the camp was swept with shell, shrapnel, and Maxim bullets. Most of the Baggara were lying in the pits. Many, however, walked about calmly, as if in contempt of the fire. More than half of the wretched men bound to the trees were killed.

At last the fire of the guns slackened and, on the crest of the position, in a semicircle round the wood, a long line of steadily marching men appeared. The assault was about to begin.

The Dervishes sprang from their hiding places, and lined the trenches behind the zareba. The troops halted, and waited. The Maxims moved in front of the British brigade, and then opened fire. A bugle sounded, and the whole line, black and white, advanced like a wall. When within three hundred yards, the men knelt down and opened fire, in volleys of sections. At the same instant the Dervishes, with difficulty restrained until now, opened fire in return.

The Maxims, and the storm of British bullets swept the wood, filling the air with a shower of falling leaves. Gregory murmured a prayer, shut his eyes, and awaited death.

Suddenly he felt his ropes slacken and fall from him, and a voice said, "Drop on your face, master!"

Almost mechanically he obeyed, too astonished even to think what was happening; then a body fell across him.

"Lie still and don't move, master. They must think you are dead."

"Is it you, Zaki?" Gregory said, scarcely able, even now, to believe that it was his faithful follower.

"It is I, master. I have been in the camp three days, and have never had a chance of getting near you, before."

"Brave fellow! good friend!" Gregory said, and then was silent.

Speech was almost inaudible, amid the roar of battle. The pipes of the Camerons could, however, be heard above the din. The men advanced steadily, in line, maintaining their excellent volley firing. The three other regiments, in close order, followed; bearing away farther to the right, so as to be able to open fire and advance. On that side the black regiments were advancing no less steadily, and the half brigade of Egyptians were as eager as any. Steadily and well under control, all pushed forward at a run; firing occasionally, but thirsting to get hand to hand with those who had desolated their land, destroyed their villages, and slain their friends.

The British were suffering, but the blacks suffered more; for the volleys of the Camerons kept down the fire of those opposed to them, better than the irregular fire of the Soudanese. The latter, however, first reached the zareba; and, regardless of thorns or of fire, dashed through it with triumphant shouts, and fell upon the defenders.

It was but a minute or two later that the Camerons reached the hedge. Formidable as it looked, it took them but a short time to tear down gaps, through which they rushed; while close behind them the Seaforths, the Lincolns, and the Warwicks were all in, bursting through the low stockade and trenches behind it, and cheering madly.

Now, from their holes and shelters, the Dervishes started up. Brave though they were, the storm that had burst upon them with such suddenness scared them, and none attempted to arrest the course of the Highlanders and red coats. Firing as they ran, the Dervishes made for the river. Many remained in their pits till the last, firing at the soldiers as they rushed past, and meeting their death at the point of the bayonet.

Hotly the troops pursued, often falling into the pits, which were half hidden by thorns and long grass. There was no attempt at regularity in these holes -- nothing to show where they were. It was a wild and confused combat. The officers kept their men as well together as it was possible, on such ground; but it was sharp work, for from flank and rear, as well as in front, the shots rang out from their hidden foes, and these had to be despatched as they pushed forward.

As the troops burst through, Gregory sprang to his feet, seized a rifle that had dropped from the hands of a Dervish who had fallen close by and -- shouting to Zaki "Lie still as if dead!" -- joined the first line of troops. No questions were asked. Every man's attention was fixed on the work before him, and no thought was given to this white officer, who sprang from they knew not where. He had no cartridges, and the Dervishes did not carry bayonets; but, holding the rifle club-wise, he kept in the front line, falling into pits and climbing out again, engaged more than once with desperate foemen.

Striking and shouting, he fought on until the troops reached the river bank; and, having cleared all before them, poured volleys into the mass of fugitives crossing its dry bed. Other hordes were seen away to the left, similarly driven out by Lewis's Egyptians, by whom a terrible fire was kept up until the last of the fugitives disappeared in the scrub on the opposite bank, leaving the river bed thickly dotted with dead bodies; while, on the right, Macdonald's and Maxwell's blacks similarly cleared the wood.

Then the Soudanese and whites alike burst into cheers. Men shook each other by the hand, while they waved their helmets over their heads. The Soudanese leapt and danced like delighted children. Presently an officer left a group of others, who had been congratulating each other on their glorious victory, and came up to Gregory.

"May I ask who you are, sir?" he said, courteously but coldly.

"Certainly, sir. My name is Hilliard. I have been a captive in the hands of the Dervishes; who, when you attacked, tied me to the stump of a tree as a target for your bullets; and I should certainly have been killed, had not a faithful servant of mine, a black, taken the opportunity, when the Dervishes rushed into the trenches and opened fire upon you, to cut my ropes.

"I have no doubt, sir," he went on, as he saw the officer look somewhat doubtful, "that General Hunter is here. I am known personally to him, and served for a time on his staff."

"That is quite sufficient," the officer said, more cordially. "I congratulate you on your escape. I confess it astonished us all, when a strange white officer, whom none of us knew, suddenly joined us. You will find General Hunter somewhere over on the left. He is certain to have led the charge of the Soudanese."

"Thank you! I will go and find him; but first, I must return to where I left my man. He had, of course, the Mahdist's patch on his clothes; and I told him to lie still, as if dead, till I came for him; as, in the melee, it would have been impossible for me to have protected him."

Gregory found Zaki still lying where he left him, head downward and arms thrown forward; in so good an imitation of death that he feared, for a moment, the lad had been shot after he left him. At the sound of his master's voice, however, the native sprang to his feet.

"You have saved my life, Zaki," Gregory said, taking his hand. "I must have fallen -- every man tied to a tree is, as you see, dead; but before we say anything else, cut that patch off your clothes, or you might be shot as a Dervish by the first man you come across.

"Keep close to me. I am going to General Hunter. At present, I know none of the officers of the white regiments. When I get among the Soudanese, I shall be more at home."

In ten minutes, he came to where General Hunter was speaking to the Sirdar. Gregory stopped at a short distance, before the general's eyes fell upon him, and he gave an exclamation of pleasure.

"That is Hilliard, General; the young fellow who jumped from one of the gunboats, off Metemmeh, to rescue the woman. The act was unnoticed at the time, but a black he had with him was released, and brought word that his master was a prisoner in their camp."

"I heard of it, at the time," the Sirdar said, and motioned to Gregory to come up. "I am glad to find that you have escaped the fate we feared had befallen you, but your action was altogether wrong. An officer's life is no longer his own, but belongs to the country he serves; and you had no right whatever to risk it when on duty, even in an action which, at any other time, would do you great credit."

He spoke sharply and sternly. Gregory again saluted.

"I knew afterwards that I had done wrong, sir; but I did not stop to think, and acted on the impulse of the moment."

"That may be," the Sirdar said; "but officers should think, and not act on the impulse of the moment."

Gregory again saluted, and fell back. Three or four minutes later, the two generals separated. General Hunter came up to him, and shook him warmly by the hand.

"You must not mind what the Sirdar said, Hilliard. It was a very noble action, and did you credit, and I can assure you that that was the opinion of all who knew you; but to the Sirdar, you know, duty is everything, and I think you are lucky in not being sent down, at once, to the base. However, he said to me, after you had left him:

"'I shall be too busy this evening, but bring the young fellow with you, tomorrow evening. I must hear how it was that Mahmud spared him.'

"I told him that I understood, from your black, that the woman was Mahmud's favourite wife, and that she took you under her care.

"By the way, have you heard that Mahmud is captured? Yes, he is caught, which is a great satisfaction to us; for his being sent down, a prisoner, will convince the tribesmen that we have gained a victory, as to which they would otherwise be incredulous. I hear that the Egyptian brigade, which was to the extreme left, has captured Mahmud's wife, and a great number of women."

"With your permission, sir, I will go over there at once, and ask Colonel Lewis that she may receive specially good treatment. She has been extremely kind to me, and it is to her influence over Mahmud that I owe my life. Up to this morning Mahmud would have spared me, but Osman Digna insisted that I should be killed, and he was obliged to give way. They fastened me to a tree behind the trench, just inside the zareba, and I should certainly have been killed by our own musketry fire, had not my boy, who had come into the camp in disguise, cut my cords. I fell as if shot, and he threw himself down on me; until the Camerons burst in, when I at once joined them, and did what little I could in the fight."

"I will give you a line to Colonel Lewis, to tell him that Mahmud's wife, whom you will point out, is to be treated with respect; and that her people may be allowed to make her an arbour of some sort, until the Sirdar decides what is to be done with her. Probably she will be sent down to Berber. No doubt we shall all fall back."

"Then you will not pursue, sir?"

"No. The cavalry have already gone off in pursuit of their horsemen, but they are not likely to catch them; for we hear that Osman Digna is with them, and he seems to enjoy a special immunity from capture. As for the other poor beggars, we could not do it if we wanted to. I expect the campaign is over, for the present. Certainly, nothing can be done till the railway is completed; then the gunboats can tow the native craft, abreast of us, as we march along the river bank.

"Shendy has been captured, and we found twelve thousand Jaalin prisoners there, women and children, and a large quantity of stores. That is what makes the position of the Dervish fugitives so hopeless. There is nothing before them but to find their way across the desert to Omdurman, and I fancy that few of them will get there alive.

"No doubt some will keep along by the Atbara, and others by the Nile. The latter will have the best chance, for the friendlies at Kassala will be on the lookout for fugitives. I am sorry for the poor wretches, though they richly deserve the worst that can befall them. They have never shown mercy. For twenty years they have murdered, plundered, and desolated the whole land, and have shown themselves more ferocious and merciless than wild beasts."

He took out his pocketbook, wrote the order to Colonel Lewis; and then, tearing the leaf out, handed it to Gregory, who at once made his way, followed closely by Zaki, to the spot where two Egyptian battalions had halted. They had no difficulty in finding Colonel Lewis, who was receiving a report, from the officers of the two battalions, of the casualties they had sustained. Gregory had met the Colonel several times, at Berber, and the latter recognized him at once.

"Ah! Major Hilliard," that officer said, as he came up; "I am glad to see you. I heard that you had been captured by the Dervishes, and killed; but I suppose, as I see you here, that it was only the usual canard."

"No, sir. I was captured; but, as you see, not killed, though it has been a pretty close thing. This is a note, sir, that General Hunter requested me to give you."

Colonel Lewis read the order.

"The women are down over there, a couple of hundred yards away," he said. "I will send a sergeant and four men with you. If you will point out Mahmud's wife, I will see that she is made as comfortable as possible."

"Thank you, sir! It is to her I owe my life, and I am most anxious to do all I can to repay the debt."

"You came along through the other brigades. Do you know what their losses have been?"

"The British losses are not heavy, sir, considering the fire they have been exposed to. Macdonald's brigade suffered most, I believe."

"Yes; I saw one of the officers just now. It seems they came down upon Mahmud's picked bodyguard, and these fought desperately. They found Mahmud in the usual attitude in which the Dervish emirs await death, when they are conquered. He was sitting quietly on his mat, with his arms laid down beside him; and was, I should imagine, somewhat surprised at finding that he was not cut to pieces, at once."

"I am glad he was not, sir, for he certainly behaved well to me. It was through the influence of his wife, I admit; but in sparing me he really risked serious disaffection among his followers, and at last gave way only to coercion."

The sergeant and men had now come up, and Gregory went off with them. Three or four hundred women were seated on the ground together, with half a dozen Egyptian soldiers standing as sentry over them. More or less closely veiled as they were, Gregory could not distinguish Fatma among them; and indeed, except when he first reached her in the water, he had not got a glimpse of her features. The question, however, was speedily settled when a woman rose, in the middle of the group, with a cry of gladness.

"So you are saved!" she exclaimed, "I have feared so that you were killed. Have you news of Mahmud?"

"Yes, lady. He is a prisoner, but well and unharmed. I have obtained an order, from the General, that you are to be treated with honours, as his wife. We cannot do much for you, at present, but all that is possible will be done. I have represented your kindness to me, and these soldiers will at once erect an arbour for you, and food will be brought for you all, as soon as matters have settled down a little."

The Egyptian soldiers had already begun to cut down saplings. Accustomed as they were to the work, in half an hour they had erected an arbour. Fatma was then assisted into it, with the other women of the harem. The sergeant gave orders, to the sentries, that no one was to be allowed to interfere in any way with them; and then Gregory took his leave, saying that he would return, later on.

He again joined General Hunter, who seemed to be his natural chief, now that his service in the gunboat was over.

The list of casualties was now being brought in. The Camerons, who had led the attack in line, had lost most heavily. They had fifteen killed and forty-six wounded, among them being two officers killed, and one mortally wounded. The Seaforths had one officer killed and one mortally wounded, and four others less severely; in all, six killed and twenty-seven wounded. The Lincolns had one killed and eighteen wounded; the Warwicks two killed and eighteen wounded. Many of the wounded afterwards died.

The Egyptians had lost more heavily. The casualties among them were fifty-seven killed; and four British and sixteen native officers, and three hundred and sixty-seven non-commissioned officers and men, wounded.

The Dervish loss was terrible. Three thousand men were killed, among whom were nearly all the emirs; and two thousand were taken prisoners. The rest were hopeless fugitives, and a vast number of these must have been wounded.

There was but a short rest for the troops. When the wounded had been collected, and carried to a neighbouring palm grove, where the surgeons did all that could then be done for them; and the trophies of the fight -- banners and spears, guns of all sorts, swords and knives -- had been gathered, principally by the exultant Soudanese and Egyptians, the force prepared for a start.

"May I ask, General, what is to be done with the women?" Gregory said.

"I have been speaking to the Sirdar about them, and I was just going to ask you to go with me to them. They are, of course, not to be considered as prisoners. They cannot stay here, for they would die of hunger. Therefore they had best follow the troops, at any rate as far as the Atbara camp. They will have food given them, and must then decide for themselves what they are to do. It is a difficult question, altogether. The only thing that can, at present, be settled is that they mustn't be allowed to die of hunger, and they must be protected against molestation.

"The troops will march at four o'clock. The Egyptian brigade have volunteered to carry the wounded. They will start later. The women had better follow them. No doubt, some of them will find their husbands among the prisoners, so that there will be no trouble about them."

"What will be done with the men, sir?"

The General smiled.

"Tomorrow they will probably enlist in our service, to a man, and will fight just as sturdily as the other Soudanese battalions, against their brethren in Khartoum. All the prisoners we have hitherto taken who are fit for the work have done so; and, as has been shown today, are just as ready to fight on our side as they were against us. They are a fighting people, and it is curious how they become attached to their white officers, whom formerly they hated as infidels."

When the matter was explained to them, the women accepted the situation with the resignation that is natural to the Mahometan woman. Gregory was able to assure Fatma that, in a short time, she would undoubtedly be allowed to join Mahmud, and accompany him wherever he was sent.

"But will they not kill him?" she said.

"We never kill prisoners. Even the bitterest enemy that may fall into our hands is well treated. Mahmud will doubtless be sent down to Cairo, and it will then be settled where he is to be taken to; but you may be sure that, wherever it may be, he will be well treated and cared for."

"In that case, I shall be happy," she said. "When you saved me, I saw that the ways of you Christians were better than our ways. Now I see it still more. To be always raiding, and plundering, and killing cannot be good. It used to seem to me natural and right, but I have come to think differently."

At four o'clock the troops marched. At Gregory's request, he was allowed to remain behind and accompany the Egyptians. He had bought for a few shillings, from the soldiers, a dozen donkeys that had been found alive in some of the pits. These he handed over to Fatma, for her conveyance and that of the wives of some of the emirs, who were of the party.

The Egyptians started at half-past eight, carrying their own wounded and those of the British. By the route by which the army had marched, the night before, the distance was but nine miles; but there had been some rough places to pass, and to avoid these, where the wounded might have suffered from jolting, they made a circuit, thereby adding three miles to the length of the march; and did not reach Umdabieh camp until two o'clock in the morning. General Hunter, who never spared himself, rode with them and acted as guide.

During the fight he, Colonel Macdonald, and Colonel Maxwell had ridden at the head of their brigades, the white regimental officers being on foot with the men, as was their custom; and it was surprising that the three conspicuous figures had all come through the storm of fire unscathed.

The next morning was a quiet one, and in the afternoon all marched off to the old camp, at Abadar. On Sunday they rested, and on Monday the British brigade marched to Hudi, and then across the desert to Hermali, where they were to spend the summer. The Sirdar rode, with the Egyptian brigades, to Fort Atbara. Macdonald's brigade was to go on to garrison Berber, Maxwell's to Assillem, and that of Lewis to remain at Atbara.

The question of the prisoners was already half solved. Almost all of them willingly embraced the offer to enlist in the Egyptian army. Many of the women found their husbands among the prisoners. Others agreed, at once, to marry men of the Soudanese battalion. The rest, pending such offers as they might receive in the future, decided to remain at Atbara. At Berber their lot would have been a hard one, for they would have been exposed to the hatred and spite of the Jaalin women there, whose husbands had been massacred at Metemmeh.

Fatma, with two attendants only, accompanied Macdonald's brigade to Berber. On arriving outside the town, the force encamped. Next day the Sirdar, with his staff and General Hunter, came up; and, on the following morning, made a triumphant entry into the town, followed by the Soudanese brigade.

Berber was prepared to do honour to the occasion. Flags waved, coloured cloths and women's garments hung from the windows, and the whole population lined the streets, and received the conquerors with cries of welcome and triumph. They had anticipated a very different result, and had fully expected that the army would have been well-nigh annihilated; and that, again, the triumphant Dervishes would become their masters. But the sight of Mahmud walking, a prisoner, with two guards on each side of him, convinced them that the reports that had reached them were true, that the Dervishes had been signally defeated, and that there was no fear of their ever again becoming lords of Berber.

The Sirdar, by whose side General Hunter rode, headed the procession, followed by his staff. Then, leading his brigade, came Macdonald -- stern and hard of face, burnt almost black with years of campaigning in the desert -- and his staff, followed by the black battalions, erect and proud, maintaining their soldierly bearing amid the loud quavering cries of welcome from the women.

Gregory had, on his arrival with the brigade the day before, gone into the town; and engaged a small house, in its outskirts, as the abode of Fatma and her two attendants, purchased suitable provisions, and made what arrangements he could for her comfort. Late in the evening he had escorted her there, and left Zaki to sleep in an outhouse attached to it, to secure them from all intrusion.

Then he went down to the river and, finding the Zafir lying there, went on board. He was received as one returned from the dead by Captain Keppel, Lieutenant Beatty, and Lieutenant Hood -- the commanders of the other gunboats -- who had been dining on board. He had become a general favourite, during the time he had spent with them, and their congratulations on his safe return were warm and hearty.

"You may imagine our surprise when, after the fight was over," said Captain Keppel, "it was discovered that you were missing. No one could imagine what had become of you. One of the blacks who had been working your Maxim said they had not noticed your leaving them; and that, when they found you were not there, they supposed you had come to confer with me. Then I sent for your man; but he, too, was missing. We searched everywhere, but no signs of you, dead or alive, and no marks of blood were to be found. So it seemed that the matter must remain a mystery. Early the next morning, however, we saw a white rag waving on the bank, and then a black entered the water and swam out towards us. I sent the boat to meet him, and when he came on board I found that he was your man, and the mystery was explained. I fancy I used some strong language; for I never before heard of a man being so hare-brained as to spring overboard, in the middle of a battle, and pick up a woman, without saying a word to anyone of what he was doing, and that with the boat still steaming ahead. Of course, your man told us that it was Mahmud's wife you had saved, and that she had taken you under her protection; but I did not expect that, among those fanatics, your life would be spared.

"Now, tell us all about your adventures, and how you got down here just in time to see our fellows enter, in triumph. I suppose you managed to give them the slip, somehow?"

Gregory then told his story. When he had concluded, Captain Keppel said:

"Well, you have the luck of the old one! First, you have got hold of as faithful a fellow as is to be found in all Egypt, or anywhere else; and, in the second place, you have been in the battle of Atbara, while we have been kicking our heels here, and fuming at being out of it altogether, except for our bloodless capture of Shendy.

"So you say the Sirdar blew you up? I am not surprised at that. You know the story of the man who fell overboard, in the old flogging days, and the captain sentenced him to two dozen lashes, for leaving the ship without orders."

"I don't think he was really angry; for when I went to him, the next evening, he was a good deal milder. Of course, he did say again that I had done wrong, but not in the same tone as before; and he seemed a good deal interested in what I told him about Mahmud, and how my boy had risked his life to rescue me, and had succeeded almost by a miracle. He said there is a lot of good in these black fellows, if one could but get at it. They have never had a chance yet; but, given good administration, and the suppression of all tribal feuds with a stern hand, they might be moulded into anything."

"And are you coming back to us now, Mr. Hilliard?"

"I have no idea. I don't suppose anything will be settled, for a time. There is not likely to be much doing, anyway, except on the railway; and even your gunboats will have an easy time of it, as there is not an enemy left on this side of the sixth cataract.

"The Dervishes who escaped are pretty sure to cross the Atbara. There are enough of them still, when they rally, to beat off any attacks that might be made by our tribesmen from Kassala."



Chapter 13: The Final Advance.


A few days after the return of headquarters to Berber, Mahmud was sent down country, and Fatma was permitted to accompany him. She expressed to Gregory, in touching terms, her gratitude for what he had done for her.

"We have been of mutual assistance," said Gregory. "I have the same reason to be grateful to you, as you have to thank me. I saved your life, and you saved mine. You were very kind to me, when I was a captive -- I have done as much as I could for you, since you have been with us. So we are quits. I hope you will be happy with Mahmud. We do not treat our prisoners badly, and except that he will be away from the Soudan, he will probably be more comfortable than he has ever been in his life."

Gregory was now employed in the transport department, and journeyed backwards and forwards, with large convoys of camels, to the head of the railway. The line was completed to Berber, but the officers charged with its construction were indefatigable; and, as fast as the materials came up, it was pushed on towards the Atbara. Complete as had been the victory on that river, the Sirdar saw that the force which had been sufficient to defeat the twenty thousand men, under Mahmud, was not sufficiently strong for the more onerous task of coping with three times that number, fighting under the eye of the Khalifa, and certain to consist of his best and bravest troops. He therefore telegraphed home for another British brigade, and additional artillery, with at least one regiment of cavalry -- an arm in which the Egyptian Army was weak.

Preparations were at once made for complying with the request. The 21st Lancers, 1st battalion of Grenadier Guards, 2nd battalion of the Rifle Brigade, 2nd battalion of the 5th Lancashire Fusiliers, a field battery, a howitzer battery, and two forty-pounders, to batter the defences of Omdurman, should the Khalifa take his stand, were sent. A strong detachment of the Army Service Corps and the Royal Army Medical Corps was to accompany them, but they had yet some months to wait, for the advance would not be made until the Nile was full, and the gunboats could ascend the cataract.

However, there was much to be done, and the troops did not pass the time in idleness. Atbara Fort was to be the base, and here the Egyptian battalions built huts and storehouses. The Soudanese brigades returned to Berber, and the transport of provisions and stores for them was thus saved. The British at Darmali were made as comfortable as possible, and no effort was spared to keep them in good health, during the ensuing hot weather. A small theatre was constructed, and here smoking concerts were held. There was also a race meeting, and one of the steamers took parties, of the men who were most affected by the heat, for a trip down the Nile. They were practised in long marches early in the morning, and although, of course, there was some illness, the troops on the whole bore the heat well.

Had there been a prospect of an indefinitely long stay, the result might have been otherwise; but they knew that, in a few months, they would be engaged in even sterner work than the last battle, that Khartoum was their goal, and with its capture the power of the Khalifa would be broken for ever, and Gordon avenged.

Early in April the railway reached Abadia, a few miles from Berber, and in a short time a wonderful transformation took place here. From a sandy desert, with scarce a human being in sight, it became the scene of a busy industry. Stores were sorted and piled as they came up by rail.

Three gunboats arrived in sections, and these were put together. They were stronger, and much better defended by steel plates than the first gunboats; and each of them carried two six-pounder quick-firing guns, a small howitzer, four Maxims, and a searchlight. They were, however, much slower than the old boats, and could do very little in the way of towing.

Besides these, eight steel double-deck troop barges were brought up, in sections, and put together. Three Egyptian battalions came up from Merawi to aid in the work, which not only included building the gunboats and barges, but executing the repairs to all the native craft, and putting them in a thoroughly serviceable state.

In June the railway reached the Atbara, and for the first time for two years and a half, the officers who had superintended its construction had a temporary rest. The stores were now transferred from Abadia to the Atbara, and two trains ran every day, each bringing up something like two hundred tons of stores.

In the middle of July two Egyptian battalions left Atbara and proceeded up the Nile, one on each bank, cutting down trees and piling them for fuel for the steamers. As the river rose, four steamers came up from Dongola, together with a number of sailing boats; and in the beginning of August the whole flotilla, consisting of ten gunboats, five unarmed steamers, eight troop barges, and three or four hundred sailing boats, were all assembled.

By this time the reinforcements from home were all at Cairo, and their stores had already been sent up. It was arranged that they were to come by half battalions, by squadrons, and by batteries, each one day behind the other. To make room for them, two Egyptian battalions were sent up to the foot of the Shabluka cataract.

The six black battalions left Berber on July 30th, and arrived at Atbara the next day. There were now four brigades in the infantry divisions instead of three, two battalions having been raised from the Dervishes taken at the battle of Atbara. These were as eager as any to join in the fight against their late comrades.

This was scarcely surprising. The Baggara, the tyrants of the desert, are horsemen. The infantry were, for the most part, drawn from the conquered tribes. They had enlisted in the Khalifa's force partly because they had no other means of subsistence, partly from their innate love of fighting. They had, in fact, been little better than slaves; and their condition, as soldiers in the Egyptian Army, was immeasurably superior to that which they had before occupied.

Broadwood, with nine squadrons of Egyptian cavalry, was already on the western bank of the river opposite Atbara; and was to be joined at Metemmeh by the camel corps, and another squadron of horse from Merawi.

On the 3rd of August the six Soudanese battalions left Fort Atbara for the point of concentration, a few miles below the cataract. To the sides of each gunboat were attached two of the steel barges; behind each were two native craft. All were filled as tightly as they could be crammed with troops. They were packed as in slavers, squatting by the side of each other as closely as sardines in a box. The seven steamers and the craft they took with them contained six thousand men, so crowded that a spectator remarked that planks might have been laid on their heads, and that you could have walked about on them; while another testified that he could not have shoved a walking stick between them anywhere. White men could not have supported it for an hour, but these blacks and Egyptians had a hundred miles to go, and the steamers could not make more than a knot an hour against the rapid stream, now swollen to its fullest.

While they were leaving, the first four companies of the Rifle Brigade arrived. Every day boats laden with stores went forward, every day white troops came up. Vast as was the quantity of stores sent off, the piles at Atbara did not seem to diminish. Ninety days' provisions, forage, and necessaries for the whole force had been accumulated there, and as fast as these were taken away they were replaced by others from Berber.

Like everyone connected with the transport or store department, Gregory had to work from daybreak till dark. Accustomed to a warm climate, light in figure, without an ounce of spare flesh, he was able to support the heat, dust, and fatigue better than most; and, as he himself said, it was less trying to be at work, even in the blazing sun, than to lie listless and sweating under the shade of a blanket. There was no necessity, now, to go down the line to make enquiries as to the progress of the stores, or of the laden craft on their way up. the telegraph was established, and the Sirdar, at Atbara, knew the exact position of every one of the units between Cairo and himself; and from every station he received messages constantly, and despatched his orders as frequently.

There was no hitch, whatever. The arrangements were all so perfect that the vast machine, with its numerous parts, moved with the precision of clockwork. Everything was up to time. For a train or steamer, or even a native boat, to arrive half an hour after the time calculated for it, was almost unheard of.

The Sirdar's force of will seemed to communicate itself to every officer under him, and it is safe to say that never before was an expedition so perfectly organized, and so marvellously carried out. At Atbara the Sirdar saw to everything himself. A brief word of commendation, to those working under him, cheered them through long days of toil -- an equally curt reproof depressed them to the depths.

Twice, when Gregory was directing some of the blacks piling large cases, as they were emptied from the train; anathematizing the stupid, urging on the willing, and himself occasionally lending a hand in order to show how it should be done; the Sirdar, who, unknown to him, had been looking on, rode up and said shortly, "You are doing well, Mr. Hilliard!" -- and he felt that his offence of jumping overboard had been condoned.

General Hunter, himself indefatigable, had more occasion to notice Gregory's work; and his commendations were frequent, and warm.

The lad had not forgotten the object with which he had come to the front. After Atbara, he had questioned many of the prisoners who, from their age, might have fought at El Obeid; but none of these had done so. The forces of the Khalifa came and went, as there was occasion for them. The Baggara were always under arms, but only when danger threatened were the great levies of foot assembled; for it would have been impossible, in the now desolate state of the Soudan, to find food for an army of a hundred thousand men.

All agreed, however, that, with the exception of the Egyptian artillerymen, they heard that no single white man had escaped. Numbers of the black soldiers had been made slaves. The whites had perished -- all save one had fallen on the field. That one had accompanied a black battalion, who had held together and, repulsing all attacks, had marched away. They had been followed, however, and after repeated attacks had dwindled away, until they had finally been broken and massacred.

With the Khalifa's army were several emirs who had fought at El Obeid; and these would, no doubt, be able to tell him more; but none of those who were taken prisoners, at the Atbara, had heard of any white man having escaped the slaughter of Hicks's army.

Just as the general movement began, the force was joined by three companies of Soudanese. These had marched from Suakim to Berber, two hundred and eighty-eight miles, in fifteen days, an average of nineteen miles a day -- a record for such a march, and one that no European force could have performed. One day, after marching thirty miles, they came to a well and found it dry, and had to march thirty miles farther to another water hole, a feat probably altogether without precedent.

"You had better fall back upon your old work, Hilliard," the General said, the day before they started. "As my aide I shall find plenty for you to do, now that I command the whole division."

"Thank you very much, sir! I don't think that I shall find any work hard, after what I have been doing for the past four months."

"You have got your horse?"

"Yes; he is in good condition, for I have had no riding to do, for some time."

"Well, you had better get him on board one of the gyasses we shall tow up, tomorrow. All our horses will embark this evening. We shall be on board at daybreak. Our private camels are going with the marching column; you had better put yours with them. No doubt they will join us somewhere. Of course, your kit will be carried with us."

It was a delight to Gregory to be on the water again. There was generally a cool breeze on the river, and always an absence of dust. He was now halfway between seventeen and eighteen, but the sun had tanned him to a deep brown, and had parched his face; thus adding some years to his appearance, so that the subalterns of the newly-arrived regiments looked boyish beside him. The responsibilities of his work had steadied him, and though he retained his good spirits, his laugh had lost the old boyish ring. The title of Bimbashi, which had seemed absurd to him seven months before, was now nothing out of the way, for he looked as old as many of the British subalterns serving with that rank in the Egyptian army.

Returning to the little hut that Zaki, with the aid of some of the blacks, had built for him; he gave his orders, and in a short time the camel -- a very good one, which he had obtained in exchange for that which he had handed over to the transport -- started, with its driver, to join those that were to carry up the baggage and stores of General Hunter, and his staff. These were in charge of a sergeant and three privates, of one of the Soudanese battalions. Gregory had got up a case of whisky, one of bottled fruit, and a stock of tea and sugar from Berber. No tents could be carried, and he left his tente d'abri at the stores with his canteen; taking on board, in his own luggage, a plate, knife, fork, and spoon, and a couple of tumblers. When the camels had started, he saw his horse put on board, and then took a final stroll round the encampment.

The change that had occurred there, during the past fortnight, was striking. Then none but black faces could be seen. Now it was the encampment of a British force, with its white tents and all their belongings.

The contrast between the newly-arrived brigade, and the hardy veterans who had fought at the Atbara, was striking. Bronzed and hearty, inured to heat and fatigue, the latter looked fit to go anywhere and do anything, and there was hardly a sick man in the four regiments. On the other hand, the newcomers looked white and exhausted with the heat. Numbers had already broken down, and the doctors at the hospital had their hands full of fever patients. They had scarcely marched a mile since they landed in Egypt, and were so palpably unfit for hard work that they were, if possible, to proceed the whole way in boats, in order to be in fighting condition when the hour of battle arrived.

The voyage up the river was an uneventful one. It seemed all too short to Gregory, who enjoyed immensely the rest, quiet, and comparative coolness. The Sirdar had gone up a week before they landed at Wady Hamed. Here the whole Egyptian portion of the army, with the exception of the brigade that was to arrive the next day, was assembled. The blacks had constructed straw huts; the Egyptians erected shelters, extemporized from their blankets; while the British were to be installed in tents, which had been brought up in sailing boats. The camp was two miles in length and half a mile wide, surrounded by a strong zareba.

The Egyptian cavalry and the camel corps had arrived. On the opposite side of the river was a strong body of friendly Arabs, nominally under the Abadar sheik, but in reality commanded by Major Montague Stuart-Wortley. By the 23rd of August the whole force had arrived; and the Sirdar reviewed them, drawn up in battle array, and put them through a few manoeuvres, as if in action. General Gatacre commanded the British division -- Colonel Wauchope the first brigade, and Lyttleton the second. As before, Macdonald, Maxwell, and Lewis commanded the first three Egyptian brigades, and Collinson that newly raised, General Hunter being in command of the division.

The force numbered, in all, about twenty thousand; and although destitute of the glitter and colour of a British army, under ordinary circumstances, were as fine a body of men as a British general could wish to command; and all, alike, eager to meet the foe. The British division had with them two batteries and ten Maxims, and the Egyptian division five batteries and ten Maxims.

As Gregory was strolling through the camp, he passed where the officers of one of the British regiments were seated on boxes, round a rough table, over which a sort of awning had been erected.

"Come and join us, Hilliard. We are having our last feast on our last stores, which we got smuggled up in one of the gunboats," the Major called out.

"With pleasure, sir."

The officer who was sitting at the head of the table made room beside him.

"You men of the Egyptian Army fare a good deal better than we do, I think," the Major went on. "That institution of private camels is an excellent one. We did not know that they would be allowed. But, after all, it is not a bad thing that we did not have them, for there is no doubt it is as well that the soldiers should not see us faring better than they. There is bother enough with the baggage, as it is. Of course, it is different in your case. There are only two or three white officers with each battalion, and it would not strike your black troops as a hardship that you should have different food from themselves. They are living as well as, or better than, they ever did in their lives. Three camels make no material addition to your baggage train, while, as there are thirty or forty of us, it would make a serious item in ours, and the General's keen eyes would spot them at once."

"Our camels are no burden to the army," Gregory said. "They only have a few pounds of grain a day, and get their living principally on what they can pick up. When they go on now, they will each carry fifty pounds of private grain. They get five pounds when there are no bushes or grass, so that the grain will last them for a fortnight."

"I suppose you think that the Dervishes mean fighting?"

"I think there is no doubt about it. All the fugitives that come in say that the Khalifa will fight, but whether it will be in the defence of Omdurman, or whether he will come out and attack us at Kerreri, none can say. The Khalifa keeps his intentions to himself."

"By the bye, Hilliard, I don't think you know my right-hand neighbour; he only joined us an hour before we started, having been left behind at Cairo, sick.

"Mr. Hartley, let me introduce you to Mr. Hilliard -- I should say Bimbashi Hilliard. He is on General Hunter's staff."

The young lieutenant placed an eyeglass in his eye, and bowed to Gregory.

"Have you been in this beastly country long?" he asked.

"If you include Lower Egypt, I have been here eighteen years."

"Dear me!" the other drawled; "the climate seems to have agreed with you."

"Fairly well," Gregory replied. "I don't mind the heat much, and one doesn't feel it, while one is at work."

"Hartley has not tried that, yet," one of the others laughed. "Work is not in his line. This most unfortunate illness of his kept him back at Cairo, and he brought such a supply of ice with him, when he came up, that he was able to hand over a hundredweight of it to us when he arrived. I don't think, Major, that in introducing him you should have omitted to mention that, but for a temporary misfortune, he would be the Marquis of Langdale; but in another two years he will blossom out into his full title, and then I suppose we shall lose him."

Gregory, whose knowledge of the English peerage was extremely limited, looked puzzled.

"May I ask how that is?" he said. "I always thought that the next heir to a title succeeded to it, as soon as his father died."

"As a rule that is the case," the Major said, "but the present is an exceptional one. At the death of the late marquis, the heir to the title was missing. I may say that the late marquis only enjoyed the title for two years. The next of kin, a brother of his, had disappeared, and up to the present no news has been obtained of him. Of course he has been advertised for, and so on, but without success. It is known that he married, but as he did so against the wish of his father, he broke off all communication with his family; and it is generally supposed that he emigrated. Pending any news of him, the title is held in abeyance.

"He may have died. It is probable that he has done so, for he could hardly have escaped seeing the advertisements that were inserted in every paper. Of course, if he has left children, they inherit the title.

"After a lapse of five years Mr. Hartley's father, who was the next heir, and who died five years ago, applied to be declared the inheritor of the title; but the peers, or judges, or someone decided that twenty-one years must elapse before such an application could be even considered. The income has been accumulating ever since, so that at the end of that time, it is probable that Mr. Hartley will be allowed to assume the title.

"Will the estates go with the title, Hartley?"

"Oh, I should say so, of course!" the other drawled. "The title would not be of much use, without them."

"Nonsense, my dear fellow!" another said. "Why, a fellow with your personal advantage, and a title, would be able to command the American market, and to pick up an heiress with millions."

The general laugh that followed showed that Hartley was, by no means, a popular character in the regiment.

"The fellow is a consummate ass," the man on Gregory's left whispered. "He only got into the service as a Queen's cadet. He could no more have got in, by marks, than he could have flown. No one believes that he had anything the matter with him, at Cairo; but he preferred stopping behind and coming up by himself, without any duties, to taking any share in the work. He is always talking about his earldom -- that is why the Major mentioned it, so as to draw him out."

"But I suppose he is really heir to it?"

"Yes, if no one else claims it. For aught that is known, there may be half a dozen children of the man that is missing, knocking about somewhere in Canada or Australia. If so, they are safe to turn up, sooner or later. You see, as the man had an elder brother, he would not have counted at all upon coming to the title. He may be in some out-of-the-way place, where even a colonial newspaper would never reach him; but, sooner or later, he or some of his sons will be coming home, and will hear of the last earl's death, and then this fellow's nose will be put out of joint.

"I am sure everyone in the regiment would be glad, for he is an insufferable ass. I suppose, when he comes into the title, he will either cut the army altogether, or exchange into the Guards."

The party presently broke up, having finished the last bottle of wine they had brought up. Gregory remained seated by the Major, discussing the chances of the campaign, and the points where resistance might be expected. The other officers stood talking, a short distance off. Presently Gregory caught the words:

"How is it that this young fellow calls himself Bimbashi, which, I believe, means major?"

"He does not call himself that, although that is his rank. All the white officers in the Egyptian Army have that rank, though they may only be lieutenants, in ours."

"I call it a monstrous thing," the drawling voice then said, "that a young fellow like this, who seems to be an Egyptian by birth, should have a higher rank than men here, who have served fifteen or twenty years."

The Major got up, and walked across to the group.

"I will tell you why, Mr. Hartley," he said, in a loud voice. "It is because, for the purpose of the war in this country, they know infinitely more than the officers of our army. They talk the languages, they know the men. These blacks will follow them anywhere, to the death. As for Mr. Hilliard, he has performed feats that any officer in the army, whatever his rank, would be proud to have done. He went in disguise into the Dervish camp at Metemmeh, before Hunter's advance began, and obtained invaluable information. He jumped overboard from a gunboat to save a drowning Dervish woman, although to do so involved almost certain capture and death at the hands of the Dervishes. In point of fact, his escape was a remarkable one, for he was tied to a tree in the first line of the Dervish defences at Atbara, and was only saved by what was almost a miracle. He may not be heir to an earldom, Mr. Hartley, but he would do more credit to the title than many I could name. I hear him well spoken of, by everyone, as an indefatigable worker, and as having performed the most valuable services. Captain Keppel, on whose gunboat he served for two or three months, spoke to me of him in the highest terms; and General Hunter has done the same.

"I fancy, sir, that it will be some years before you are likely to distinguish yourself so highly. His father was an officer, who fell in battle; and if he happened to be born in Egypt, as you sneeringly said just now, all I can say is that, in my opinion, had you been born in Egypt, you would not occupy the position which he now does."

Gregory had walked away when the Major rose, and he did not return to the party. It was the first time that he had run across a bad specimen of the British officer, and his words had stung him. But, as he said to himself, he need not mind them, as the fellow's own comrades regarded him, as one of them said, as "an insufferable ass." Still, he could not help wishing, to himself, that the missing heir might turn up in time to disappoint him.

General Hunter started next day, at noon, with two of his brigades and the mounted troops; the other two brigades following, at nightfall. The previous night had been one of the most unpleasant Gregory had ever spent. The long-expected rain had come at last. It began suddenly; there was a flash of lightning, and then came a violent burst of wind, which tore down the tents and the flimsy shelters of the Egyptians and Soudanese. Before this had ceased, the rain poured down in a torrent; lightning, wind, and rain kept on till morning, and when the start was made, everyone was soaked to the skin. The Egyptian baggage left at the same time, in native craft.

That evening they arrived at the mouth of the Shabluka Cataract. Here it had been expected that the advance would be opposed, as strong forts had been erected by the enemy, the river narrowed greatly, and precipitous rocks rose on either side. Through these the course was winding, and the current ran with great strength, the eddies and sharp bends making it extremely difficult for the gunboats to keep their course. Indeed, it would have been impossible for them to get up, had the forts been manned; as they would have had to pass within two hundred yards of the guns. But although the forts could hardly have been attacked by the gunboats, they were commanded by a lofty hill behind them; and the scouts had discovered, some weeks before, that the Dervishes had retired from the position, and that the passage would be unopposed.

Maxwell's and Colville's brigades started at four that afternoon, and the next day the whole division was established at El Hejir, above the cataracts.

Lyttleton's brigade started, at five o'clock A.M. on the 25th, the gunboats and other steamers moving parallel with them along the river. At five in the afternoon the first brigade followed and, two days afterwards, the camp was entirely evacuated, and the whole of the stores well on their way towards El Hejir. On the previous day, two regiments of Wortley's column of friendly natives also marched south. The Sirdar and headquarters, after having seen everything off, went up in a gunboat, starting at nine in the morning.

As usual, the Soudanese troops had been accompanied by a considerable number of their wives, who were heavily laden with their little household goods, and in many cases babies. They trudged patiently along in the rear of the columns, and formed an encampment of their own, half a mile away from the men's, generally selecting a piece of ground surrounded by thick bush, into which they could escape, should Dervish raiders come down upon them.

The stores arrived in due course. One of the gunboats, however, was missing -- the Zafir, with three gyasses in tow, having suddenly sunk, ten miles north of Shendy, owing to being so deeply loaded that the water got into the hold. Those on board had just time to scramble into the boats, or swim to shore. No lives were lost, though there were many narrow escapes. Among these were Commander Keppel and Prince Christian Victor, who were on board. Fortunately, another steamer soon came along and took the gyasses, with the ship-wrecked officers and crew on board, and towed them up to El Hejir.

It had been intended to stay here some little time, but the Nile continued to rise to an altogether exceptional height, and part of the camp was flooded. At five o'clock, therefore, the Egyptian brigades started, with the guns on their right and the steamers covering their left, while the cavalry and camel corps were spread widely out, in advance to give notice of any approaching Dervish force. As usual the soldiers' wives turned out, and as the battalions marched past, shouted encouragement to their husbands; calling upon them to behave like men, and not to turn back in battle. The presence of the women had an excellent effect on the soldiers, and in addition to their assistance in carrying their effects, they cooked their rations, and looked after them generally. The Sirdar, therefore, did not discourage their presence in the field, and even supplied them with rations, when it was impossible for them to obtain them elsewhere.

In the afternoon the two white brigades also moved forward. At nine o'clock they arrived at their camping ground, and the whole army was again collected together. Next morning the four squadrons of Egyptian horse, with a portion of the cavalry, went forward to reconnoitre, and one of the gunboats proceeded a few miles up the river. Neither saw anything of the enemy.

There had been heavy rain during the night. This had ceased at daybreak, and a strong wind speedily dried the sands, raising such clouds of dust that it was difficult to see above a few yards. The storm had also the effect of hindering the flotilla.

On the other side of the river, Stuart-Wortley's friendlies had a sharp brush with some Dervishes, whom they had come upon raiding a village, whose inhabitants had not obeyed the Khalifa's orders to move into Omdurman.

As the rainstorms continued, it was decided, by a council of war, that the health of the troops would suffer by a longer stay. On the 29th, therefore, the army set out in order of battle, ready to encounter the Khalifa's attack, but arrived without molestation at Um Teref, a short distance from Kerreri, where it was expected the enemy would give battle.

The camp was smaller than those hitherto made, and was protected by a strong zareba. The sentries were doubled, and patrols thrown out. Heavy rain set in after sunset, and almost a deluge poured down. The tents had been left behind, and as the little blanket shelters were soon soaked through, their occupants were speedily wet to the skin.

It was still raining when, at half-past five, the force again started. As before, the army was marching in fighting order. The day was cool and cloudy, and at one o'clock they halted at a village called Merreh, or Seg. The cavalry had come into touch with the Dervish patrols, but the latter, although numerous, avoided combat.

In one of the deserted villages was found one of Wingate's spies, in Dervish attire. He had left Omdurman thirty hours before, and brought the news that the Khalifa intended to attack at Kerreri. This place had been chosen because there was current an old prophecy, by a Persian sheik, to the effect that English soldiers would one day fight at Kerreri, and be destroyed there. It had, therefore, become an almost holy place to the Mahdists, and was called the death place of all the infidels; and, once a year, the Khalifa and his followers made a pilgrimage to it.

A few shots were fired during the night, and fires blazed on the hills to notify, to Omdurman, our precise position. The troops started again soon after daylight, facing now to the right and marching westward, to leave the bush and broken ground, and get out in the open desert, stretching away to Omdurman. The cavalry were widely spread out, and the Lancers ascended to the top of the hill of El Teb, from which a view of the Dervish camp was obtained.

It lay some ten miles due south. The Dervishes were disposed in three long lines, stretching from within two thousand yards of the Nile out into the desert, being careful to get, as they believed, beyond the range of the four gunboats that steamed quietly up.

After a short march the force halted near the river, two miles north of Kerreri. The place was convenient for camping, but the banks of the river were steep, and there was much difficulty in watering the horses and transport animals.

"We are in for another bad night," one of the General's staff said to Gregory, as the evening approached.

"It looks like it. Clouds are banking up fast. If the rain would but come in the daytime, instead of at night, one would not object to it much. It would lay the dust and cool the air. Besides, on the march we have other things to think of; and though, of course, we should be drenched to the skin, we should not mind it. But it is very unpleasant lying in a pool of water, with streams running in at one's neck."

"As to one's blanket, it is like a sponge, five minutes after the rain begins," the officer said.

"I am better off in that respect," Gregory remarked; "for, when I left my little tent behind, I kept a waterproof sheet instead of my second blanket. I had intended to use it tent fashion, but it was blown down in a minute, after the first storm burst. Now I stand up, wrap my blanket tightly round me, while my boy does the same with the waterproof sheet; and I keep moderately dry, except that the water will trickle in at the end, near my neck. But, on the other hand, the wrapping keeps me so hot that I might almost as well lie uncovered in the rain."

The staff had intended taking a few tents with them, but these were practically of no use at all, as all canvas had to be lowered by the time that "lights out" sounded, and after that hour no loud talking was permitted in the camp. This might have been a privation, had the weather been fine, but even the most joyous spirit had little desire for conversation, when the rain was falling in bucketfuls over him.

The officers of the white division lay down by their men, in the position they would occupy if an attack by the enemy took place. The officers of the Egyptian regiments lay together, just in rear of their men. As soon as the "last post" sounded, absolute silence reigned. The sentries, placed a very short distance out, kept their senses of sight and hearing on the alert; and with eye and ear strove to detect the approach of a lurking foe. Jaalin scouts were stationed outside the zareba, so as to give an early warning of the approach of the enemy; but no reliance could be placed upon them; for, altogether without discipline, they would probably creep under bushes, and endeavour to find some shelter from the pitiless downpour.

Had the Khalifa known his business, he would have taken advantage of the tempestuous night, and launched his warriors at the camp. Confident as the officers of the expedition were, in the ability of their men to repulse any assault that might be made in the daylight, it was felt that such an attack would cause terrible loss, and possibly grave disaster, if delivered at night. The enemy might not be discovered until within a few yards of the camp. The swish of the rain, and the almost incessant crash of thunder, would deaden the sound of their approach; and, long before the troops could leap to their feet and prepare to receive them calmly, the Dervishes would be upon them. As the latter were enormously stronger in numbers, the advantage of superior weapons would be lost in a hand-to-hand fight, and in the inevitable confusion, as the troops in reserve would be unable to open fire, while ignorant of the precise position of friends and foes.

The Khalifa, however, was relying upon prophecy. It was at Kerreri that the infidel army was to be utterly destroyed, and he may have thought that it would be tempting fate, were he to precipitate an action before the invaders reached the spot where their doom had been pronounced.

Even more miserable than night was the hour before dawn. Lying still, drenched to the skin as they were, Nature prevailed, and the men obtained some sleep; but when they rose to their feet, and threw off the sodden blankets, they felt the full misery of eight hours' drenching. They were cold now, as well as wet, and as they endeavoured to squeeze the water from their clothes, and to restore circulation by swinging their arms, but few words were spoken; and the rising of the sun, which was regarded as a terrible infliction during the day, was eagerly looked for. No sooner did it appear above the horizon than the spirits of the men rose rapidly, and they laughed, joked, and made light of the inconveniences of the situation.

An hour later, their clothes were nearly dry. By that time they were all well on their way, the brigades, as before, marching in echelon -- Wauchope's brigade on the left, Lyttleton's farther to the right but more to the rear, the three Egyptian brigades farther out on the plain, the 21st Lancers scouting the ground in front of the British division, and the native cavalry and camel corps out beyond the right of the Egyptians.

All expected that, at least, they should have a skirmish before they reached Kerreri, where they were to encamp; but, as they advanced, it was found that the Dervishes had fallen back from that line, and had joined the Khalifa's main force near Omdurman.

By ten in the morning the army had arrived at its camping place, which was in the southern part of the ground occupied by the straggling village. As usual, both extremities of the line rested on the Nile, forming a semicircle, in which the baggage animals and stores were placed, in charge of Collinson's brigade. The gunboats took up their position, to cover the ground over which an enemy must approach to the attack.

While the infantry were settling down, the cavalry and camel corps went out scouting. Signallers soon mounted a rugged hill, named Surgham, and from here a fine view was obtained of Omdurman, and the Khalifa's army. Omdurman was six miles away, covering a wide tract of ground, with but few buildings rising above the general level, the one conspicuous object being the great tomb of the Mahdi, with its white dome.

In the outskirts of the town were the white tents of the Dervish army. For the present these were unoccupied, the whole force being drawn up, in regular line, out on the plain; about halfway between the town and Surgham Hill. It was formed in five divisions, each of which was bright with banners of all colours, sizes, and shapes. The Khalifa's own division was in the centre, where his great black banner, waving from a lofty flagstaff, could be plainly made out.

The Lancers, Egyptian cavalry, and camel corps continued to advance, capturing several parties of footmen, principally Jaalins, who probably lagged purposely behind the retiring Dervishes, in order to be taken. At times the cavalry attempted to charge the Dervish horsemen, when these approached, but in no case did the latter await the attack.

Presently, above the occasional musketry fire, came the boom of a heavy gun. There was a thrill of excitement in the camp. The gunboats had arrived opposite Omdurman, and had opened fire upon the Dervish riverside forts. These were strongly constructed; but, as in the forts at Metemmeh and Shabluka, the embrasures were so faultily constructed that the guns could only be brought to bear upon the portion of the river directly facing them, and the four gunboats passed them without receiving any material damage, and were so able to maintain the bombardment without receiving any fire in return. At the same time, they landed the forty-pounder guns on an island but a short distance from the town, and thence opened fire with lyddite shells upon it. The howitzers were trained upon the Mahdi's tomb, and soon great holes were knocked in the dome.

It could be seen, from the top of the hill, that this caused great excitement in the Dervish lines, and a number of their horsemen rode out against the Lancers, and drove in their advance scouts; but, on the main body of the regiment moving forward, they fell back to their line; and almost immediately a heavy body of infantry moved out, their intention evidently being to surround and cut off the regiment, while at the same time a general advance took place. The Colonel of the Lancers dismounted a portion of his men, and these checked the advance of the enemy, until the rest fell back.

The news of the advance was signalled to General Kitchener, and the whole force at once took their position, in fighting order. Believing that a general attack on the camp would now be made, the cavalry fell back on either flank, so as to clear the way for the fire of the artillery and infantry.

The Dervishes had a good view of our camp from the top of Surgham, but the Khalifa apparently considered that it was too late in the day for a general attack, and drew off his men to their former position, and the rest of the afternoon and evening passed quietly. As the men ate their meal, of tinned meat and biscuit, they were in higher spirits than they had been since the advance began. Hitherto, they had been in constant apprehension lest the Dervishes should shun a battle, and would retire across the desert to El Obeid, or elsewhere; and that they would have to perform interminable desert marches, only to find, on arriving at the goal, that the enemy had again moved off. The events of the day, however, seemed to show that this fear was groundless, and that the Khalifa had determined to fight a decisive battle for the defence of his capital.

The British soldier is ready to support any fatigue, and any hardship, with a prospect of a fight at the end; and, during the advance, he is always haunted by the fear that the enemy will retire, or give in on his approach. This fear was stronger than usual on this expedition, for there was no question as to the greatly superior mobility of the Dervishes; and it was evident that, if they chose to avoid fighting, they had it in their power to do so.



Chapter 14: Omdurman.


The night passed quietly, except that shots were occasionally fired by Dervishes who crept up within range; and that, once, a mounted man, who had apparently lost his way, rode fearlessly into camp; and then, finding himself close to the troops, turned his horse and galloped off again. No shot followed him, as the orders were strict that the camp was not to be alarmed, unless in the case of a serious attack.

At half past three the bugle sounded, and the troops were soon astir. The animals were watered and fed, and the men had a breakfast of cocoa or tea, with biscuits and tinned meat. At half past four Colonel Broadwood, commanding the Egyptian cavalry, sent out a squadron to the hills on the west, and another to Surgham Hill.

The latter arrived at their destination at two minutes past five, when daylight had just broken. The officer in command saw at once that the Dervish army had been reinforced in the night, and were marching to attack us. News was at once sent back to the camp, where all was in readiness for an advance.

No news could have been more welcome. It was one thing to attack the Dervishes in their chosen position, and to carry the narrow streets of Omdurman at the point of the bayonet -- the Dervishes had shown, at Abu Hamed, how desperately they could fight under such circumstances -- and another to meet them while attacking our position, in the open. This was protected, along the line occupied by the white troops, by a hedge; while the three Egyptian brigades had constructed shelter trenches. These afforded a vastly better defence against a foe advancing by daylight, although they would not be so effective in checking a sudden and determined rush, in the darkness.

Preparations were at once made to oppose the enemy. The Sirdar and his staff were already mounting, when the news arrived. The horses were now taken to the rear, the reserve ammunition boxes lifted from the mules' backs, and the animals led to a sheltered position, behind some huts.

The guns were wheeled up into positions between the infantry brigades. The troops were disposed in line, two deep; two companies of each battalion, with the stretchers and bearers, taking post at a short distance farther back, to reinforce the front line if hardly pressed, and to supply it from the reserve store of ammunition.

Already the gunboats had recommenced the bombardment of Omdurman, and the mosque of the Mahdi, but as soon as news came that the Dervishes were advancing to the attack, they were signalled to return to cover the flank of the zareba. On their arrival, they took up a position whence they could shell the line by which the Dervishes were advancing, and which would bring them apparently five or six hundred yards west of Surgham Hill.

The Lancers at once started forward to cover the left flank of the position. In a few minutes they reached Surgham Hill, and joined the Egyptian squadron there.

The sight from the crest of Surgham Hill was grand. The enemy's front extended over three miles. The lines were deep and compact, and the banners floated above them. They were advancing steadily and in good order, and their battle cries rose and fell in measured cadence. Their numbers were variously estimated at from fifty to seventy thousand -- a superb force, consisting of men as brave as any in the world, and animated by religious fanaticism, and an intense hatred of those they were marching to assail.

In the centre were the Khalifa's own corps, twenty thousand strong. On their right was the banner of Yacoub, his brother, and beyond, two divisions led by well-known emirs; while on his left was the division led by his son, Osman, known as Sheik Ed Din, the nominal commander-in-chief of the whole force.

The 21st Lancers, out in skirmishing order, were speedily driven back by the Dervishes, and retired into the zareba. When the latter came near enough to see the small British force, a shout of exultation rose from their ranks, for they felt certain now of surrounding and annihilating the infidels, according to the prophecy.

On our side the satisfaction was no less marked. The front line moved forward to the thorny hedge, and prepared to open fire above it. The black troops uttered a joyful shout of defiance, as they took their places in their trenches.

When the enemy were two thousand eight hundred yards away, the three batteries on the left of the zareba opened fire; and two batteries on the right, and a number of Maxims, joined in pouring shell and bullets into the thickest of the Dervish mass round the Khalifa's banner. The effect was terrible. For a moment the Dervish lines halted, astonished at the storm to which they were exposed. But it was only for a moment. The wide gaps were filled up, and at a quicker pace than before, the great line swept on; the banner bearers and Baggara horsemen pushing forward to the front, to encourage the infantry.

Seeing how persistently they were coming on, the Sirdar ordered the men of Lyttleton's brigade to open fire at long range. The Grenadiers were the first to begin, firing volleys in sections. The other regiments of the brigade were soon hard at it, but neither they nor the Maxims appeared to be doing serious execution, while the terrible effect of the shell fire could really be seen. But, although great numbers of the enemy were killed or wounded by the bursting shells, there was no halt in the forward movement.

Suddenly, over the crest and sides of the Surgham Hill, the division of the Dervish right, reinforced by a portion of Yacoub's division, appeared; and over fifteen thousand men came streaming down the hill, waving banners and shouting their war cries. They were led by their emirs, on horseback; but the infantry kept pace with these, occasionally discharging their rifles at random.

The guns of the three batteries, and one of the Maxims, were swung round and opened upon them. They were less than a mile away, and the whole of Gatacre's division opened a terrific fire. Still the Dervishes held on, leaving the ground they passed over white with fallen men. From seventeen hundred yards the sights had to be lowered rapidly, but at a thousand yards they held their foe. No man could cross the ground swept by the hail of balls. So rapid and sustained was the fire, that men had to retire to refill their pouches from the reserve ammunition, and the rifles were so heated that they could no longer be held. In some cases the men changed their weapons for those of the companies in reserve, in others these companies closed up and took the places of the front line. Not for a moment was there any cessation in the fire.

Unable to do more, Yacoub's men moved towards the front and joined the main body, whose advance had been checked by the fire of Maxwell's Egyptian brigade. A few rounds had been fired by the three cannon that the Khalifa had brought out with him, but they all fell short.

On our side the casualties had been few. In their desperate attempt to get at close quarters, the Dervish riflemen had not stopped to reload the weapons they had discharged, and there was practically no return to the awful fire to which they had been exposed.

But while Yacoub's force had been terribly punished, and the main body, brought to a standstill at a distance of fourteen hundred yards, had suffered almost as heavily, the battle had not gone so well to the right of our position, towards which the Khalifa was now moving. Broadwood's horse, and the camel corps, had been driven off the hill they occupied; and so fierce was the attack that three of the guns of the horse battery had to be left behind. The camel corps were ordered to retire rapidly, and make for shelter to the right rear of the camp. The force made two or three stands, and the Egyptian cavalry more than once charged the pursuing horsemen. The gunboats opened fire, and covered the final retirement of the camel corps, which had lost eighty men.

The cavalry did not retire to the zareba, but continued to fall back, occasionally turning and facing the enemy, until they were five miles away; when the Dervishes gave up the pursuit, and sat down to rest after their tremendous exertions. Although forced to retire, the cavalry had done good service, for they had drawn off a great body of the enemy at a critical moment, and these were unable to return and take part in the battle still raging.

At length, the Khalifa moved off with all his force behind the western hills, and for a short time there was a lull in the battle. Many of the wounded tribesmen crawled up to within seven or eight hundred yards of the zareba, and there opened fire. Their aim was good, and men began to drop fast, in spite of the volleys fired to clear off the troublesome foe. But their fire was soon disregarded for, from the ravines in the range of low hills, behind which the Khalifa's force had disappeared, a mass of men burst out at a hard run. From their shelter behind Surgham Hill, a portion of the force who were there also swept down to join the Khalifa, while Yacoub advanced from the southwest, and another body from the west.

Instantly the infantry and artillery fire broke out again. On the previous day, the distance had been measured and marked on several conspicuous objects; and the storm of shells tore the ranks of the enemy, and the rifles swept them with a rain of bullets. But, in face of all this, the Dervishes continued to advance at a run, their numbers thinning every minute.

Two or three hundred horsemen, with their emirs, dashed at the zareba at full gallop. Shrapnel, Maxim and rifle bullets swept their ranks, but nearer and nearer they came, with lessening numbers every yard, until the last of them fell within about two hundred yards of Maxwell's line. Animated by the example, the infantry rushed forward. The black flag was planted within nine hundred yards of Maxwell's left; but, in addition to the Egyptian fire, the crossfire of the British divisions poured upon those around it.

The main body began to waver, but the Khalifa and his emirs did their best to encourage and rally them. The flag was riddled with balls, and the men who held it were shot down; but others seized the post of honour, until a pile of bodies accumulated round it.

At last, but one man remained standing there. For a minute he stood quietly immovable, then fell forward dead. Then the Dervishes lost heart, and began to fall back in ones and twos, then in dozens, until the last had disappeared behind the hills.

The troops then turned their attention to the men who, lying in shelter, were still maintaining their fire. There were fully a thousand of these, and the greater portion of our casualties took place from their fire, while the troops were occupied in repelling the main attack. It was not long, however, before bullets and shell proved too much for them; and those who survived crawled away, to join their kinsmen behind the hills.

It was eight o'clock now, and the victory had apparently been won. Some ten thousand of the Khalifa's best troops had been killed or wounded. In the British division, one officer and one man had been killed, and three officers and sixty-five men wounded. The latter were at once placed on board the hospital barges. Fresh ammunition was served out and, half an hour after the last shot was fired, the army prepared to march on Omdurman.

It was most important that they should arrive at the town before Ed Din's Dervishes should reach it; for unless they could do so, the loss that would be incurred in capturing it would be vastly greater than that which had been suffered in the battle. At nine o'clock the start was made. The troops advanced in brigades. Lyttleton led on the left, Wauchope was on his right, Maxwell somewhat in the rear, while still more to the right came Lewis, and farther out on the plain Macdonald. They formed roughly half a semicircle. Lyttleton, followed by Wauchope, was to march between the river and Surgham Hill. Maxwell was to cross over the hill, while Lewis and Macdonald were to keep farther out to the right. Collinson's Egyptian brigade was to guard the stores and materials left behind.

The 21st Lancers scouted ahead of the British brigades, to discover if any foe were lurking behind Surgham Hill. When about half a mile south of the hill, they saw a small party of Dervish cavalry and some infantry, who were hiding in what looked like a shallow water course. The four squadrons rode forward at a gallop. A sharp musketry fire opened upon them, but without hesitation they dashed headlong at the Dervishes, when they found that, instead of a hundred and fifty foemen as they had supposed, some fifteen hundred Dervishes were lying concealed in the water course.

It was too late to draw rein, and with a cheer the cavalry rode down into the midst of the foe. There was a wild, fierce fight, lance against spear, sabre against sword, the butt-end of a rifle or the deadly knife. Some cut their way through unscathed. Others were surrounded and cut off. Splendid feats of heroism were performed. Many of those who got over returned to rescue officers or comrades, until at last all the survivors climbed the bank.

The brunt of the fighting fell upon the two central squadrons. Not only were the enemy thickest where they charged, but the opposite bank of the deep nullah was composed of rough boulders, almost impassable by horses. These squadrons lost sixteen killed and nineteen wounded. Altogether, twenty-two officers and men were killed, and fifty wounded; and there were one hundred and nineteen casualties among the horses.

Once across, the survivors gathered at a point where their fire commanded the water course; and, dismounting, speedily drove the Dervishes from it. On examining it afterwards, it was found that sixty dead Dervishes lay where the central squadrons had cut their way through.

The charge, in its daring and heroism, resembled that of the 23rd Light Dragoons at Talavera. The fall into the ravine, on that occasion, was much deeper than that into which the Lancers dashed; but it was not occupied by a desperate force, and although many were injured by the fall, it was in their subsequent charge, against a whole French division, that they were almost annihilated.

Both incidents were, like the Balaclava charge, magnificent; but they were not war. A desperate charge, to cover the retreat of a defeated army, is legitimate and worthy of all praise, even if the gallant men who make it are annihilated; but this was not the case at Talavera, nor at Omdurman. It was a brilliant but a costly mistake. The bravery shown was superb, and the manner in which officers and men rode back into the struggling mass, to rescue comrades, beyond all praise; but the charge should never have been made, and the lives were uselessly sacrificed.

As yet, all was quiet at other points. Bodies of the enemy could be seen, making their way towards Omdurman. The battery opposite the town had, from early morning, been keeping up a fire from its heavy guns upon it; but, save for the occasional shot of a lurking Dervish, all was quiet elsewhere.

While the cavalry charge was in progress, Gregory had moved along the line of the Egyptian brigades with General Hunter. Suddenly, from behind the hills where the Khalifa had fallen back with his defeated army, a column of fully twelve thousand men, led by the banner bearers and emirs, poured out again. A strong body sprang forward from another valley, and made for the southeastern corner of Macdonald's brigade, which had moved almost due west from the position it had occupied in the zareba; while the large force that had chased away the Egyptian cavalry were seen, returning to attack him in the rear.

General Hunter, who was riding between Macdonald's and Lewis's brigades, which were now a good mile apart, exclaimed to Gregory, who happened to be the nearest officer to him:

"Ride to Macdonald, and tell him to fall back, if possible!"

Then he turned, and galloped off to fetch up reinforcements. But the need was already seen. The sudden uproar had attracted the attention of the whole army, and the Sirdar instantly grasped the situation. The moment was indeed critical. If Macdonald's brigade were overwhelmed, it might have meant a general disaster; and the Sirdar at once sent orders to Wauchope's brigade, to go, at the double, to Macdonald's aid.

Fortunately Colonel Long, who commanded the artillery, had sent three batteries with Macdonald's brigade. Collinson's brigade were far away near the river, Lewis's were themselves threatened. It was evident, at once, that no assistance could reach Macdonald in time. When Gregory reached him, the Dervishes were already approaching.

"It cannot be done," Macdonald said sternly, when Gregory delivered the message. "We must fight!"

Indeed, to retreat would have meant destruction. The fire would have been ineffective, and the thirty thousand fierce foes would have been among them. There was nothing to do but to fight.

Macdonald had marched out with the 11th Soudanese on his left, the 2nd Egyptians in the centre, and the 10th Soudanese on the right -- all in line. Behind, in column, were the 9th Soudanese. The last were at once brought up into line, to face the advancing enemy.

Fortunately, the Sheik Ed Din's force was still some little distance away. The batteries took their place in the openings between the battalions, and the Maxim-Nordenfeldts were soon carrying death into the advancing foe; while the Martini-Henry, with which the black and Egyptian troops were armed, mowed them down as by a scythe. The Soudanese battalions fired, as was their custom, individually, as fast as they could load; the Egyptian battalion by steady volleys.

Still the enemy pressed on, until they were within two hundred yards of the line. The emirs and other leaders, Baggara horse and many spearmen, still held on; until they fell, a few feet only from the steady infantry. The rear ranks of the Dervishes now began to fall back, and the desperate charges of their leaders grew feebler; but Ed Din's division was now within a thousand yards. Macdonald, confident that the main attack was broken, threw back the 9th Soudanese to face it, and wheeled a couple of his batteries to support them.

The already retreating Dervishes, encouraged by the arrival of Ed Din's division, returned to the attack. The 11th Soudanese swung round, to aid the 9th in their struggle with Ed Din's troops. The charges of the Dervishes were impetuous in the extreme. Regardless of the storm of shell and bullets they rushed on, and would have thrust themselves between the 9th and 11th, had not the 2nd Egyptians, wheeling at the double, thrown themselves into the gap.

The Dervishes pressed right up to them, and bayonet and spear frequently crossed; but in a fight of this kind, discipline tells its tale. The blacks and Egyptians maintained their lines, steadily and firmly; and against these, individual effort and courage, even of the highest quality, were in vain.

The ground being now cleared, the gunboats opened with Maxim and cannon upon the rear of the Dervishes. The camel corps coming up, each man dismounted and added his fire to the turmoil; and, finally, three of Wauchope's battalions arrived, and the Lincolns, doubling to the right, opened a terrible flank fire. The Dervishes broke and fled; not, as usual, sullenly and reluctantly, but at full speed, stooping low to escape the storm of bullets that pursued them.

Zaki had, throughout the day, kept close to Gregory, ready to hold his horse when he dismounted; but, quick-footed as he was, he was left behind when his master galloped across to Macdonald. He was up, however, in the course of a minute or two, and Gregory was glad to see him, for the horse was kicking and plunging at the roar of the approaching enemy; and was almost maddened when to this was added the crash of the batteries and musketry.

"Put my blanket round his head, Zaki," Gregory said, when the black ran up. "Wrap it round so that he cannot see. Hold the bridle with one hand, and stroke him with the other, and keep on talking to him; he knows your voice. I don't want to dismount if I can help it, for with my field glasses I see everything that is taking place, and I will tell you how matters are going."

For the moment, it seemed as if the surging crowd streaming down must carry all before it; but the steadiness with which the 9th Soudanese moved into their place on the flank of the line, and the other regiments remained, as if on parade, soon reassured him. The terrible slaughter that was taking place in the ranks of the Dervishes soon showed that, in that quarter at least, there was no fear of things going wrong; but he could not but look anxiously towards the great mass of men approaching from the north.

It was a matter of minutes. Would the present attack be repulsed in time for the position to be changed, to meet the coming storm? Occasionally, Gregory looked back to see if reinforcements were coming. Wauchope's brigade was visible over the tops of the scattered bushes. The movements of the line showed that they were coming on at the double, but they were farther away than Ed Din's host, and the latter were running like deer.

He felt a deep sense of relief when the 9th Soudanese were thrown back, performing the movement as quietly and steadily as if on a drill ground; and two batteries of artillery galloped across to their support. He had hardly expected such calm courage from the black battalion. As to the bravery of the Soudanese troops, there was no question. They were of the same blood and race as their foes, and had shown how bravely they could fight in many a previous battle; but he was not prepared for the steady way in which they worked, under such novel circumstances; and although they, too, must have known that every moment was of consequence, they moved without haste or hurry into the new position, scarcely glancing at the torrent which was rushing on towards them.

Not less steadily and quietly did the 11th, considered to be the crack regiment of the brigade, swing round; and as calmly and firmly did the Egyptian battalion -- composed of the peasants who, but twenty years before, had been considered among the most cowardly of people, a host of whom would have fled before a dozen of the dreaded Dervishes -- march into the gap between the two black regiments, and manfully hold their own.

And yet, he could not but feel sorry for the valiant savages who, under so awful a fire, still pressed forward to certain death; their numbers withering away at every step, until they dwindled to nothing, only to be replaced by a fresh band, which darted forward to meet a similar fate; and yet, when he remembered the wholesale slaughter at Metemmeh, the annihilation of countless villages and of their inhabitants, and, above all, the absolute destruction of the army of Hicks Pasha, the capture of Khartoum, the murder of Gordon, and the reduction to a state of slavery of all the peaceful tribes of the Soudan, he could not but feel that the annihilation of these human tigers, and the wiping out of their false creed, was a necessity.

When the last shot was fired, he dismounted and leant against his horse, completely unnerved by the tremendous excitement that had been compressed into the space of half an hour. Zaki was in ecstasy at the victory. The ruthless massacre of so many of his tribesmen, the ruin of his native village, and the murder of his relations was avenged, at last. The reign of the Dervishes was over. Henceforth men could till their fields in peace. It was possible that, even yet, he might find his mother and sisters still alive, in the city but a few miles away, living in wretched existence as slaves of their captors.

Tears of joy streamed down his cheeks. He would have liked to help to revenge the wrongs of his tribe, but his master needed him; and moreover, there was no place for an untrained man in the ranks of the Soudanese regiments. They were doing their work better than he could. Still, it was the one bitter drop in his intense joy, that he had not been able to aid in the conflict.

He expressed this to Gregory.

"You have had your share in the fight, Zaki, just as I have had. I have not fired a shot, but I have been in the battle, and run its risks, and so have you. Each of us has done his duty, and we can say, for the rest of our lives, that we have borne our share in the great battle that has smashed up the power of the Khalifa, and the rule of the Dervishes."



Chapter 15: Khartoum.


There was no pause or rest for the troops who had been fighting, for so many hours, in the heat of the African sun. It was all important to occupy Omdurman before the remnants of the Khalifa's army reached it; and as it was known that the Khalifa himself had returned there, it was hoped that he might be captured.

It was ten o'clock when Macdonald's brigade fired their last shot. In half an hour, the troops went forward again. The field presented a terrible appearance, being thickly dotted with dead, from the Surgham Hill across the plain; and round, by the Kerreri Hills, to the spot where Macdonald's brigade had made their stand. There were comparatively few wounded; for, wiry and hardy as they were, the wounded Dervishes, unless mortally hit, were for the most part able to crawl or walk away; which they had done unmolested, for on each occasion after the bugle sounded cease firing, not a shot was fired at them. But of dead there were fully ten thousand, scattered more or less thickly over the plain.

From the position in which they were placed, the Egyptian troops, as they marched south, passed the spot where the Khalifa's flag was still flying, as it had been left after its last defenders had fallen. Slatin, who was with the army, rode over the plain at the Sirdar's request, to ascertain if any of the Dervish leaders were among the fallen. He recognized many, but the Khalifa, his son Ed Din, and Osman Digna were not among them. The last-named had ever been chary of exposing himself, and had probably, as was his custom, viewed the battle from a safe distance. But round the flag were the Khalifa's brother, Yacoub, and ten or twelve of the leading emirs.

On our side, the loss had been comparatively light. Our total number of casualties, including the wounded, was five hundred and twenty-four; towards which Macdonald's brigade contributed one hundred and twenty-eight. Marching steadily on, the force halted in the outlying suburb of Omdurman, at midday, to obtain much needed food and water. As soon as the cavalry had watered their horses, they were sent round to the south of the town to cut off fugitives, and some of the gunboats moved up to their support.

Deputations of the townsfolk, Greeks and natives, came out and offered to surrender. They said that the Khalifa was in his house, and that he had about a thousand of his bodyguard with him, but that they could not offer any successful resistance. The town was full of fugitive Dervishes; many thousands of them were there -- among them a great number of wounded.

At half past four the Sirdar, with his staff, entered the town; accompanied by Maxwell's Egyptian brigade. Only a few shots were fired. The Dervish courage was broken. It was to the followers of the Prophet, and not to the infidels, that the plains of Kerreri had proved fatal. It was their bodies, and not those of the white soldiers, that were strewn there so thickly. The promise of the Khalifa had been falsified, the tomb of the Mahdi was crumbling into ruins, the bravest of their troops had fallen -- what more was there to be done?

As Slatin Pasha rode in at the head of the troops, he was instantly recognized by the people, among whom, for years, he had been a prisoner; and on his assurances that mercy would be shown to all, if there was no resistance, numbers of the Dervishes came out from their houses and huts, and laid down their arms.

The women flocked out into the streets, uttering their long and quavering cries of welcome. To them the entry of the British was a relief from a living death, as almost all were captives taken in war, or in the Dervish raids upon quiet villages. They could scarce even yet believe that they were free -- that their tyrants were slain or fugitives.

Intense was the surprise and relief of the population, when they were told that there would be no looting -- no harm done to any by the conquerors; that all would be free, if they chose, to depart to their homes, and to take their few belongings with them.

The scene in the town was awful -- the stench overpowering! The Dervishes were absolutely ignorant of all sanitary methods -- pools of the foulest slush abounded, and thousands of dead animals, in all stages of decomposition, lay about the streets. Among them were numerous dead bodies, principally of girls and women, who had been killed by their brutal husbands or masters, to prevent them from falling into the hands of the British. There were also many dead Dervishes, and others desperately wounded.

Strangely enough, the latter did not seem to regard their victorious enemy with the hate that had been exhibited by many of the wounded in the field; and some of them half raised themselves, and saluted the Sirdar and his staff as they passed along.

Presently, there was a commotion in the crowd. The wall of the great granary had been breached, by some of the lyddite shells, and the grain had poured out into the street. The natives near ran up to gather it; and, finding that they were not molested by the British, the news spread rapidly. The crowds in the streets melted away; and the inhabitants, for the most part half starved, made a mad rush to the spot, where in a short time many thousands of men, women, and children were hard at work, gathering and carrying off the grain.

In the meantime the Sirdar, with a party of Maxwell's brigade, passed along by the side of the great wall enclosing the buildings, and square mile of ground, in which were the Khalifa's house, the tomb of the Mahdi, the arsenal, storehouses, and the homes of the principal emirs.

As soon as they had turned the corner of the wall, in view of the tomb and the Khalifa's house, a brisk fire was opened by the garrison. Fortunately, the wall was not loopholed, and they had to get on the top of it, or on to the flat roofs of the houses, to fire. Maxwell's men soon silenced them, and on the troops passing in through the breaches, and along the wall, most of the Dervishes at once surrendered.

For a time, further advance was barred by an inner wall, that still intervened between them and the Khalifa's house. After the gunboats' fire had cleared away a number of the Dervishes clustered outside the south wall, the Sirdar and his staff entered by a gateway, and moved towards the Khalifa's house. This was searched by Slatin Pasha, and several officers and soldiers; but, to the general disappointment, it was found that the Khalifa had escaped but a short time before, carrying with him his treasure; his wives having been sent off, as soon as he returned from the field of battle.

The Mahdi's tomb was a ruin. A large portion of the dome had been knocked away, and the falling fragments had smashed the iron railings that surrounded the tomb, itself.

There was nothing more to be done. The pursuit of the Khalifa, mounted, as he would be, on fresh horses, was out of the question. It was already almost dark, and men and horses had been at work since before daybreak. The town was in a very disturbed state -- large numbers of the Dervishes were still possessed of their arms, and the greater portion of the troops were withdrawn from the pestilential town. Next morning a larger force was marched in, and the work of disarmament completed.

The cavalry went out and scouted the country, and brought in large numbers of prisoners. The men belonging to the tribes that had renounced Mahdism -- Jaalin and others -- were at once allowed to leave for their homes; and numbers of others, whose appearance was peaceful, and who had at once given up their arms, were also released; but there were still no fewer than eleven thousand prisoners, among them some of the Khalifa's emirs.

Many of the townspeople had started, the previous evening, for the field of battle; to bury the bodies of their friends who had fallen, and to bring in the wounded. Of the latter, after our own men had been attended to, fully nine thousand received aid and attention from the British doctors.

On the morning after the occupation, the work of purification began. Great numbers of the unwounded prisoners, and of the townspeople, were set to work to clean the streets; and, in a couple of days, the wider thoroughfares and avenues had been thoroughly cleansed.

Having but little to do, Gregory went into the Khalifa's arsenal. This building was full of war material of all kinds; including a perfectly appointed battery of Krupp guns, numbers of old cannon, modern machine-guns, rifles and pistols; mixed up with musical instruments, suits of chain armour, steel helmets, hundreds of battle flags, and thousands of native spears, swords, and shields. Besides these the collection comprised ivory, percussion caps, lead, copper, and bronze, looms, pianos, sewing machines, boilers, steam engines, agricultural implements, ostrich feathers, wooden and iron bedsteads, paints, India rubber, leather water bottles, clothes, three state coaches, and an American buggy. There were also a modern smithy, where gunpowder, shell, bullets, and cartridge cases were made and stored; and a well-appointed engineers' shop and foundry, with several steam engines, turning lathes, and other tools. The machinery had been brought from Gordon's arsenal at Khartoum, where the foreman had been employed; and the workmen were, for the most part, Greeks.

The battle was fought on Friday, the 2nd of September. On Sunday a flotilla of boats, containing detachments from all the British and Egyptian regiments, and every officer who could be spared from duty, proceeded up the river to Khartoum. The ruined and deserted city looked delightful, after the sand, dirt, and wretchedness of Omdurman. The gardens of the governor's house, and other principal buildings, had run wild; and the green foliage was restful indeed, to the eye, after the waste of sand, rock, and scrub that had been traversed by the army on its way from Wady Halfa.

The vessels drew up opposite a grove of tall palms. Beyond them appeared what had been the government house. The upper story was gone, the windows were filled up with bricks, and a large acacia stood in front of the building.

The troops formed up before the palace, in three sides of a square -- the Egyptians were to the left, looking from the river, and the British to the right -- the Sirdar, and the generals of the divisions and brigades, facing the centre. Two flagstaffs had been raised on the upper story. The Sirdar gave the signal, and the British and Egyptian flags were run up. As they flew out, one of the gunboats fired a salute, the Guards' band struck up "God Save the Queen!" and the band of the 11th Soudanese then played the Khedive's hymn, while the Generals and all present stood in salute, with their hands to the peak of their helmets. The Sirdar's call for three cheers for the Queen was enthusiastically responded to, every helmet being raised. Similar cheers were then given for the Khedive, the bands again struck up, and twenty-one guns were fired.

As the last gun echoed out, the Guards played the Dead March, in Saul; and the black band the march called Toll for the Brave, the latter in memory of the Khedive's subjects, who had died with Gordon. Then minute guns were fired, and four chaplains -- Anglican, Presbyterian, Methodist, and Catholic -- by turns read a psalm or a prayer. The pipers then wailed a dirge, and finally the Soudanese bands played Gordon's favourite hymn, Abide with Me.

At the conclusion, General Hunter and the other officers shook hands with the Sirdar, one by one. Kitchener himself was deeply moved, and well he might be! Fourteen years of his life had been spent in preparing for, and carrying out, this campaign; and now the great task was done. Gordon was avenged. Of the Dervish host, the remnant were scattered fugitives. The Mahdi's cause, the foulest and most bloodstained tyranny that had ever existed, transforming as it did a flourishing province into an almost uninhabited desert, was crushed forever; and it was his patient and unsparing labour, his wonderful organization, that had been the main factor in the work. No wonder that even the Iron Sirdar almost broke down, at such a moment.

The bugles sounded, and the troops broke up their formation; and, for half an hour, wandered through the empty chambers of the palace, and the wild and beautiful garden. Another bugle call, and they streamed down to the water's edge, took to the boats, and returned to Omdurman.

The long-delayed duty, which England owed to one of her noblest sons, had been done. Gordon had had his burial. None knew where his bones reposed, but that mattered little. In the place where he was slain, all honour had been done to him; and the British flag waved over the spot where he disappeared, forever, from the sight of his countrymen.

On Gregory's return, he found Zaki in a state of the highest excitement.

"Why, what is the matter with you, Zaki?"

"Oh, master, I have found my two sisters!"

"That is good news, indeed. I am very glad to hear it, Zaki. How did you find them?"

"While you were away, Master, I had been walking through the town; and when I was passing near the outskirts, a woman came to a door, and looked very hard at me. Then she suddenly drew aside the cloth from her face and cried, 'Surely it is Zaki!'

"Then I knew her -- she was my elder sister. Then another woman came to the door -- it was my younger sister, and you can imagine my joy. Both had been married to Baggaras, who had carried them off. Their husbands had gone to the battle, and had not returned; and some neighbours who had gone to the battlefield, next day, brought back news that they had found both bodies; so one sister came to stay with the other. People had told them that it was safe to go out, and that no one was injured who did so; but they had a store of grain in the house, and they decided to wait and see what happened.

"One of them, seeing me come along, and observing that I belonged to the Jaalin, came out to ask me the news; and they were as delighted as I was, at our meeting."

"And your mother, do they know anything of her?"

"She was killed, Master," Zaki said sorrowfully. "I thought possibly it would be so. The Dervishes did not carry off old women. They killed them, and the little children. I had never hoped to see her again; but I did think, when we entered Omdurman, that my sisters might be here."

"What are they going to do?"

"They will go down to Berber. I have told them that many of the people here are going down, and that they will find no difficulty in joining a party. They are sure to find people they know, at Berber, for most of the Jaalin who have escaped have gone there, since we occupied the place. I told them that I would give them what money I had; for, since I have been in my lord's service, I have had no occasion to spend aught that he has paid me."

"I have no doubt, Zaki, that I can arrange for them to go down in one of the empty store boats. I believe that many of the captives who have been released will be sent down that way; and, of course, I shall be glad to give your sisters enough to keep them, for some time, at Berber."

"My lord is too good," Zaki said gratefully.

"Nonsense, Zaki! You saved my life, and I owe you a great deal. I will go down, at once, to the river -- that is, if your sisters are ready to start tomorrow -- and I have no doubt the transport officer will give me an order, for them, to go in one of the boats."

As he had expected, he had no difficulty in making arrangements. Several of the native boats, that had already landed their stores, would leave on the following day; and Gregory obtained an order for the passage of the two women. He then drew some money from the paymaster and, on his return to headquarters, gave Zaki a hundred dollars for his sisters.

The black was overpowered with joy and, going off, returned with the two girls -- for they were little more. Each took one of Gregory's hands, and pressed it to her forehead and heart, and murmured her thanks.

"Do not thank me," he said. "It is but a small part of the debt that I owe your brother. I do not know whether he has told you that he saved my life, at the risk of his own."

"I have been thinking, my lord," Zaki said, "that it would be well for them to go down in the boat as far as Dongola. Our village is not many miles from that place, and many of our people fled there; and doubtless they will return to their villages, and plant their fields, now that they have no longer any fear of the Dervishes. At any rate, they are certain to meet friends, at Dongola."

"Very well, I will get the order altered. There will be no difficulty about that. I shall be very glad to know that you will have a home to go to, when this war is quite over."

"I shall never go, as long as my lord will keep me," Zaki said, fervently.

"I certainly shall not part with you, Zaki, as long as I remain in this country, which will probably be for a long time."

The next day, Zaki aided in carrying his sisters' goods down to the river bank, and saw them on board one of the native craft, which carried also fifteen or twenty other fugitives.

"Now, Mr. Hilliard," General Hunter said, that morning, "you can devote yourself to the object for which you came here. Unquestionably, there must be many among the prisoners who fought at El Obeid. You may gather all particulars of the battle, from their lips.

"The greater portion of the white troops will march down the country, at once. Of course, I don't know what your plans may be; but unless you have a very good reason to the contrary, I should certainly advise you to retain your position in the Egyptian army. A great deal of work will have to be done, before matters are quite settled down; and then civil administration of some sort will, of course, be formed, under which you would certainly obtain a far better post than you could hope to get, at home."

"I have quite made up my mind to do so, sir. Certainly, when I left Cairo, I had no idea of remaining permanently in the service; but I have been so exceptionally fortunate, owing largely to your kindness, that I have been seriously thinking the matter over; and am quite determined that, if I can obtain an appointment, I will remain here. I have no ties, whatever, either in Lower Egypt or in England; no way of earning my living there; and possibly, as I have begun so early, I may rest, in time, in what will no doubt become an important branch of the Egyptian administration."

"I am glad to hear that you take that view. We all grumble at the Soudan, and yet there are few of us but would be sorry to leave it; and there can be no doubt whatever that, under our administration, it will, in time, become a magnificently rich and fertile province."

Being relieved from other duty, at present, Gregory went to the great yard near the mosque, called the Praying Square, where the majority of the Dervish prisoners were confined. Addressing a man of some five-and-forty years, he asked him, in Arabic, whether many among the prisoners had fought against Hicks, at El Obeid.

The man hesitated.

"I am not asking on the part of the Sirdar," Gregory said; "and you may be sure that, if no punishment is inflicted against those who have fought against us now, there can be no thought of punishment, for a thing that happened so many years ago. My father was, I believe, one of the English officers killed there; but as he spoke Arabic well, it is just possible he was not killed; but, like Slatin and Neufeld, was kept as a slave, in case he might be useful."

"There are many here who fought against Hicks," the native said. "I myself fought there, and nearly all the Baggara who are as old as I am were there, also. I have never heard of a white man who escaped death. When we broke into the square, the English General and his officers charged into the middle of us, and all fell. I was not close at the time, but I saw their bodies, an hour afterwards."

"My father was not a fighting officer. He was the interpreter, and may not have been near the others. When the attack by your people was made, I have heard that one of the Soudanese regiments held together, and marched away, and that there was a white officer with them."

"That was so. Two days afterwards, we surrounded them. They fought hard; and at last, when we had lost many men, we offered that, if they would surrender and become the Mahdi's men, they would be spared. Most of them did so, just as some of our tribesmen, taken by you at Atbara, have now taken service with you."

"But the white officer -- what became of him?"

"I cannot say," the native said. "I have no memory of him. He may have fallen before they surrendered -- who can say? Certainly, I do not remember a white man being killed, after they did so. I will ask others who were there, and tomorrow will tell you what they say."

It was a busy day, in Omdurman. The army that had made such efforts, and achieved so great a triumph, marched in military order, with bands playing, through the town. The Sirdar had a double motive, in ordering them to do so. In the first place, it was a legitimate triumph of the troops, thus to march as conquerors through the town. In the second place the sight would impress, not only the inhabitants, but the Dervish prisoners, with a sense of the power of those who, henceforth, would be their masters; and, undoubtedly, the show had the desired effect. The orderly ranks, as they swept along, the proud demeanour of the men, their physique and equipment, created a profound impression among the natives. Half of them were their own kinsmen, many of whom had fought for the Khalifa, and had now aided in defeating him. This was what had been accomplished by drill and discipline, and the influence of white officers. The Soudanese were evidently well fed and cared for; not even the haughty Baggara held their heads so high.

Especially admired were the artillery, battery following battery, in perfect order. These were the guns that had carried death into the ranks of the Dervishes, against whose fire even the fanatical bravery of the followers of the Khalifa was unable to stand. When the march past was concluded, there was scarce one of the prisoners who would not gladly have enlisted.

On the following day, Gregory again went to the Praying Square. The man he had the morning before seen, at once came up to him.

"I have enquired of many who were at El Obeid, my lord," he said. "All say that there was no white man in the camp, when the black battalion surrendered, though one had been seen while the fighting was going on. Nor was the body of one found, where the fight had taken place on the previous day. It was a matter of talk among the Dervishes, at the time; for they had lain in a circle round the enemy, and were convinced that no one passed through their lines. Those who surrendered said that he had taken the command, and had exposed himself to the hottest fire, and encouraged them; telling them that the more bravely they defended themselves, the more likely they were to obtain favourable terms. The night before, he had advised them to accept any offer the Dervishes might make, but on the following morning he was missing, and none could give any account of what had become of him. The same tale is told by all to whom I have spoken."

The story made a profound impression upon Gregory. It seemed possible that the father, of whom he had no remembrance, might have been the sole white survivor of Hicks's army. True, there was nothing to prove that he was the white man who had joined the black battalion that escaped the first day's massacre. There were other non-combatants: Vizitelly, the artist of the Illustrated London News, and O'Donovan, the correspondent of the Daily News. Either of these might also have been at any other portion of the square, when the attack commenced, and unable to join Hicks and his officers, in their final charge into the midst of the enemy.

Still, it was at least possible that his father was the man who had retired from the field, with the black battalion; and who had, afterwards, so strangely disappeared. If so, what had become of him, all these years? Had he made off in disguise, only to be murdered by wandering bands? Had he been concealed, for months, in the hut of a friendly tribesman? What had he been doing, since? Had he been killed, in trying to make his way down? Had he been enslaved, and was he still lingering on, in a wretched existence?

He could hardly hope that he had fallen into friendly hands; for, had he been alive, he would surely have managed, with his knowledge of the country, to make his way down; or to reach Khartoum, when it was still held by the Egyptians.

At any rate, Gregory concluded that he might find out whether any European had arrived there, during the siege. He went down to the river, and took a native boat across to Khartoum. At the ceremony, on Sunday, many natives watched the arrival of the flotilla; and some of these might have been there, in Gordon's time. He had no great hopes of it, but there was just a chance.

The flags were still flying over the governor's house, when he landed, and a detachment of Egyptian troops was stationed there. A native officer came down, when he landed.

"I have come across to question some of the natives," he said. "I believe some are still living here."

"Oh, yes, Bimbashi! there are a good many, scattered about among the ruins. They come in, bringing fruit and fish for sale. I think they mostly live down by the riverside."

Gregory kept on, till he came to the huts occupied by the fishermen, and men who cultivated small plots of ground. He found several who had lived at Khartoum, when it was captured; and who had escaped the general massacre, by hiding till nightfall, and then making their way up the river, in boats. None of them could give him the information he sought, but one suggested that he was more likely to hear from the Greeks and Turks, who worked in the Khalifa's arsenal and foundries; as they had been spared, for the services they would be able to render to the Mahdi.

Returning to Omdurman, he went to the machine shop. Here work had already been resumed, as repairs were needed by several of the gunboats. He went up to the foreman, a man of some sixty years of age.

"You were engaged in the city during the siege, were you not?" he said, in Arabic, with which he knew the foreman must be thoroughly acquainted.

"Yes, sir, I had been here ten years before that."

"I am very anxious to learn whether any white man, who had survived the battle of El Obeid, ever reached this town before its capture."

The man thought for some time.

"Yes," he said, "a white man certainly came here, towards the end of the siege. I know, because I happened to meet him, when I was going home from work; and he asked me the way to the governor's. I should not have known him to be a white man, for he had a native attire; and was as black, from exposure to the sun, as any of the Arabs. I gave him directions, and did not ask him any questions; but it was said, afterwards, that he was one of Hicks's officers. Later, I heard that he went down in the steamer with Colonel Stewart."

"You did not hear his name?" Gregory asked, anxiously.

"No, sir."

"Did he talk Arabic well?"

"Extremely well. Much better than I did, at the time."

"Do you remember how long he arrived before the steamer started?"

"Not very long, sir, though I really cannot tell you how long it was."

"After you were cut off, I suppose?"

"Certainly it was, but I cannot say how long."

"No one else, here, would know more about it than you do?"

"No, sir; I should think not. But you can ask them."

He called up some of the other workmen. All knew that a white officer, of Hicks Pasha's army, was said to have returned. One of them remembered that he had come down once, with Gordon, to see about some repairs required to the engines of a steamer; but he had never heard his name, nor could he recall his personal appearance, except that he seemed to be a man about thirty. But he remembered once seeing him, again, on board Stewart's steamer; as they had been working at her engines, just before she started.

After thanking the foreman, Gregory returned to the hut, where he and two other officers of Hunter's staff had taken up their quarters. He was profoundly depressed. This white man might well have been his father; but if so, it was even more certain than before that he had fallen. He knew what had been the fate of Stewart's steamer, the remains of which he had seen at Hebbeh. The Colonel, and all with him, had accepted the invitation of the treacherous sheik of that village, and had been massacred. He would at least go there, and endeavour to learn, from some of the natives, the particulars of the fate of those on board; and whether it was possible that any of the whites could have escaped.

After sitting for some time, in thought, he went to General Hunter's quarters, and asked to see him. The General listened, sympathetically, to his story.

"I never, for a moment, thought that your father could have escaped," he said; "but from what you tell me, it is possible that he did so, only to perish afterwards. But I can well understand how, having learnt so much, you should be anxious to hear more. Certainly, I will grant your request for leave to go down to Hebbeh. As you know, that place was taken and destroyed, by the river column under Earle; or rather under Brackenbury, for Earle had been killed in the fight at Kirkeban. Numerous relics were found of the massacre, but the journal Stewart was known to have kept was not among them. Had it been there it would, no doubt, have mentioned the survivor of Hicks's army, who was coming down the river with him.

"The place was deserted when Brackenbury arrived. It certainly was so, when we came up. Since then, some of the inhabitants have probably returned; and may know of places where plunder was hidden away, on the approach of Brackenbury's column. No doubt the offer of a reward would lead to their production.

"You may not have to be absent long. The British regiments are to go down at once, and several steamers will start tomorrow. I will give you an order to go with them. You will have no difficulty in getting back, for the Sirdar has already decided that the railway is to be carried on, at once, from Atbara to Khartoum; and has, I believe, telegraphed this morning that material and stores are to be sent up, at once. Most of these will, no doubt, be brought on by rail; but grain, of which large quantities will be required, for the use of our troops and of the population of the town, will come on by water.

"But, no doubt, your quickest way back will be to ride to Abu Hamed, and take the train up to Atbara."

"I will be back as soon as I can, General. I am much obliged to you, for letting me go."

"I will tell the Sirdar that I have given you leave, and why. It is not absolutely necessary, but it is always well that one's name should be kept to the front."

The next day, Gregory saw the General again.

"I mentioned, to the Sirdar, that you wanted a fortnight's leave, and told him why. He simply nodded, and said, 'Let him have a month, if he wants it.'

"He had other things to think of; for, this morning, a small Dervish steamer came down the White Nile. They had the Khalifa's flag flying, and had not heard of what had taken place, till one of the gunboats ran alongside her. Of course she surrendered, at once.

"It is a curious story they told. They left Omdurman a month ago with the Sapphire, which carried five hundred men. The object of the voyage was to collect grain. When they reached the old station of Fashoda, they had been fired upon by black troops, with some white men among them, who had a strange flag flying. The firing was pretty accurate, for they had forty men killed and wounded; and the emir in command had disembarked, and encamped his troops from the Sapphire on the opposite bank, and had sent the small steamer back, to ask the Khalifa for orders.

"The story seemed so strange, and improbable, that I went down with the Sirdar to the boat, which had been brought alongside. There was no doubt that it had been peppered with balls. Some of the General's staff cut one of the bullets out of the woodwork, and these fully confirmed the story. They were not leaden balls, or bits of old iron, but conical nickel bullets. They could only have been fired from small-bore rifles, so there were certainly white men at Fashoda. Of course, no one can form any opinion as to who they are, or where they come from. They may be Belgians from the Congo. They may -- but that is most improbable -- be an expeditionary party of Italians. But Italy is withdrawing, and not pushing forward, so I think it is out of the question that they are concerned in the matter.

"The question seems to lie between Belgians and French, unless an expedition has been sent up from our possessions on the great lakes. The Dervishes in the steamer can only say that the flag is not at all like ours; but as their ignorance of colour is profound, they give all sorts of contradictory statements. Anyhow, it is a serious matter. Certainly, no foreign power has any right to send an expedition to the Nile; and as certainly, if one of them did so, our government would not allow them to remain there; for, beyond all question, Fashoda is an Egyptian station, and within Egyptian territory; which is, at present, as much as to say that a foreign power, established there, would be occupying our country."

"It seems an extraordinary proceeding, sir."

"Very extraordinary. If it were not that it seems the thing has absolutely been done, it would seem improbable that any foreign power could take such an extraordinary, and unjustifiable, course. It is lucky for them, whoever they are, that we have smashed up the Dervishes; for they would have made very short work of them, and the nation that sent them would probably never have known their fate."



Chapter 16: A Voice From The Dead.


That afternoon, Gregory heard that orders had been issued for five of the gunboats to start up the river, the first thing in the morning; that the Sirdar himself was going, and was to take up five hundred men of the 11th Soudanese. An order was also issued that all correspondents were to leave, the next day, for Cairo. Gregory had met one of them, that evening.

"So you are all off, I hear, Mr. Pearson?"

"Yes; we did have a sort of option given us, but it was really no choice at all. We might go down instantly, or we must stay till the last of the white troops had gone down. That may be a very long time, as there is no saying what may come of this Fashoda business. Besides, the Khalifa has fairly escaped; and if, out of the sixty thousand men with him, some thirty thousand got off, they may yet rally round him: and, in another two or three months, he may be at the head of as large a force as ever. I don't think, after the way the Egyptians fought the other day, there will be any need for white troops to back them. Still, it is likely that a battalion or two may be left. However, we had practically to choose between going at once, or waiting at least a month; and you may be sure that the censorship would be put on, with a round turn, and that we should not be allowed to say a word of the Fashoda business, which would be the only thing worth telegraphing about. So we have all voted for going.

"Of course, we understand that this pressure has been put upon us, on account of this curious affair at Fashoda. Fortunately, none of us are sorry to be off. There is certain to be a pause, now, for some time; and one does not want to be kicking one's heels about, in this ghastly town; and though it is rather sharp and peremptory work, I cannot say that I think the Sirdar is wrong. Whoever these men may be, they must go, that is certain; but of course it will be a somewhat delicate business, and France -- that is, if they are Frenchmen who are there -- is sure to be immensely sore over the business; and it is certainly very desirable that nothing should be written, from here, that could increase that feeling. I have no doubt the Sirdar telegraphed home, for instructions, as soon as he got the news of the affair; and I imagine that his going up in the morning, with five gunboats, is proof that he has already received instructions of some sort.

"I hope this force is not French. The feeling against us is tremendously strong, in France, and they certainly will not like backing down; but they will have to do that or fight and, with all their big talk, I don't think they are ready to risk a war with us; especially as, though their occupation of Fashoda would be an immense annoyance to us, it would be of no possible utility to them.

"By the way, we have all got to sell our horses. There is no possibility of taking them down, and it is a question of giving them away, rather than of selling; for, of course, the officers of the British regiments do not want to buy. I have a horse for which I gave twenty-five pounds, at Cairo. You are welcome to him. You can give me a couple of pounds, for the saddle and things."

"I am very much obliged to you, but it would be robbery."

"Not at all. If you won't take him, I shall have him shot, tonight. A horse could not possibly pick up food here, and would die of starvation without a master; and it would be still more cruel to give him to a native, for they are brutal horse masters."

"Well, in that case I shall be glad, indeed, to have him; and I am extremely obliged to you."

"That is right. If you will send your man round, I will hand it over to him."

"As you are going tomorrow, it is likely that I shall go with you; for I am going down, also, as far as Abu Hamed, for ten days."

"That will be pleasant, though I do not know that it will be so for you; for I own the majority of us are rather sour-tempered, at present. Though we may be glad enough to go, one does not care to be sent off at a moment's notice, just as fractious children are turned out of a room, when their elders want a private chat. However, for myself, I am not inclined to grumble. I want to go, and therefore I do not stand on the order of going."

Later, General Hunter gave Gregory an order, for a passage in a steamer on which the correspondents of the various newspapers were going down.

"What shall we take, master?" Zaki asked.

"Just the clothes we stand in, Zaki. I have got a couple of the Dervish Remingtons, and several packets of ammunition. I will take them, and I can get four more. We will take them all down, as we know the people about Hebbeh are not disposed to be friendly. I don't suppose, for a minute, that they are likely to show any hostile feeling; for you may be sure that the fall of Omdurman has spread, by this time, over the whole land, and they will be on their best behaviour. Still, it is just as well to be able to defend ourselves, and I shall engage four men at Abu Hamed to go with us. I shall leave all my kit here."

It was a pleasant run down the river, to Atbara. The correspondents were all heartily glad to be on their way home; and the irritation they had at first felt, at being so suddenly ordered away, at the moment when so unexpected and interesting a development occurred, had subsided. They had witnessed one of the most interesting battles ever fought, had seen the overthrow of the Mahdi, and were looking forward to European comforts and luxuries again.

At Atbara all left the steamer, which was to take in stores, and go up again at once; and proceeded, by a military train, with the first of the returned European regiments.

At Abu Hamed, Gregory left them. His first enquiry was whether any boats were going down the river. He learned that several native craft were leaving, and at once engaged a passage in one of them to Hebbeh. He had no difficulty, whatever, in engaging four sturdy Arabs from among those who were listlessly hanging round the little station. While he was doing this, Zaki bought food for six men, for a week; and in less than two hours from his arrival at Abu Hamed, Gregory was on board.

The boat at once dropped down the river and, as the current was running strongly, they were off Hebbeh next morning, at eight o'clock. A boat put off, and took Gregory and his party ashore. As they were seen to land, the village sheik at once came down to them.

"Is there anything I can do for my lord?" he asked.

"Yes; I have come here to ascertain whether any of those, who were present at the attack upon the party who landed from the steamer over there, are still living here. There is no question of punishment. On the contrary, I have come here to obtain information as to some private matters, and anyone who can give me that information will be well rewarded."

"There are but three men alive who were here at the time, my lord. There were more, but they fled when the boats with the white troops came up, from Merawi. I believe they went to the Dervish camp at Metemmeh.

"The three here are quiet and respectable men. They were asked many questions, and guided the white officers to the place where Wad Etman stood -- it was there that those who landed from the steamer first rested -- and to the place where the great house of Suleiman Wad Gamr, Emir of Salamat, stood.

"It was there that the much to be regretted attack on the white men was made. When the white army came up, six months afterwards, they blew up the house, and cut down all the palm trees in the village."

"I was with the force that came up from Merawi, last year. Will you bring me the three men you speak of? I would question them, one by one. Assure them that they need not be afraid of answering truthfully, even if they themselves were concerned in the attack upon the white officers, and the crew of the steamer, for no steps will be taken against them. It is eighteen years since then; and, no doubt, their houses were destroyed and their groves cut down, when the British column came here and found the place deserted. I am ready to reward them, if I obtain the information I require from them."

The three men were presently brought to the spot where Gregory had seated himself, in the shade of one of the huts. Zaki stood beside him, and the four armed men took post, a short distance away.

The first called up was a very old man. In reply to Gregory's questions, he said:

"I was already old when the steamboat ran ashore. I took no hand in the business; the white men had done me no harm, while the followers of the Mahdi had killed many of my family and friends. I heard what was going to be done, and I stayed in my house. I call upon Allah to witness that what I say is true!"

"Do you know if any remains of that expedition are still in existence?"

"No, my lord. When the white troops came here, some months afterwards, I fled, as all here did; but I know that, before they destroyed Wad Gamr's house, they took away some boxes of papers that had been brought ashore from the ship, and were still in the house. I know of nothing else. The clothes of the men on board the steamboat were divided among those who took part in the attack, but there was little booty."

Gregory knew that, at Wad Gamr's house, but few signs of the tragedy had been found when General Brackenbury's troops entered. Bloodstained visiting cards of Stewart's, a few scraps of paper, and a field glass had, alone, been discovered, besides the boxes of papers.

The next man who came up said that he had been with the party who fell upon the engineers and crew of the boat, by the riverside.

"I was ordered to kill them," he said. "Had I not done so, I should have been killed, myself."

"Do you know whether any booty was hidden away, before the English came?"

"No, my lord, there was no booty taken. No money was found on board the steamer. We stripped her of the brass work, and took the wood ashore, to burn. The sheik gave us a dollar and a half a man, for what we had done. There may have been some money found on the ship, but as his own men were on board first, and took all that they thought of value, I have naught to say about it."

"And you never heard of anything being hidden, before the British troops arrived?"

The Arab shook his head.

"No, my lord, but there may have been, though I never heard of it. I went and fought at Kirkeban; and when we were beaten, I fled at once to Berber, and remained there until the white troops had all gone down the country."

"I may want to question you again tomorrow," Gregory said. "Here are two dollars. I shall give you as much more, if I want you again."

The third man was then called up. He was evidently in fear.

"Do not be afraid to answer me truly," Gregory said. "If you do so, no harm will come to you, whatever share you may have had in the affair. But if you answer falsely, and the truth is afterwards discovered, you will be punished. Now, where were you when this business took place?"

"We were all ordered, by Wad Gamr, to gather near his house; and, when the signal was given, we were to run in and kill the white men. We saw them go up to the house. They had been told to leave their arms behind them. One of the sheik's servants came out and waved his arms, and we ran in and killed them."

"What happened then?"

"We carried the bodies outside the house. Then we took what money was found in their pockets, with watches and other things, in to the sheik; and he paid us a dollar and a half a head, and said that we could have their clothes. For my share, I had a jacket belonging to one of them. When I got it home, I found that there was a pocket inside, and in it was a book partly written on, and many other bits of paper."

"And what became of that?" Gregory asked, eagerly.

"I threw it into a corner. It was of no use to me. But when the white troops came up in the boats, and beat us at Kirkeban, I came straight home and, seeing the pocketbook, took it and hid it under a rock; for I thought that when the white troops got here, they would find it, and that they might then destroy the house, and cut down my trees. Then I went away, and did not come back until they had all gone."

"And where is the pocketbook, now?"

"It may be under the rock where I hid it, my lord. I have never thought of it, since. It was rubbish."

"Can you take me to the place?"

"I think so. It was not far from my house. I pushed it under the first great rock I came to, for I was in haste; and wanted to be away before the white soldiers, on camels, could get here."

"Did you hear of any other things being hidden?"

"No. I think everything was given up. If this thing had been of value I should, perhaps, have told the sheik; but as it was only written papers, and of no use to anyone, I did not trouble to do so."

"Well, let us go at once," Gregory said, rising to his feet. "Although of no use to you, these papers may be of importance."

Followed by Zaki and the four men, Gregory went to the peasant's house, which stood a quarter of a mile away.

"This is not the house I lived in, then," the man said. "The white troops destroyed every house in the village; but, when they had gone, I built another on the same spot."

The hill rose steeply, behind it. The peasant went on, till he stopped at a large boulder.

"This was the rock," he said, "where I thrust it under, as far as my arm would reach. I pushed it in on the upper side."

The man lay down.

"It was just about here," he said.

"It is here, my lord. I can just feel it, but I cannot get it out. I pushed it in as far as the tips of my fingers could reach it."

"Well, go down and cut a couple of sticks, three or four feet long."

In ten minutes, the man returned with them.

"Now take one of them and, when you feel the book, push the stick along its side, until it is well beyond it. Then you ought to be able to scrape it out. If you cannot do so, we shall have to roll the stone over. It is a big rock, but with two or three poles, one ought to be able to turn it over."

After several attempts, however, the man produced the packet. Gregory opened it, with trembling hands. It contained, as the man had said, a large number of loose sheets, evidently torn from a pocketbook, and all covered with close writing.

He opened the book that accompanied them. It was written in ink, and the first few words sufficed to tell him that his search was over. It began:

"Khartoum. Thank God, after two years of suffering and misery, since the fatal day at El Obeid, I am once again amongst friends. It is true that I am still in peril, for the position here is desperate. Still, the army that is coming up to our help may be here in time; and even if they should not do so, this may be found when they come, and will be given to my dear wife at Cairo, if she is still there. Her name is Mrs. Hilliard, and her address will surely be known, at the Bank."

"These are the papers I was looking for," he said to Zaki. "I will tell you about them, afterwards."

He handed ten dollars to the native, thrust the packet into his breast pocket, and walked slowly down to the river. He had never entertained any hope of finding his father, but this evidence of his death gave him a shock.

His mother was right, then. She had always insisted there was a possibility that he might have escaped the massacre at El Obeid. He had done so. He had reached Khartoum. He had started, full of hope of seeing his wife and child, but had been treacherously massacred, here.

He would not, now, read this message from the grave. That must be reserved for some time when he was alone. He knew enough to be able to guess the details -- they could not be otherwise than painful. He felt almost glad that his mother was not alive. To him, the loss was scarcely a real one. His father had left him, when an infant. Although his mother had so often spoken of him, he had scarcely been a reality to Gregory; for when he became old enough to comprehend the matter, it seemed to him certain that his father must have been killed. He could, then, hardly understand how his mother could cling to hope.

His father had been more a real character to him, since he started from Cairo, than ever before. He knew the desert, now, and its fierce inhabitants. He could picture the battle and since the fight at Omdurman he had been able to see, before him, the wild rush on the Egyptian square, the mad confusion, the charge of a handful of white officers, and the one white man going off, with the black battalion that held together.

If, then, it was a shock to him to know how his father had died, how vastly greater would it have been, to his mother! She had pictured him as dying suddenly, fighting to the last, and scarce conscious of pain till he received a fatal wound. She had said, to Gregory, that it was better to think of his father as having died thus, than lingering in hopeless slavery, like Neufeld; but it would have been agony to her to know that he did suffer for two years, that he had then struggled on through all dangers to Khartoum, and was on his way back, full of hope and love for her, when he was treacherously murdered.

The village sheik met him, as he went down.

"You have found nothing, my lord?"

"Nothing but a few old papers," he said.

"You will report well of us, I hope, to the great English commander?"

"I shall certainly tell him that you did all in your power to aid me."

He walked down towards the river. One of the men, who had gone on while he had been speaking to the sheik, ran back to meet him.

"There is a steamer coming up the river, my lord."

"That is fortunate, indeed," Gregory exclaimed. "I had intended to sleep here, tonight, and to bargain with the sheik for donkeys or camels to take us back. This will save two days."

Two or three native craft were fastened up to the shore, waiting for a breeze to set in, strong enough to take them up. Gregory at once arranged, with one of them, to put his party on board the steamer, in their boat. In a quarter of an hour the gunboat approached, and they rowed out to meet her.

As she came up, Gregory stood up, and shouted to them to throw him a rope. This was done, and an officer came to the side.

"I want a passage for myself and five men, to Abu Hamed. I am an officer on General Hunter's staff."

"With pleasure.

"Have you come down from the front?" he asked, as Gregory stepped on board, with the five blacks.

"Yes."

"Then you can tell me about the great fight. We heard of it, at Dongola, but beyond the fact that we had thrashed the Khalifa, and taken Omdurman, we received no particulars.

"But before you begin, have a drink.

"It is horribly annoying to me," he went on, as they sat down under the awning, and the steward brought tumblers, soda water, some whisky, and two lemons.

Gregory refused the whisky, but took a lemon with his cold water.

"A horrible nuisance," the officer went on. "This is one of Gordon's old steamers; she has broken down twice. Still, I console myself by thinking that, even if I had been in time, very likely she would not have been taken up.

"I hope, however, there will be work to do, yet. As you see, I have got three of these native craft in tow, and it is as much as I can do to get them up this cataract.

"Now, please tell me about the battle."

Gregory gave him an outline of the struggle, of the occupation of Omdurman, and of what might be called the funeral service of Gordon, at Khartoum. It was dark before the story was finished.

"By the way," the officer said, as they were about to sit down to dinner, "while we were on deck, I did not ask about your men. I must order food to be given them."

"They have plenty," Gregory said. "I brought enough for a week with me. I thought that I might be detained two or three days, here, and be obliged to make the journey by land to Abu Hamed."

"I have not asked you what you were doing at this out of the way place, and how long you have been here."

"I only landed this morning. I came down to search for some relics. My father was on board Stewart's steamer, and as there would be nothing doing at Omdurman, for a few days, I got leave to run down. I was fortunate in securing a boat at Abu Hamed, on my arrival there; and I have been equally so, now, in having been picked up by you; so that I shall not be away from Omdurman more than seven days, if I have equal luck in getting a steamer at Atbara. I do not think I shall be disappointed, for the white troops are coming down, and stores are going up for the Egyptian brigade, so that I am certain not to be kept there many hours. The Sirdar has gone up to Fashoda, or I don't suppose I should have got leave."

"Yes. I heard at Merawi, from the officer in command, that some foreign troops had arrived there. I suppose nothing more is known about it?"

"No; no news will probably come down for another fortnight, perhaps longer than that."

"Who can they be?"

"The general idea is that they are French. They can only be French, or a party from the Congo States."

"They had tremendous cheek, whoever they are," the officer said. "It is precious lucky, for them, that we have given the Khalifa something else to think about, or you may be sure he would have wiped them out pretty quickly; unless they are a very strong force, which doesn't seem probable. I hear the Sirdar has taken a regiment up with him."

"Yes, but I don't suppose any actual move will be made, at present."

"No, I suppose it will be a diplomatic business. Still, I should think they would have to go."

"No one has any doubt about that, at Omdurman," Gregory said. "After all the expense and trouble we have had to retake the Soudan, it is not likely that we should let anyone else plant themselves on the road to the great lakes.

"When will you be at Abu Hamed, sir?"

"We shall be there about five o'clock -- at any rate, I think you may safely reckon on catching the morning train. It goes, I think, at eight."

"I am sure to catch a train, soon, for orders have been sent down that railway materials shall be sent up, as quickly as possible; as it has been decided that the railway shall be carried on, at once, to Khartoum. I expect that, as soon as the Nile falls, they will make a temporary bridge across the Atbara."

It was six in the morning, when the steamer arrived at Abu Hamed. Gregory at once landed, paid his four men, went up to the little station; and, an hour later, was on his way to Atbara Fort. He had but two hours to wait there, and reached Omdurman at three o'clock, on the following afternoon. As he landed, he met an officer he knew.

"Is there any news?" he asked.

"Nothing but Fashoda is talked about. It has been ascertained that the force there is undoubtedly French. The betting is about even as to whether France will back down, or not. They have made it difficult for themselves, by an outburst of enthusiasm at what they considered the defeat of England. Well, of course, that does not go for much, except that it makes it harder for their government to give in."

"And has any news been received of the whereabouts of the Khalifa?"

"No. Broadwood, with two regiments of Egyptian cavalry and the camel corps, started in pursuit of the Khalifa and Osman, an hour after it was found that they had got away. Slatin Pasha went with them. But as the horses had been at work all day, they had to stop at half past eight. They could not then get down to the water, and bivouacked where they had halted. At four in the morning they started again, and at half past eight found a spot where they could get down to the river; then they rode fifteen miles farther.

"They were now thirty-five miles from Omdurman. One of the gunboats had gone up with supplies, but owing to the Nile having overflowed, could not get near enough to land them. Next morning they got news that the Khalifa was twenty-five miles ahead, and had just obtained fresh camels, so they were ordered to return to the town. They had picked up a good many of the fugitives, among them the Khalifa's favourite wife; who, doubtless with other women, had slipped away at one of his halting places, feeling unable to bear the constant fatigues and hardships of the flight in the desert.

"The cavalry have since been out again, but beyond the fact that the Khalifa had been joined by many of the fugitives from the battle, and was making for Kordofan, no certain news has been obtained. At present, nothing can be done in that direction.

"That horse you bought is all right."

"I really did not like taking him, for I already had one; and it looked almost like robbery, giving him two pounds for it, and the saddle."

"Others have done as well," the officer laughed. "One of the brigade staff bought a horse for a pound from Burleigh, who had given forty for it at Cairo. There was no help for it. They could not take horses down. Besides, it is not their loss, after all. The newspapers can afford to pay for them. They must have been coining money, of late."

"That reconciles me," Gregory laughed. "I did not think of the correspondents' expenses being paid by the papers."

"I don't know anything about their arrangements, but it stands to reason that it must be so, in a campaign like this. In an ordinary war, a man can calculate what his outlay might be; but on an expedition of this kind, no one could foretell what expenses he might have to incur.

"Besides, the Sirdar has saved the newspapers an enormous expenditure. The correspondents have been rigidly kept down to messages of a few hundred words; whereas, if they had had their own way, they would have sent down columns. Of course, the correspondents grumbled, but I have no doubt their employers were very well pleased, and the newspapers must have saved thousands of pounds, by this restriction."

"You are back sooner than I expected," General Hunter said, when Gregory went in and reported his arrival. "It is scarce a week since you left."

"Just a week, sir. Everything went smoothly, and I was but three or four hours at Hebbeh."

"And did you succeed in your search?"

"Yes, sir. I most fortunately found a man who had hidden a pocketbook he had taken from the body of one of the white men who were murdered there. There was nothing in it but old papers and, when Brackenbury's expedition approached, he had hidden it away; and did not give it a thought, until I enquired if he knew of any papers, and other things, connected with those on board the steamer. He at once took me to the place where he had hidden it, under a great stone, and it turned out to be the notebook and journals of my father; who was, as I thought possible, the white man who had arrived at Khartoum, a short time before the place was captured by the Dervishes, and who had gone down in the steamer that carried Colonel Stewart."

"Well, Hilliard," the General said, kindly, "even the certain knowledge of his death is better than the fear that he might be in slavery. You told me you had no remembrance of him?"

"None, sir; but of course, my mother had talked of him so often, and had several photographs of him -- the last taken at Cairo, before he left -- so that I almost seem to have known him. However, I do feel it as a relief to know that he is not, as I feared was remotely possible, a slave among the Baggara. But I think it is hard that, after having gone through two years of trials and sufferings, he should have been murdered on his way home."

"No doubt that is so. Have you read your father's diary, yet?"

"No, sir; I have not had the heart to do so, and shall put it off, until the shock that this has given me has passed away. I feel that a little hard work will be the best thing for me. Is there any chance of it?"

"You have just returned in time. I am going up the Blue Nile, tomorrow morning, to clear out the villages; which, no doubt, are all full of fugitives. I am glad that you have come back. I was speaking of you today to General Rundle, who is in command.

"One of the objects of the expedition is to prevent Fadil from crossing the river. He was advancing from Gedareh, at the head of ten thousand troops, to join the Khalifa; and was but forty miles away, on the day after we took this place; but when he received the news of our victory, he fell back. If he can cross, he will bring a very formidable reinforcement to the Khalifa.

"We know that Colonel Parsons started from Kassala, on the 7th, his object being to capture Gedareh, during the absence of Fadil. He is to cross the Atbara at El Fasher, and will then march up this bank of the river, till he is at the nearest point to Gedareh. It is probable that he will not strike across before the 18th, or the 20th. His force is comparatively small, and we do not know how large a garrison Fadil will have left there.

"Altogether, we are uneasy about the expedition. It is very desirable that Parsons should know that Fadil is retiring, and that, so far as we can learn from the natives, he has not yet crossed the Blue Nile. Gedareh is said to be a strong place, and once there, Parsons might hold it against Fadil until we can send him reinforcements.

"In order to convey this information to him, we require someone on whom we can absolutely rely. I said that, if you were here, I felt sure that you would volunteer for the service. Of course it is, to a certain extent, a dangerous one; but I think that, speaking the language as you do, and as you have already been among the Dervishes, you might, even if taken prisoner, make out a good story for yourself."

"I would undertake the commission, with pleasure," Gregory said. "I shall, of course, go in native dress."

"I propose that we carry you a hundred miles up the river, with us, and there land you. From that point, it would not be more than sixty or seventy miles across the desert to the Atbara, which you would strike forty or fifty miles above El Fasher. Of course you would be able to learn, there, whether Parsons had crossed. If he had, you would ride up the bank till you overtake him. If he had not, you would probably meet him at Mugatta. He must cross below that, as it is there he leaves the river."

"That seems simple enough, sir. My story would be that I was one of the Dervishes, who had escaped from the battle here; and had stopped at a village, thinking that I was safe from pursuit, until your boats came along; and that I then crossed the desert to go to Gedareh, where I thought I should be safe. That would surely carry me through. I shall want two fast camels -- one for myself, and one for my boy."

"These we can get for you, from Abdul Azil, the Abadah sheik. Of course, you will put on Dervish robes and badges?"

"Yes, sir."

"I will go across and tell General Rundle, and obtain written instructions for you to carry despatches to Parsons. I will give them to you when you go up on the boat, in the morning. I will see at once about the camels, and ask the Intelligence people to get you two of the Dervish suits. You will also want rifles."

"Thank you, sir! I have a couple of Remingtons, and plenty of ammunition for them. I have two spears, also, which I picked up when we came in here."

"We are off again, Zaki," he said, when he returned to his hut; where the black was engaged in sweeping up the dust, and arranging everything as usual.

"Yes, master." Zaki suspended his work. "When do we go?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"Do we take everything with us?"

"No. I start in uniform. We shall both want Dervish dresses, but you need not trouble about them -- they will be got for us."

"Then we are going among the Dervishes, again?"

"Well, I hope we are not; but we may meet some of them. We are going with the expedition up the Blue Nile, and will then land and strike across the desert, to the Atbara. That is enough for you to know, at present. We shall take our guns and spears with us."

Zaki had no curiosity. If his master was going, it was of course all right -- his confidence in him was absolute.

In about an hour, a native from the Intelligence Department brought down two Dervish dresses, complete. They had still three hours before mess, and Gregory sat down on his bed, and opened his father's pocketbook, which he had had no opportunity to do, since it came into his possession.



Chapter 17: A Fugitive.


"I do not suppose," the diary began, "that what I write here will ever be read. It seems to me that the chances are immeasurably against it. Still, there is a possibility that it may fall into the hands of some of my countrymen when, as will surely be the case, the Mahdi's rebellion is crushed and order restored; and I intend, so long as I live, to jot down from time to time what happens to me, in order that the only person living interested in me, my wife, may possibly, someday, get to know what my fate has been. Therefore, should this scrap of paper, and other scraps that may follow it, be ever handed to one of my countrymen, I pray him to send it to Mrs. Hilliard, care of the manager of the Bank at Cairo.

"It may be that this, the first time I write, may be the last; and I therefore, before all things, wish to send her my heart's love, to tell her that my last thoughts and my prayers will be for her, and that I leave it entirely to her whether to return to England, in accordance with the instructions I left her before leaving, or to remain in Cairo.

"It is now five days since the battle. It cannot be called a battle. It was not fighting; it was a massacre. The men, after three days' incessant fighting, were exhausted and worn out, half mad with thirst, half mutinous at being brought into the desert, as they said, to die. Thus, when the Dervishes rushed down in a mass, the defence was feeble. Almost before we knew what had happened, the enemy had burst in on one side of the square. Then all was wild confusion -- camels and Dervishes, flying Egyptians, screaming camp followers, were all mixed in confusion.

"The other sides of the square were also attacked. Some of our men were firing at those in their front, others turning round and shooting into the crowded mass in the square. I was with a black regiment, on the side opposite to where they burst in. The white officer who had been in command had fallen ill, and had been sent back, a few days after we left Khartoum; and as I had been, for weeks before that, aiding him to the best of my powers, and there were no other officers to spare, Hicks asked me to take his place. As I had done everything I could for the poor fellows' comfort, on the march; they had come to like me, and to obey my orders as promptly as those of their former commander.

"As long as the other two sides of the square stood firm, I did so; but they soon gave way. I saw Hicks, with his staff, charge into the midst of the Dervishes, and then lost sight of them. Seeing that all was lost, I called to my men to keep together, to march off in regular order, and repel all assaults, as this was the only hope there was of getting free.

"They obeyed my orders splendidly. Two or three times the Dervishes charged upon them, but the blacks were as steady as rocks, and their volleys were so fatal that the enemy finally left us alone, preferring to aid in the slaughter of the panic-stricken Egyptians, and to share the spoil.

"We made for the wells. Each man drank his fill. Those who had water bottles filled them. We then marched on towards El Obeid, but before nightfall the Dervish horse had closed up round us. At daylight their infantry had also arrived, and fighting began.

"All day we held our position, killing great numbers, but losing many men ourselves. By night, our water was exhausted. Then the soldiers offered to attack the enemy, but they were twenty to one against us, and I said to them, 'No, fight one day longer, if we can hold on. The Dervishes may retire, or they may offer us terms.'

"So we stood. By the next evening, we had lost half our number. After they had drawn off, one of the Dervish emirs came in with a white flag, and offered life to all who would surrender, and would wear the badge of the Mahdi, and be his soldiers. I replied that an answer should be given in the morning. When he had left, I gathered the men together.

"'You have fought nobly,' I said, 'but you have scarce a round of ammunition left. If we fight again tomorrow, we shall all be slaughtered. I thank you, in the name of the Khedive, for all that you have done; but I do not urge you to reject the terms offered. Your deaths would not benefit the Khedive. As far as I am concerned, you are free to accept the terms offered.'

"They talked for some time together, and then the three native officers who were still alive came forward.

"'Bimbashi,' they said, 'what will be done about you? We are Mahometans and their countrymen, but you are a white man and a Christian. You would not fight for the Mahdi?'

"'No,' I said, 'I would not fight for him, nor would I gain my life, at the price of being his slave. I wish you to settle the matter, without any reference to me. I will take my chance. I may not be here, in the morning. One man might escape, where many could not. All I ask is that I may not be watched. If in the morning I am not here, you can all say that I disappeared, and you do not know how. I do not, myself, know what I am going to do yet.'

"They went away, and in a quarter of an hour returned, and said that the men would surrender. If they had water and ammunition, they would go on fighting till the end; but as they had neither, they would surrender.

"I felt that this was best. The Soudanese love battle, and would as readily fight on one side as on the other. They have done their duty well to the Khedive, and will doubtless fight as bravely for the Mahdi.

"The men lay in a square, as they had fought, with sentries placed to warn them, should the Dervishes make a night attack. British troops would have been well-nigh maddened with thirst, after being twenty-four hours without water, and fighting all day in the blazing sun, but they felt it little. They were thirsty, but in their desert marches they are accustomed to thirst, and to hold on for a long time without water.

"I was better off, for I had drunk sparingly, the day before, from my water bottle; and had still a draught left in it. I waited until I thought that the men were all asleep; then I stripped, and stained myself from head to foot. I had carried stain with me, in case I might have to go out as a native, to obtain information. In my valise I had a native dress, and a native cloth, in which I could have passed as a peasant, but not as one of the Baggara. However, I put it on, passed through the sleeping men, and went up to a sentry.

"'You know me,' I said. 'I am your Bimbashi. I am going to try and get through their lines; but if it is known how I have escaped, I shall be pursued and slain. Will you swear to me that, if you are questioned, you will say you know nothing of my flight?'

"'I swear by the beard of the Prophet,' the man said. 'May Allah protect you, my lord!'

"Then I went on. The night was fairly dark and, as the Dervishes were nearly half a mile away, I had no fear of being seen by them. There were many of their dead scattered about, seventy or eighty yards from our square. I had, all along, felt convinced that it would be impossible to pass through their lines; therefore I went to a spot where I had noticed that a number had fallen, close together, and went about examining them carefully. It would not have done to have chosen the dress of an emir, as his body might have been examined, but the ordinary dead would pass unnoticed.

"I first exchanged the robe for one marked with the Mahdi's patches. It was already smeared with blood. I then carried the body of the man whose robe I had taken off, for some distance. I laid him down on his face, thinking that the absence of the patches would not be seen. Then I crawled some thirty or forty yards nearer to the Dervishes, so that it would seem that I had strength to get that far, before dying. Then I lay down, partly on my side, so that the patches would show, but with my face downwards on my arm.

"I had, before dyeing my skin, cut my hair close to my head, on which I placed the Dervish's turban. The only property that I brought out with me was a revolver, and this pocketbook. Both of these I buried in the sand; the pocketbook a short distance away, the pistol lightly covered, and within reach of my hand, so that I could grasp it and sell my life dearly, if discovered.

"Soon after daylight I heard the triumphant yells of the Dervishes, and knew that my men had surrendered. Then there was a rush of horse and foot, and much shouting and talking. I lifted my head slightly, and looked across. Not a Dervish was to be seen in front of me.

"I felt that I had better move, so, taking up my pistol and hiding it, I crawled on my hands and knees to the spot where I had hidden this book; and then got up on to my feet, and staggered across the plain, as if sorely wounded, and scarcely able to drag my feet along. As I had hoped, no one seemed to notice me, and I saw three or four other figures, also making their way painfully towards where the Dervishes had encamped.

"Here were a few camels, standing untended. Everyone had joined in the rush for booty -- a rush to be met with bitter disappointment, for, with the exception of the arms of the fallen, and what few valuables they might have about their person, there was nothing to be gained. I diverged from the line I had been following, kept on until there was a dip in the ground, that would hide me from the sight of those behind; then I started to run, and at last threw myself down in the scrub, four or five miles away from the point from which I had started.

"I was perfectly safe, for the present. The Dervishes were not likely to search over miles of the desert, dotted as it was with thick bushes. The question was as to the future. My position was almost as bad as could be. I was without food or water, and there were hundreds of miles of desert between me and Khartoum. At every water hole I should, almost certainly, find parties of Dervishes.

"From time to time I lifted my head, and saw several large parties of the enemy, moving in the distance. They were evidently bound on a journey, and were not thinking of looking for me. I chewed the sour leaves of the camel bush; and this, to some extent, alleviated my thirst.

"I determined at last that I would, in the first place, march to the wells towards which we had been pressing, when the Dervishes came up to us. They were nearly three miles south of the spot where the square had stood. No doubt, Dervishes would be there; but, if discovered by them, it was better to die so than of thirst.

"Half an hour before the sun sank, I started. No horsemen were in sight, and if any were to come along, I could see them long before they could notice me. Knowing the general direction, I was fortunate enough to get sight of the palm grove which surrounded the wells, before darkness set in.

"It lay about two miles away, and there were certainly moving objects round it. I lay down until twilight had passed, and then went forward. When within two or three hundred yards of the grove, I lay down again, and waited. That the Dervishes would all go to sleep, however long I might wait, was too much to hope for. They would be sure to sit and talk, far into the night, of the events of the last three or four days.

"Shielding myself as well as I could, by the bushes, I crawled up until I was in the midst of some camels, which were browsing. Here I stood up, and then walked boldly into the grove. As I had expected, two or three score of Dervishes were sitting in groups, talking gravely. They had destroyed the Turks (as they always called the Egyptians, and their infidel white leaders), but had suffered heavily themselves. The three hundred Soudanese who had surrendered, and who had taken service with the Mahdi, were but poor compensation for the losses they had suffered.

"'A year ago,' one old sheik said, 'I was the father of eight brave sons. Now they have all gone before me. Four of them fell in the assaults at El Obeid, two at Baria, and the last two have now been killed. I shall meet them all again, in the abode of the blessed; and the sooner the better, for I have no one left to care for.'

"Others had tales of the loss of relations and friends, but I did not wait to listen further. Taking up a large water gourd, that stood empty at the foot of one of the trees, I boldly walked to the well, descended the rough steps at the water's edge, and drank till I could drink no longer; and then, filling the gourd, went up again.

"No one noticed me. Had they looked at me they would have seen, even in the darkness, the great patches down the front of the robe; but I don't think anyone did notice me. Other figures were moving about, from group to group, and I kept on through the grove, until beyond the trees. I came out on the side opposite to that which I had entered, and, as I expected, found some of the Dervish horses grazing among the bushes.

"No guard was placed over them, as they were too well trained to wander far. I went out to them and chose the poorest, which happened to be farther among the bushes than the others. I had thought the matter well over. If a good horse were taken, there would be furious pursuit, as soon as it was missed; and this might be soon, for the Arabs are passionately fond of their favourite horses -- more so than they are of their families. While I had been waiting at the edge of the wood, more than one had come out to pat and fondle his horse, and give it a handful of dates. But a poor animal would meet with no such attention, and the fact that he was missing was not likely to be discovered till daylight. Probably, no great search would be made for it. The others would ride on, and its owner might spend some hours in looking about, thinking it had strayed away, and was lying somewhere among the bushes.

"I had no thought of trying to return to Khartoum. The wells were far apart, and Dervish bands were certain to be moving along the line. It seemed to me that El Obeid was the safest place to go to. True, it was in the hands of the Mahdists, but doubtless many wounded would be making their way there. Some, doubtless, would have wives and children. Others might have come from distant villages, but these would all make for the town, as the only place where they could find food, water, and shelter.

"Riding till morning, I let the horse graze, and threw myself down among the bushes, intending to remain there until nightfall. In the afternoon, on waking from a long sleep, I sat up and saw, a quarter of a mile away, a Dervish making his way along on foot, slowly and painfully. This was the very chance I had hoped might occur. I got up at once, and walked towards him.

"'My friend is sorely wounded,' I said.

"'My journey is well-nigh ended,' he said. 'I had hoped to reach El Obeid, but I know that I shall not arrive at the well, which lies three miles away. I have already fallen three times. The next will be the last. Would that the bullet of the infidel had slain me, on the spot!'

"The poor fellow spoke with difficulty, so parched were his lips and swollen his tongue. I went to the bush, where I had left the gourd, half full of water. The man was still standing where I had left him, but when he saw the gourd in my hand he gave a little cry, and tottered feebly towards me.

"'Let my friend drink,' I said. I held the gourd to his lips. 'Sip a little, first,' I said. 'You can drink your fill, afterwards.'

"'Allah has sent you to save me,' he said; and after two or three gulps of water, he drew back his head. 'Now I can rest till the sun has set, and then go forward as far as the well, and die there.'

"'Let me see your wound,' I said. 'It may be that I can relieve the pain, a little.'

"He had been shot through the body, and it was a marvel to me how he could have walked so far; but the Arabs, like other wild creatures, have a wonderful tenacity of life. I aided him to the shelter of the thick bush, then I let him have another and longer drink, and bathed his wound with water. Tearing off a strip from the bottom of his robe, I bound it round him, soaking it with water over the wound. He had been suffering more from thirst than from pain, and he seemed stronger, already.

"'Now,' I said, 'you had better sleep.'

"'I have not slept since the last battle,' he said. 'I started as soon as it was dark enough for me to get up, without being seen by the Turks. I have been walking ever since, and dared not lie down. At first, I hoped that I might get to the town where my wife lived, and die in my own house. But that hope left me, as I grew weaker and weaker, and I have only prayed for strength enough to reach the well, to drink, and to die there.'

"'Sleep now,' I said. 'Be sure that I will not leave you. Is it not our duty to help one another? When the heat is over, we may go on. I have a horse, here, which you shall ride. How far is it from the well to El Obeid?'

"'It is four hours' journey, on foot.'

"'Good! Then you shall see your wife before morning. We will stop at the well to give my horse a good drink; and then, if you feel well enough to go on, we will not wait above an hour.'

"'May Allah bless you!' the man said, and he then closed his eyes, and at once went to sleep.

"I lay down beside him, but not to sleep. I was overjoyed with my good fortune. Now I could enter El Obeid boldly and, the wounded man being a native there, no questions would be asked me. I had a house to go to, and shelter, for the present.

"As to what might happen afterwards, I did not care to think. Some way of escape would surely occur, in time. Once my position as a Mahdist was fully established, I should be able to join any party going towards Khartoum, and should avoid all questioning; whereas, if I were to journey alone, I should be asked by every band I met where I came from; and might, at any moment, be detected, if there happened to be any from the village I should name as my abode. It was all important that this poor fellow should live; until, at least, I had been with him two days, in the town.

"From time to time, I dipped a piece of rag in the gourd, squeezed a few drops of water between his lips, and then laid it on his forehead. When the sun began to get low, I went out and caught the horse. As I came up, the Dervish opened his eyes.

"'I am better,' he said. 'You have restored me to life. My head is cool, and my lips no longer parched.'

"'Now,' I said, 'I will lift you into the saddle. You had better ride with both legs on the same side. It will be better for your wound. There is a mound of earth, a few yards away. If you will stand up on that, I can lift you into the saddle, easily. Now put your arms round my neck, and I will lift you in the standing position. If you try to get up, yourself, your wound might easily break out again.'

"I managed better than I had expected and, taking the bridle, led the horse towards the well.

"'You must tell me the way,' I said, 'for I am a stranger in this part, having come from the Blue Nile.'

"'I know it perfectly,' he said, 'having been born in El Obeid. I fought against the Mahdists, till we were starved out; and then, as we all saw that the power of the Mahdi was great, and that Allah was with him, we did not hesitate to accept his terms, and to put on his badges.'

"In less than an hour, we saw the trees that marked the position of the well; and, in another half hour, reached it. At least a score of wounded men were there, many of them so sorely hurt that they would get no farther. They paid little attention to us. One of them was known to Saleh -- for the wounded man told me that that was his name -- he also was from El Obeid. He was suffering from a terrible cut in the shoulder, which had almost severed the arm. He told my man that it was given by one of the infidel officers, before he fell.

"I thought it was as well to have two friends, instead of one; and did what I could to bind his wound up, and fasten his arm firmly to his side. Then I said to him:

"'My horse, after three hours' rest, will be able to carry you both. You can sit behind Saleh, and hold him on with your unwounded arm.'

"'Truly, stranger, you are a merciful man, and a good one. Wonderful is it that you should give up your horse, to men who are strangers to you; and walk on foot, yourself.'

"'Allah commands us to be compassionate to each other. What is a walk of a few miles? It is nothing, it is not worth speaking of. Say no more about it, I beseech you. I am a stranger in El Obeid, and you may be able to befriend me, there.'

"Three hours later Abdullah, which was the name of the second man, mounted, and assisted me to lift Saleh in front of him, and we set out for El Obeid. We got into the town at daybreak. There were few people about, and these paid no attention to us. Wounded men had been coming in, in hundreds. Turning into the street where both the men lived, we went first to the house of Saleh, which was at the farther end, and was, indeed, quite in the outskirts of the place. It stood in a walled enclosure, and was of better appearance than I had expected.

"I went to the door, and struck my hand against it. A voice within asked what was wanted, and I said, 'I bring home the master of the house. He is sorely wounded.'

"There was a loud cry, and the door opened and a woman ran out.

"'Do not touch him,' Abdullah exclaimed. 'We will get him down from the horse, but first bring out an angareb. We will lower him down onto that.'

"The woman went in, and returned with an angareb. It was the usual Soudan bed, of wooden framework, with a hide lashed across it. I directed them how to lift one end against the horse, so that Saleh could slide down onto it.

"'Wife,' the Arab said, when this was done, 'by the will of Allah, who sent this stranger to my aid, I have returned alive. His name is Mudil. I cannot tell you, now, what he has done for me. This house is his. He is more than guest, he is master. He has promised to remain with me, till I die, or am given back to life again. Do as he bids you, in all things.'

"Abdullah would have assisted to carry the bed in, but I told him that it might hurt his arm, and I and the woman could do it.

"'You had better go off, at once, to your own people, Abdullah. There must be many here who understand the treatment of wounds. You had better get one, at once, to attend to your arm."

"'I will come again, this evening,' the man replied. 'I consider that I also owe my life to you; and when you have stayed a while here, you must come to me. My wives and children will desire to thank you, when I tell them how you brought me in here.'

"'Is there any place where I can put my horse?' I asked.

"'Yes,' the woman replied; 'take it to that door in the wall. I will go and unfasten it.'

"There was a shed in the garden. Into this I put my horse, and then entered the house.

"Most of the Arab women know something of the dressing of wounds. Saleh's wife sent out the slave, to buy various drugs. Then she got a melon from the garden, cut off the rind, and, mincing the fruit in small pieces, squeezed out the juice and gave it to her husband to drink. When she had done this, she set before me a plate of pounded maize, which was boiling over a little fire of sticks, when we went in.

"'It is your breakfast,' I said.

"She waved her hand.

"'I can cook more,' she said. 'It matters not if we do not eat till sunset.'

"I sat down at once, for indeed, I was famishing. The food had all been exhausted, at the end of the first day's fighting. I had been more than two days without eating a morsel. I have no doubt I ate ravenously, for the woman, without a word, emptied the contents of the pot into my bowl, and then went out and cut another melon for me.

"When the slave woman returned, she boiled some of the herbs, made a sort of poultice of them, and placed it on the wound. Saleh had fallen asleep, the moment he had drunk the melon juice, and did not move while the poultice was being applied.

"The house contained three rooms -- the one which served as kitchen and living room; one leading from it on the right, with the curtains hanging before the door (this was Saleh's room); and on the opposite side, the guest chamber. I have not mentioned that there were four or five children, all of whom had been turned out, as soon as we entered; and threatened with terrible punishments, by their mother, if they made any noise.

"When I finished my meal I went into the guest chamber, threw myself down on the angareb there, and slept till sunset. When I awoke, I found that a native doctor had come, and examined Saleh. He had approved of what the woman had done, told told her to continue to poultice the wound, and had given her a small phial, from which she was to pour two drops into the wound, morning and evening. He said, what I could have told her, that her husband was in the hands of Allah, If He willed it, her husband would live.

"Of course, I had seen something of wounds, for in the old times -- it seems a lifetime back -- when I was, for two years, searching tombs and monuments with the professor, there had been frays between our workmen and bands of robbers; and there were also many cases of injuries, incurred in the work of moving heavy fragments of masonry. Moreover, although I had no actual practice, I had seen a good deal of surgical work; for, when I was at the university, I had some idea of becoming a surgeon, and attended the courses there, and saw a good many operations. I had therefore, of course, a general knowledge of the structure of the human frame, and the position of the arteries.

"So far the wound, which I examined when the woman poured in what I suppose was a styptic, looked healthy and but little inflamed. Of course, a skilled surgeon would have probed it and endeavoured to extract the ball, which had not gone through. The Soudanese were armed only with old muskets, and it was possible that the ball had not penetrated far; for if, as he had told me, he was some distance from the square when he was hit, the bullet was probably spent.

"I told the woman so, and asked her if she had any objection to my endeavouring to find it. She looked surprised.

"'Are you, then, a hakim?'

"'No, but I have been at Khartoum, and have seen how the white hakims find which way a bullet has gone. They are sometimes able to get it out. At any rate, I should not hurt him; and if, as is likely, the ball has not gone in very far -- for had it done so, he would probably have died before he got home -- I might draw it out.'

"'You can try,' she said. 'You have saved his life, and it is yours.'

"'Bring me the pistol that your husband had, in his belt.'

"She brought it to me. I took out the ramrod.

"'Now,' I said, 'it is most important that this should be clean; therefore, heat it in the fire so that it is red hot, and then drop it into cold water.'

"When this had been done, I took a handful of sand, and polished the rod till it shone, and afterwards wiped it carefully with a cloth. Then I inserted it in the wound, very gently. It had entered but an inch and a half when it struck something hard, which could only be the bullet. It was as I had hoped, the ball had been almost spent, when it struck him.

"Saleh was awake now, and had at once consented to my suggestion, having come to have implicit faith in me.

"'It is, you see, Saleh, just as I had hoped. I felt sure that it could not have gone in far; as, in that case, you could never have walked twenty miles, from the battlefield, to the point where you met me. Now, if I had a proper instrument, I might be able to extract the bullet. I might hurt you in doing so, but if I could get it out, you would recover speedily; while if it remains where it is, the wound may inflame, and you will die.'

"'I am not afraid of pain, Mudil.'

"I could touch the ball with my finger, but beyond feeling that the flesh in which it was embedded was not solid to the touch, I could do nothing towards getting the ball out. I dared not try to enlarge the wound, so as to get two fingers in. After thinking the matter over in every way, I decided that the only chance was to make a tool from the ramrod. I heated this again and again, flattening it with the pistol barrel, till it was not more than a tenth of an inch thick; then I cut, from the centre, a strip about a quarter of an inch wide. I then rubbed down the edges of the strip on a stone, till they were perfectly smooth, and bent the end into a curve. I again heated it to a dull red, and plunged it into water to harden it, and finally rubbed it with a little oil. It was late in the evening before I was satisfied with my work.

"'Now, Saleh,' I said, 'I am going to try if this will do. If I had one of the tools I have seen the white hakims use, I am sure I could get the ball out easily enough; but I think I can succeed with this. If I cannot, I must make another like it, so as to put one down each side of the bullet. You see, this curve makes a sort of hook. The difficulty is to get it under the bullet.'

"'I understand,' he said. 'Do not mind hurting me. I have seen men die of bullets, even after the wound seemed to heal. I know it is better to try and get it out.'

"It was a difficult job. Pressing back the flesh with my finger, I succeeded, at last, in getting the hook under the bullet. This I held firmly against it, and to my delight felt, as I raised finger and hook together, that the bullet was coming. A few seconds later, I held it triumphantly between my fingers.

"'There, Saleh, there is your enemy. I think, now, that if there is no inflammation, it will not be long before you are well and strong again.'

"'Truly, it is wonderful!' the man said, gratefully. 'I have heard of hakims who are able to draw bullets from wounds, but I have never seen it done before.'

"If Saleh had been a white man, I should still have felt doubtful as to his recovery; but I was perfectly confident that a wound of that sort would heal well, in an Arab, especially as it would be kept cool and clean. Hard exercise, life in the open air, entire absence of stimulating liquors, and only very occasionally, if ever, meat diet, render them almost insensible to wounds that would paralyse a white. Our surgeons had been astonished at the rapidity with which the wounded prisoners recovered.

"Saleh's wife had stood by, as if carved in stone, while I performed the operation; but when I produced the bullet, she burst into tears, and poured blessings on my head.

"I am writing this on the following morning. Saleh has slept quietly all night. His hand is cool this morning, and I think I may fairly say that he is convalescent. Abdullah's wife came in yesterday evening, and told the women here that her husband was asleep, but that he would come round in the morning. I warned her not to let him stir out of doors, and said I would come and see him.

"It has taken me five hours to write this, which seems a very long time to spend on details of things not worth recording; but the act of writing has taken my thoughts off myself, and I intend always to note down anything special. It will be interesting to me to read it, if I ever get away; should I be unable to escape, I shall charge Saleh to carry it to Khartoum, if he ever has the chance, and hand it over to the Governor there, to send down to Cairo.

"A week later. I am already losing count of days, but days matter nothing. I have been busy, so busy that I have not even had time to write. After I had finished my story so far, Saleh's slave woman took me to Abdullah's house. I found that he was in a state of high fever, but all I could do was to recommend that a wet rag should be applied, and freshly wetted every quarter of an hour; that his head should be kept similarly enveloped, in wet bandages; and that his hands should be dipped in water very frequently.

"When I got back, I found several women waiting outside Saleh's house. His wife had gossiped with a neighbour, and told them that I had got the bullet out of his wound. The news spread rapidly, and these women were all there to beg that I would see their husbands.

"This was awkward. I certainly could not calculate upon being successful, in cases where a bullet had penetrated more deeply; and even if I could do so, I should at once excite the hostility of the native hakims, and draw very much more attention upon myself than I desired. In vain I protested that I was not a hakim, and had done only what I had seen a white hakim do. Finding that this did not avail, I said that I would not go to see any man, except with one of the native doctors.

"'There are two here,' one of the women said. 'I will go and fetch them.'

"'No,' I said; 'who am I, that they should come to me? I will go and see them, if you will show me where they live.'

"'Ah, here they come!' she said, as two Dervishes approached.

"I went up to them, and they said: 'We hear that you are a hakim, who has done great things.'

"'I am no hakim,' I said. 'I was just coming to you, to tell you so. The man I aided was a friend, and was not deeply wounded. Having seen a white hakim take bullets from wounded men, I tried my best; and as the bullet was but a short way in, I succeeded. If I had had the instruments I saw the infidel use, it would have been easy; but I had to make an instrument, which sufficed for the purpose, although it would have been of no use, had the bullet gone in deeper.'

"They came in and examined Saleh's wound, the bullet, and the tool I had made.

"'It is well,' they said. 'You have profited by what you saw. Whence do you come?'

"I told the same story that I had told Saleh.

"'You have been some time at Khartoum?'

"'Not very long,' I said; 'but I went down once to Cairo, and was there some years. It was there I came to know something of the ways of the infidels. I am a poor man, and very ignorant; but if you will allow me I will act as your assistant, as I know that there are many wounded here. If you will tell me what to do, I will follow your instructions carefully.'

"The two hakims looked more satisfied, at finding that I was not a dangerous rival. One said:

"'Among the things that have been brought in here is a box. Those who brought it did not know what it contained, and it was too strong for them to open, though of course they were able to hammer it, and break it open. It contained nothing but many shining instruments, but the only one that we knew the purport of was a saw. There were two boxes of the same shape, and the other contained a number of little bottles of drugs; and we thought that maybe, as the boxes were alike, these shining instruments were used by the white hakim.'

"'I can tell you that, if I see them,' I said, and went with them.

"In a house where booty of all sorts was stored, I saw the chests which I knew were those carried by Hicks's medical officer. The one contained drugs, the other a variety of surgical instruments -- probes, forceps, amputating knives, and many other instruments of whose use I was ignorant. I picked out three or four probes, and forceps of different shapes.

"'These are the instruments,' I said, 'with which they take out bullets. With one of these thin instruments, they search the wound until they find the ball. Sometimes they cannot find it, and even when they have found it, they sometimes cannot get hold of it with any of these tools, which, as you see, open and shut.'

"'What are the knives for?'

"'They use the knives for cutting off limbs. Twice have I seen this done, for I was travelling with a learned hakim, who was searching the tombs for relics. In one case a great stone fell on a man's foot, and smashed it, and the hakim took it off at the ankle. In another case a man had been badly wounded, by a bullet in the arm. He was not one of our party but, hearing of the hakim's skill, he had made a journey of three days to him. The wound was very bad, and they said it was too late to save the arm, so they cut it off above the elbow.'

"'And they lived?'

"'Yes, they both lived.'

"'Could you do that?'

"I shook my head. 'It requires much skill,' I said. 'I saw how it was done, but to do it one's self is very different. If there was a man who must die, if an arm or a leg were not taken off, I would try to save his life; but I would not try, unless it was clear that the man must die if it were not done.

"But you are learned men, hakims, and if you will take me as your assistant, I will show you how the white doctors take out balls, and, if there is no other way, cut off limbs; and when I have once shown you, you will do it far better than I.'

"The two men seemed much pleased. It was evident to them that, if they could do these things, it would widely add to their reputation.

"'It is good,' they said. 'You shall go round with us, and see the wounded, and we will see for ourselves what you can do. Will you want this chest carried?'

"'No,' I said. 'I will take these instruments with me. Should it be necessary to cut off a limb, to try and save life, I shall need the knives, the saw, and this instrument, which I heard the white hakim call a tourniquet, and which they use for stopping the flow of blood, while they are cutting. There are other instruments, too, that will be required.'"



Chapter 18: A Hakim.


"I succeeded in getting out two more bullets, and then handed the instruments to the hakims, saying that I had shown them all I knew, and would now leave the matter in their hands altogether; or would act as their assistant, if they wished it. I had no fear that harm would come of it; for, being so frequently engaged in war, I knew that they had, in a rough way, considerable skill in the treatment of wounds. I had impressed upon them, while probing the wounds, that no force must be used, and that the sole object was to find the exact course the ball had taken.

"As to the amputations, they would probably not be attempted. A fighting Dervish would rather die than lose a limb; and, were he to die under an operation, his relatives would accuse the operator of having killed him.

"I remained at work with them, for two or three days. In nearly half the cases, they failed to find the course of the ball; but when they did so, and the wound was not too deep, they generally succeeded in extracting it. They were highly pleased, and I took great pains to remain well in the background.

"They were very friendly with me. Their fees were mostly horses, or carpets, or other articles, in accordance with the means of the patients; and of these they gave me a portion, together with some money, which had been looted from the chests carrying silver, for the purchase of provisions and the payment of troops. Although they made a pretence of begging me to remain always with them, I refused, saying that I saw I could no longer be of assistance to them. I could see they were inwardly pleased. They gave me some more money, and I left them, saying that I did not, for a moment, suppose that I could tell them anything further; but that if, at any time, they should send for me, I would try and recall what I had seen the white hakims do, in such a case as they were dealing with.

"In the meantime, Saleh was progressing very favourably; and, indeed, would have been up and about, had I not peremptorily ordered him to remain quiet.

"'You are doing well,' I said. 'Why should you risk bringing on inflammation, merely for the sake of getting about a few days earlier?'

"Abdullah was also better, but still extremely weak, and I had to order that meat should be boiled for some hours, and that he should drink small quantities of the broth, three or four times a day. Many times a day women came to me, to ask me to see to their husbands' wounds; and sometimes the wounded men came to me, themselves. All the serious cases I referred to the hakims, and confined myself simply to dressing and bandaging wounds, which had grown angry for want of attention. I always refused to accept fees, insisting that I was not a hakim, and simply afforded my help as a friend.

"I had the satisfaction, however, of doing a great deal of good, for in the medicine chest I found a large supply of plaster and bandages. Frequently mothers brought children to me. These I could have treated with some of the simple drugs in the chest, but I refused to do so; for I could not have explained, in any satisfactory way, how I knew one drug from another, or was acquainted with their qualities. Still, although I refused fees, I had many little presents of fowls, fruit, pumpkins, and other things. These prevented my feeling that I was a burden upon Saleh, for of course I put them into the general stock.

"So far, I cannot but look back with deep gratitude for the strange manner in which I have been enabled to avert all suspicion, and even to make myself quite a popular character among the people of El Obeid.

"One bottle I found in the medicine chest was a great prize to me. It contained iodine and, with a weak solution of this, I was able to maintain my colour. I did not care so much for my face and hands, for I was so darkened by the sun that my complexion was little fairer than that of many of the Arabs. But I feared that an accidental display, of a portion of my body usually covered by my garments, would at once prove that I was a white man. I had used up the stuff that I had brought with me, when I escaped from the square; and having no means of procuring fresh stain, was getting uneasy; but this discovery of the iodine put it within my power to renew my colouring, whenever it was necessary.

"About a month later. I have been living here quietly, since I last wrote in this journal. The day after I had done so, the Emir sent for me, and said he had heard that I had taken bullets out of wounds, and had shown the two doctors of the town how to do so, by means of instruments found in a chest that was among the loot brought in from the battlefield. I repeated my story to him, as to how I had acquired the knowledge from being in the service of a white hakim, from Cairo, who was travelling in the desert; and that I had no other medical knowledge, except that I had seen, in the chest, a bottle which contained stuff like that the white doctors used in order to put a patient to sleep, so that they could take off a limb without his feeling pain.

"'I have heard of such things being done by the Turkish hakims at Khartoum, but I did not believe them. It is against all reason.'

"'I have seen it done, my lord,' I said. 'I do not say that I could take off a limb, as they did, but I am sure that the stuff would put anyone to sleep.'

"'I wish you to put it to the trial,' the Emir said. 'One of my sons came back, from the battle, with a bullet hole through his hand. The hakim said that two of the bones were broken. He put bandages round, and my son said no more about it. He is a man who does not complain of slight troubles, but yesterday evening the pain became so great that he was forced to mention it; and when I examined his arm, I found that it was greatly swelled. Slaves have been bathing it with cold water, ever since, but the pain has increased rather than diminished.'

"'I will look at it, my lord, but I greatly fear that it is beyond my poor skill to deal with it.'

"The young man was brought in and, on removing the bandage, I saw that the wound was in a terrible state, and the arm greatly inflamed, some distance up the wrist. It was a bad case, and it seemed to me that, unless something was done, mortification would speedily set in.

"'The two doctors saw it an hour ago,' the Emir went on, 'and they greatly fear for his life. They told me that they could do nothing, but that, as you had seen the white hakim do wonderful things, you might be able to do something.'

"'My lord,' I said, 'it is one thing to watch an operation, but quite another to perform it yourself. I think, as the doctors have told you, your son's life is in great danger; and I do believe that, if there were white doctors here to take off his arm, he might be saved. But I could not undertake it. The skill to do so is only acquired by long years of study. How can I, a poor man, know how to do such things? Were I to attempt and fail, what would you say? -- that I had killed your son; and that, but for me, he might have recovered.'

"'He will not recover,' the Emir said, moodily.

"'What say you, Abu? You have heard what this man says; what do you think?'

"'I think, Father, that it were well to try. This man has used his eyes, so well, that he has taken the white man's instruments, and drawn out bullets from wounds. I feel as if this wound will kill me; therefore, if the man fails, I shall be none the worse. Indeed, it would be better to die at once, than to feel this fire burning, till it burns me up.'

"'You hear what my son says? I am of the same opinion. Do your best. Should you fail, I swear, by the head of the Prophet, that no harm shall come to you.'

"The wounded man was a fine young fellow, of three or four and twenty.

"'If it is my lord's will, I will try,' I said; 'but I pray you to bear in mind that I do so at your command, and without much hope of accomplishing it successfully. It would, I think, be advisable that the limb should be taken off above the elbow, so that it will be above the spot to which the inflammation has extended.'

"The Emir looked at his son, who said:

"'It matters not, Father. 'Tis but my left arm, and I shall still have my right, to hurl a spear or wield a sword.'

"I need not tell how I got through the operation. Everything required for it -- the inhaler, sponges, straight and crooked needles, and thread -- was in the chest. The young Arab objected to be sent to sleep. He said it might be well for cowards, but not for a fighting man. I had to assure him that it was not for his sake, but for my own, that I wished him to go to sleep; and that if I knew he was not suffering pain, I might be able to do the thing without my hand trembling; but that if I knew he was suffering, I should be flurried.

"I insisted that the hakims should be sent for. When they came I called them to witness that, at the Emir's command, I was going to try to do the operation I had seen the white doctor perform, although I was but an ignorant man, and feared greatly that I might fail. I really was desperately nervous, though at the same time I did feel that, having seen the operation performed two or three times, and as it was a simple one, I ought to be able to do it. Of course, I had everything laid handy. The tourniquet was first put on the arm, and screwed tightly. Then I administered the chloroform, which took its effect speedily. My nerves were braced up now, and I do think I made a fair job of it -- finding and tying up the arteries, cutting and sawing the bone off, and making a flap. A few stitches to keep this together, and it was done, and to my relief the Arab, who had lain as rigid as a statue, winced a little when the last stitch was put in.

"This was the point on which I had been most anxious. I was not sure whether the amount of chloroform he had inhaled might not have been too strong for him.

"'Do not try to move,' I said, as he opened his eyes and looked round, as if trying to remember where he was.

"As his eyes fell upon me, he said, 'When are you going to begin?'

"'I have finished,' I said, 'but you must lie quiet, for some time. The slightest movement now might cause the flow of blood to burst out.'

"The Emir had stood staring at his son's quiet face, as if amazed beyond the power of speech. Four Dervishes had held the patient's limbs, so as to prevent any accidental movement. A female slave had held a large basin of warm water, and another handed me the things I pointed to. I had begged the hakims to keep their attention fixed on what I was doing, in order that these also might see how the white doctor did such things.

"When his son spoke, the Emir gave a gasp of relief. 'He lives,' he murmured, as if even now he could scarcely believe that this was possible; and as he put his hand upon my shoulder it trembled with emotion.

"'Truly the ways of the white infidels are marvellous. Abu, my son, Allah has been merciful! He must have meant that you should not die, and thus have sent this man, who has seen the white hakims at work, to save your life!

"What is to be done now?' he went on, turning to me.

"'He should be raised very gently, and clothes put under his shoulder and head. Then he should be carried, on the angareb, to the coolest place in the house. He may drink a little juice of fruit, but he had best eat nothing. The great thing is to prevent fever coming on. With your permission I will stay with him, for if one of the threads you saw me tie, round these little white tubes in the arm, should slip or give way, he would be dead in five minutes; unless this machine round the arm is tightened at once, and the tube that carries the blood is tied up. It would be well that he should have a slave to fan him. I hope he will sleep.'

"The Emir gave orders for the bed to be carried to the room adjoining his harem.

"'His mother and his young wife will want to see him,' he said to me, 'and when the danger that you speak of is past, the women will care for him. You will be master in the room, and will give such orders as you please.'

"Then he turned off, and walked hastily away. I could see that he had spoken with difficulty, and that, in spite of his efforts to appear composed and tranquil, his mouth was twitching, and his eyes moist.

"As soon as the bed had been placed, by my directions, near the open window, the four Dervishes left the room. The hakims were on the point of doing so, when I said:

"'I will stay here for a few minutes, and will then come out and talk this matter over with you. I have been fortunate, indeed, in remembering so well what I saw. I heard a white hakim explain how he did each thing, and why, to the sheik of the wounded man's party; and I will tell you what I remember of it, and you, with your wisdom in these matters, will be able to do it far better than I.'

"When they had retired, the door leading into the harem opened, and a woman, slightly veiled, followed by a younger woman and two slave girls, came in. I stopped her, as she was hurrying towards her son.

"'Lady,' I said, 'I pray you to speak very quietly, and in few words. It is most important that he should not be excited, in any way, but should be kept perfectly quiet, for the next two or three days.'

"'I will do so,' she said. 'May I touch him?'

"'You may take his hand in yours, but do not let him move. I will leave you with him for a few minutes. Please remember that everything depends upon his not being agitated.'

"I went out and joined the hakims.

"'Truly, Mudil, Allah has given you strange gifts,' one of them said. 'Wonderful is it that you should have remembered so well what you saw; and more wonderful still is it, that you should have the firmness to cut and saw flesh and bone, as if they were those of a dead sheep, with the Emir standing by to look at you!'

"'I knew that his life, and perhaps mine, depended upon it. The Emir would have kept his oath, I doubt not; but when it became known in the town that Abu, who is known to all for his bravery and goodness, died in my hands, it would not have been safe for me to leave this house.'

"I then explained the reason for each step that I took. They listened most attentively, and asked several questions, showing that they were intensely interested, and most anxious to be able to perform so wonderful an operation themselves. They were greatly surprised at the fact that so little blood flowed.

"'It seems,' I said, 'from what I heard the white hakim say, that the blood flowed through those little white tubes. By twisting the tourniquet very tight, that flow of blood is stopped. The great thing is to find those little tubes, and tie them up. As you would notice, the large ones in the inside of the arm could be seen quite plainly. When they cannot be seen, the screw is unloosed so as to allow a small quantity of blood to flow, which shows you where the tubes are. You will remember that I took hold of each, with the bent point of a small wire or a pair of these nippers; and, while you held it, tied the thread tightly round it. When that is done, one is ready to cut the bone. You saw me push the flesh back, so as to cut the bone as high up as possible; that is because the white doctor said the flesh would shrink up, and the bone would project. I cut the flesh straight on one side, and on the other with a flap that will, when it is stitched, cover over the bone and the rest of the flesh, and make what the hakim called a pad. He said all cutting off of limbs was done in this way, but of course the tubes would not lie in the same place, and the cutting would have to be made differently; but it was all the same system. He called these simple operations, and said that anyone with a firm hand, and a knowledge of where these tubes lie, ought to be able to do it, after seeing it done once or twice. He said, of course, it would not be so neatly done as by men who had been trained to it; but that, in cases of extreme necessity, anyone who had seen it done once or twice, and had sufficient nerve, could do it; especially if they had, ready at hand, this stuff that makes the wounded man sleep and feel no pain.

"'I listened very attentively, because all seemed to me almost like magic, but I certainly did not think that I should ever have to do such a thing, myself.'

"'But what would be done if they had not that sleep medicine?'

"'The hakim said that, in that case, the wounded man would have to be fastened down by bandages to the bed, and held by six strong men, so that he could not move in the slightest. However, there is enough of that stuff to last a hundred times or more; for, as you see, only a good-sized spoonful was used.'

"The Emir, who had passed through the harem rooms, now opened the door.

"'Come in,' he said. 'My son is quiet, and has not moved. He has spoken to his mother, and seems quite sensible. Is there anything more for you to do to him?'

"'I will put a bandage loosely round his arm, and bind it to his body so that he cannot move it in his sleep, or on first waking. It will not be necessary for me to stay with him, as the ladies of the harem can look after him; but I must remain in the next room, so as to be ready to run in, at once, should they see that the wound is bleeding again. I have asked the hakims to make a soothing potion, to aid him to sleep long and soundly.'

"As I went up to the side of the bed, Abu smiled. I bent down to him, and he said in a low voice:

"'All the pain has gone. May Allah bless you!'

"'I am afraid that you will feel more pain, tomorrow, but I do not think it will be so bad as it was before. Now, I hope you will try to go to sleep. You will be well looked after, and I shall be in the next room, if you want me. The hakims will give you a soothing draught soon, and you can have cool drinks when you want them.'

"Things went on as well as I could have wished. In four or five days the threads came away, and I loosened the tourniquet slightly, and strapped up the edges of the wound, which were already showing signs of healing. For the first twenty-four hours I had remained always on watch; after that the hakims took their turns, I remaining in readiness to tighten up the tourniquet, should there be any rush of blood. I did not leave the Emir's house, but slept in a room close by that of the patient.

"There was now, however, no longer need for my doing so. The splendid constitution of the young Baggara had, indeed, from the first rendered any attendance unnecessary. There was no fever, and very little local inflammation; and I was able to gladden his heart by telling him that, in another fortnight, he would be able to be up.

"The day I was intending to leave, the Emir sent for me. He was alone.

"'The more I think over this matter,' he said, 'the more strange it is that you should be able to do all these wonderful things, after having seen it done once by the white hakim. The more I think of it, the more certain I feel that you are not what you seem. I have sent for Saleh and Abdullah. They have told me what you did for them, and that you gave up your horse to them, and dressed their wounds, and brought them in here. They are full of praise of your goodness, and but few of my people would have thus acted, for strangers. They would have given them a drink of water, and ridden on.

"Now, tell me frankly and without fear. I have thought it over, and I feel sure that you, yourself, are a white hakim, who escaped from the battle in which Hicks's army was destroyed.'

"'I am not a hakim. All that I said was true -- that although I have seen operations performed, I have never performed them myself. As to the rest, I answer you frankly, I am an Englishman. I did escape when the black Soudanese battalion surrendered, three days after the battle. I was not a fighting officer. I was with them as interpreter. I may say that, though I am not a hakim, I did for some time study with the intention of becoming one, and so saw many operations performed.'

"'I am glad that you told me,' the Emir said gravely. 'Your people are brave and very wise, though they cannot stand against the power of the Mahdi. But were you Sheitan himself, it would be nothing to me. You have saved my son's life. You are the honoured guest of my house. Your religion is different from mine, but as you showed that you were willing to aid followers of the Prophet and the Mahdi, although they were your enemies, surely I, for whom you have done so much, may well forget that difference.'

"'I thank you, Emir. From what I had seen of you, I felt sure that my secret would be safe with you. We Christians feel no enmity against followers of Mahomet -- the hatred is all on your side. And yet, 'tis strange, the Allah that you worship, and the God of the Christians, is one and the same. Mahomet himself had no enmity against the Christians, and regarded our Christ as a great prophet, like himself.

"Our Queen reigns, in India, over many more Mohamedans than are ruled by the Sultan of Turkey. They are loyal to her, and know that under her sway no difference is made between them and her Christian subjects, and have fought as bravely for her as her own white troops.'

"'I had never thought,' the Emir said, 'that the time would come when I should call an infidel my friend; but now that I can do so, I feel that there is much in what you say. However, your secret must be kept. Were it known that you are a white man, you would be torn to pieces in the streets; and even were you to remain here, where assuredly none would dare touch you, the news would speedily travel to my lord the Mahdi, and he would send a troop of horse to bring you to him. Therefore, though I would fain honour you, I see that it is best that you should, to all save myself, continue to be Mudil. I will not even, as I would otherwise have done, assign you a house, and slaves, and horses in token of my gratitude to you for having saved the life of my son.

"'Something I must do, or I should seem utterly ungrateful. I can, at any rate, give you rooms here, and treat you as an honoured guest. This would excite no remark, as it would be naturally expected that you would stay here until my son is perfectly cured. I shall tell no one, not even my wife; but Abu I will tell, when he is cured, and the secret will be as safe with him as with me. I think it would please him to know. Although a Baggara like myself, and as brave as any, he is strangely gentle in disposition; and though ready and eager to fight, when attacked by other tribes, he does not care to go on expeditions against villages which have not acknowledged the power of the Mahdi, and makes every excuse to avoid doing so. It will please him to know that the man who has saved his life is one who, although of a different race and religion, is willing to do kindness to an enemy; and will love and honour you more, for knowing it.'

"'I thank you deeply, Emir, and anything that I can do for members of your family, I shall be glad to do. I have a knowledge of the usages of many of the drugs in the chest that was brought here. I have not dared to say so before, because I could not have accounted for knowing such things.'

"So at present I am installed in the Emir's palace, and my prospects grow brighter and brighter. After the great victory the Mahdi has won, it is likely that he will be emboldened to advance against Khartoum. In that case he will, no doubt, summon his followers from all parts, and I shall be able to ride with the Emir or his son; and it will be hard if, when we get near the city, I cannot find some opportunity of slipping off and making my way there. Whether it will be prudent to do so is another question, for I doubt whether the Egyptian troops there will offer any resolute resistance to the Dervish hosts; and in that case, I should have to endeavour to make my way down to Dongola, and from there either by boat or by the river bank to Assouan.

"A month later. I have not written for some time, because there has been nothing special to put down. All the little details of the life here can be told to my dear wife, if I should ever see her again; but they are not of sufficient interest to write down. I have been living at the Emir's house, ever since. I do not know what special office I am supposed to occupy in his household -- that is, what office the people in general think that I hold. In fact, I am his guest, and an honoured one. When he goes out I ride beside him and Abu, who has now sufficiently recovered to sit his horse. I consider myself as medical attendant, in ordinary, to him and his family. I have given up all practice in the town -- in the first place because I do not wish to make enemies of the two doctors, who really seem very good fellows, and I am glad to find that they have performed two or three operations successfully; and in the second place, were I to go about trying to cure the sick, people would get so interested in me that I should be continually questioned as to how I attained my marvellous skill. Happily, though no doubt they must have felt somewhat jealous at my success with Abu, I have been able to do the hakims some service, put fees into their pockets, and at the same time benefited poor people here. I have told them that, just as I recognized the bottle of chloroform, so I have recognized some of the bottles from which the white hakims used to give powder to sick people.

"'For instance,' I said, 'you see this bottle, which is of a different shape from the others. It is full of a white, feathery-looking powder. They used to give this to people suffering from fever -- about as much as you could put on your nail for men and women, and half as much for children. They used to put it in a little water, and stir it up, and give it to them night and morning. They call it kena, or something like that. It did a great deal of good, and generally drove away the fever.

"'This other bottle they also used a good deal. They put a little of its contents in water, and it made a lotion for weak and sore eyes. They called it zing. They saw I was a careful man, and I often made the eye wash, and put the other white powder up into little packets when they were busy, as fever and ophthalmia are the two most common complaints among the natives.'

"The hakims were immensely pleased, and both told me, afterwards, that both these medicines had done wonders. I told them that I thought there were some more bottles of these medicines in the chest, and that when they had finished those I had now given them, I would look out for the others. I had, in fact, carried off a bottle both of quinine and zinc powder for my own use, and with the latter I greatly benefited several of the Emir's children and grandchildren, all of whom were suffering from ophthalmia; or from sore eyes, that would speedily have developed that disease, if they had not been attended to.

"I had only performed one operation, which was essentially a minor one. Abu told me that his wife, of whom he was very fond, was suffering very great pain from a tooth -- could I cure her?

"I said that, without seeing the tooth, I could not do anything, and he at once said:

"'As it is for her good, Mudil, I will bring her into this room, and she shall unveil so that you can examine the tooth.'

"She was quite a girl, and for an Arab very good looking. She and the Emir's wife were continually sending me out choice bits from their dinner, but I had not before seen her face. She was evidently a good deal confused, at thus unveiling before a man, but Abu said:

"'It is with my permission that you unveil, therefore there can be no harm in it. Besides, has not Mudil saved my life, and so become my brother?'

"He opened her mouth. The tooth was far back and broken, and the gum was greatly swelled.

"'It is very bad,' I said to Abu. 'It would hurt her terribly, if I were to try and take it out; but if she will take the sleeping medicine I gave you, I think that I could do it.'

"'Then she shall take it,' he said at once. 'It is not unpleasant. On the contrary, I dreamt a pleasant dream while you were taking off my arm. Please do it, at once.'

"I at once fetched the chloroform, the inhaler, and a pair of forceps which looked well suited for the purpose, and probably were intended for it. I then told her to lie down on the angareb, which I placed close to the window.

"'Now, Abu,' I said, 'directly she has gone off to sleep, you must force her mouth open, and put the handle of your dagger between her teeth. It will not hurt her at all. But I cannot get at the tooth unless the mouth is open, and we cannot open it until she is asleep, for the whole side of her face is swollen, and the jaw almost stiff.'

"The chloroform took effect very quickly. Her husband had some difficulty in forcing the mouth open. When he had once done so, I took a firm hold of the tooth, and wrenched it out.

"'You can withdraw the dagger,' I said, 'and then lift her up, and let her rinse her mouth well with the warm water I brought in. She will have little pain afterwards, though of course it will take some little time, before the swelling goes down.'

"Then I went out, and left them together. In a few minutes, Abu came out.

"'She has no pain,' he said. 'She could hardly believe, when she came round, that the tooth was out. It is a relief, indeed. She has cried, day and night, for the past three days.'

"'Tell her that, for the rest of the day, she had better keep quiet; and go to sleep if possible, which I have no doubt she will do, as she must be worn out with the pain she has been suffering.'

"'I begin to see, Mudil, that we are very ignorant. We can fight, but that is all we are good for. How much better it would be if, instead of regarding you white men as enemies, we could get some of you to live here, and teach us the wonderful things that you know!'

"'Truly it would be better,' I said. 'It all depends upon yourselves. You have a great country. If you would but treat the poor people here well, and live in peace with other tribes; and send word down to Cairo that you desire, above all things, white hakims and others who would teach you, to come up and settle among you, assuredly they would come. There are thousands of white men and women working in India, and China, and other countries, content to do good, not looking for high pay, but content to live poorly. The difficulty is not in getting men willing to heal and to teach, but to persuade those whom they would benefit to allow them to do the work.'

"Abu shook his head.

"'That is it,' he said. 'I would rather be able to do such things as you do, than be one of the most famous soldiers of the Mahdi; but I could never persuade others. They say that the Mahdi himself, although he is hostile to the Turks, and would conquer Egypt, would willingly befriend white men. But even he, powerful as he is, cannot go against the feelings of his emirs. Must we always be ignorant? Must we always be fighting? I can see no way out of it. Can you, Mudil?'

"'I can see but one way,' I said, 'and that may seem to you impossible, because you know nothing of the strength of England. We have, as you know, easily beaten the Egyptian Army; and we are now protectors of Egypt. If you invade that country, as the Mahdi has already threatened to do, it is we who will defend it; and if there is no other way of obtaining peace, we shall some day send an army to recover the Soudan. You will fight, and you will fight desperately, but you have no idea of the force that will advance against you. You know how Osman Digna's tribes on the Red Sea have been defeated, not by the superior courage of our men, but by our superior arms. And so it will be here. It may be many years before it comes about, but if you insist on war, that is what will come.

"'Then, when we have taken the Soudan, there will come peace, and the peasant will till his soil in safety. Those who desire to be taught will be taught; great canals from the Nile will irrigate the soil, and the desert will become fruitful.'

"'You really think that would come of it?' Abu asked, earnestly.

"'I do indeed, Abu. We have conquered many brave peoples, far more numerous than yours; and those who were our bitterest enemies now see how they have benefited by it. Certainly, England would not undertake the cost of such an expedition lightly; but if she is driven to it by your advance against Egypt, she will assuredly do so. Your people -- I mean the Baggaras and their allies -- would suffer terribly; but the people whom you have conquered, whose villages you have burned, whose women you have carried off, would rejoice.'

"'We would fight,' Abu said passionately.

"'Certainly you would fight, and fight gallantly, but it would not avail you. Besides, Abu, you would be fighting for that ignorance you have just regretted, and against the teaching and progress you have wished for.'

"'It is hard,' Abu said, quietly.

"'It is hard, but it has been the fate of all people who have resisted the advance of knowledge and civilization. Those who accept civilization, as the people of India -- of whom there are many more than in all Africa -- have accepted it, are prosperous. In America and other great countries, far beyond the seas, the native Indians opposed it, but in vain; and now a great white race inhabit the land, and there is but a handful left of those who opposed them.'

"'These things are hard to understand. If, as you say, your people come here some day to fight against us, I shall fight. If my people are defeated, and I am still alive, I shall say it is the will of Allah; let us make the best of it, and try to learn to be like those who have conquered us. I own to you that I am sick of bloodshed -- not of blood shed in battle, but the blood of peaceful villagers; and though I grieve for my own people, I should feel that it was for the good of the land that the white men had become the masters.'"



Chapter 19: The Last Page.


"Khartoum, September 3rd, 1884.

"It is a long time since I made my last entry. I could put no date to it then, and till yesterday could hardly even have named the month. I am back again among friends, but I can hardly say that I am safer here than I was at El Obeid. I have not written, because there was nothing to write. One day was like another, and as my paper was finished, and there were no incidents in my life, I let the matter slide.

"Again and again I contemplated attempting to make my way to this town, but the difficulties would be enormous. There were the dangers of the desert, the absence of wells, the enormous probability of losing my way, and, most of all, the chance that, before I reached Khartoum, it would have been captured. The Emir had been expecting news of its fall, for months.

"There had been several fights, in some of which they had been victorious. In others, even according to their own accounts, they had been worsted. Traitors in the town kept them well informed of the state of supplies. They declared that these were almost exhausted, and that the garrison must surrender. Indeed, several of the commanders of bodies of troops had offered to surrender posts held by them.

"So I had put aside all hope of escape, and decided not to make any attempt until after Khartoum fell, when the Dervishes boasted they would march down and conquer Egypt, to the sea.

"They had already taken Berber. Dongola was at their mercy. I thought the best chance would be to go down with them, as far as they went, and then to slip away. In this way I should shorten the journey I should have to traverse alone; and, being on the river bank, could at least always obtain water. Besides, I might possibly secure some small native boat, and with the help of the current get down to Assouan before the Dervishes could arrive there. This I should have attempted; but, three weeks ago, an order came from the Mahdi to El Khatim, ordering him to send to Omdurman five hundred well-armed men, who were to be commanded by his son Abu. Khatim was to remain at El Obeid, with the main body of his force, until further orders.

"Abu came to me at once, with the news.

"'You will take me with you, Abu,' I exclaimed. 'This is the chance I have been hoping for. Once within a day's journey of Khartoum, I could slip away at night, and it would be very hard if I could not manage to cross the Nile into Khartoum.'

"'I will take you, if you wish it,' he said. 'The danger will be very great, not in going with me, but in making your way into Khartoum.'

"'It does not seem to me that it would be so,' I said. 'I should strike the river four or five miles above the town, cut a bundle of rushes, swim out to the middle of the river, drift down till I was close to the town, and then swim across.'

"'So be it,' he said. 'It is your will, not mine.'

"Khatim came to me afterwards, and advised me to stay, but I said that it might be years before I had another chance to escape; and that, whatever risk there was, I would prefer running it.

"'Then we shall see you no more,' he said, 'for Khartoum will assuredly fall, and you will be killed.'

"'If you were a prisoner in the hands of the white soldiers, Emir,' I said, 'I am sure that you would run any risk, if there was a chance of getting home again. So it is with me. I have a wife and child, in Cairo. Her heart must be sick with pain, at the thought of my death. I will risk anything to get back as soon as possible. If I reach Khartoum, and it is afterwards captured, I can disguise myself and appear as I now am, hide for a while, and then find out where Abu is and join him again. But perhaps, when he sees that no further resistance can be made, General Gordon will embark on one of his steamers and go down the river, knowing that it would be better for the people of the town that the Mahdi should enter without opposition; in which case you would scarcely do harm to the peaceful portion of the population, or to the troops who had laid down their arms.'

"'Very well,' the Emir said. 'Abu has told me that he has tried to dissuade you, but that you will go. We owe you a great debt of gratitude, for all that you have done for us, and therefore I will not try to dissuade you. I trust Allah will protect you.'

"And so we started the next morning. I rode by the side of Abu, and as all knew that I was the hakim who had taken off his arm, none wondered. The journey was made without any incident worth recording. Abu did not hurry. We made a long march between each of the wells, and then halted for a day. So we journeyed, until we made our last halt before arriving at Omdurman.

"'You are still determined to go?' Abu said to me.

"'I shall leave tonight, my friend.'

"'I shall not forget all that you have told me about your people, hakim. Should any white man fall into my hands, I will spare him for your sake. These are evil times, and I regret all that has passed. I believe that the Mahdi is a prophet; but I fear that, in many things, he has misunderstood the visions and orders he received. I see that evil rather than good has fallen upon the land, and that though we loved not the rule of the Egyptians, we were all better off under it than we are now. We pass through ruined villages, and see the skeletons of many people. We know that where the waterwheels formerly spread the water from the rivers over the fields, is now a desert; and that, except the fighting men, the people perish from hunger.

"'All this is bad. I see that, if we enter Egypt, we shall be like a flight of locusts. We shall eat up the country and leave a desert behind us. Surely this cannot be according to the wishes of Allah, who is all merciful. You have taught me much in your talks with me, and I do not see things as I used to. So much do I feel it, that in my heart I could almost wish that your countrymen should come here, and establish peace and order.

"'The Mohamedans of India, you tell me, are well content with their rulers. Men may exercise their religion and their customs, without hindrance. They know that the strong cannot prey upon the weak, and each man reaps what he has sown, in peace. You tell me that India was like the Soudan before you went there -- that there were great conquerors, constant wars, and the peasants starved while the robbers grew rich; and that, under your rule, peace and contentment were restored. I would that it could be so here. But it seems, to me, impossible that we should be conquered by people so far away.'

"'I hope that it will be so, Abu; and I think that if the great and good white general, Governor Gordon, is murdered at Khartoum, the people of my country will never rest until his death has been avenged.'

"'You had better take your horse,' he said. 'If you were to go on foot, it would be seen that there was a horse without a rider, and there would be a search for you; but if you and your horse are missing, it will be supposed that you have ridden on to Omdurman to give notice of our coming, and none will think more of the matter.'

"As soon as the camp was asleep, I said goodbye to Abu; and took my horse by the reins and led him into the desert, half a mile away. Then I mounted, and rode fast. The stars were guide enough, and in three hours I reached the Nile. I took off the horse's saddle and bridle, and left him to himself. Then I crept out and cut a bundle of rushes, and swam into the stream with them.

"After floating down the river for an hour, I saw the light of a few fires on the right bank, and guessed that this was a Dervish force, beleaguering Khartoum from that side. I drifted on for another hour, drawing closer and closer to the shore, until I could see walls and forts; then I stripped off my Dervish frock, and swam ashore.

"I had, during the time we had been on the journey, abstained from staining my skin under my garments, in order that I might be recognized as a white man, as soon as I bared my arms.

"I lay down till it was broad daylight, and then walked up to the foot of a redoubt. There were shouts of surprise from the black soldiers there, as I approached. I shouted to them, in Arabic, that I was an Englishman; and two or three of them at once ran down the slope, and aided me to climb it. I was taken, at my request, to General Gordon, who was surprised, indeed, when I told him that I was a survivor of Hicks's force, and had been living nine months at El Obeid.

"'You are heartily welcome, sir,' he said; 'but I fear that you have come into an even greater danger than you have left, for our position here is well-nigh desperate. For months I have been praying for aid from England, and my last news was that it was just setting out, so I fear there is no hope that it will reach me in time. The government of England will have to answer, before God, for their desertion of me, and of the poor people here, whom they sent me to protect from the Mahdi.

"'For myself, I am content. I have done my duty as far as lay in my power, but I had a right to rely upon receiving support from those who sent me. I am in the hands of God. But for the many thousands who trusted in me, and remained here, I feel very deeply.

"'Now the first thing is to provide you with clothes. I am expecting Colonel Stewart here, every minute, and he will see that you are made comfortable.'

"'I shall be glad to place myself at your disposal, sir,' I said. 'I speak Arabic fluently, and shall be ready to perform any service of which I may be capable.'

"'I thank you,' he said, 'and will avail myself of your offer, if I see any occasion; but at present, we have rather to suffer than to do. We have occasional fights, but of late the attacks have been feeble, and I think that the Mahdi depends upon hunger rather than force to obtain possession of this town.

"This evening, I will ask you to tell me your story. Colonel Stewart will show you a room. There is only one other white man -- Mr. Power -- here. We live together as one family, of which you will now be a member.'

"I felt strange when I came to put on my European clothes. Mr. Power, who tells me he has been here for some years, as correspondent of the Times, has this afternoon taken me round the defences, and into the workshops. I think the place can resist any attacks, if the troops remain faithful; but of this there is a doubt. A good many of the Soudanese have already been sent away. As Gordon said at dinner this evening, if he had but a score of English officers, he would be perfectly confident that he could resist any enemy save starvation.

"September 12th:

"It has been settled that Colonel Stewart and Mr. Power are to go down the river in the Abbas, and I am to go with them. The General proposed it to me. I said that I could not think of leaving him here by himself, so he said kindly:

"'I thank you, Mr. Hilliard, but you could do no good here, and would only be throwing away your life. We can hold on to the end of the year, though the pinch will be very severe; but I think we can make the stores last, till then. But by the end of December our last crust will have been eaten, and the end will have come. It will be a satisfaction to me to know that I have done my best, and fail only because of the miserable delays and hesitation of government.'

"So it is settled that I am going. The gunboats are to escort us for some distance. Were it not for Gordon, I should feel delighted at the prospect. It is horrible to leave him -- one of the noblest Englishmen! -- alone to his fate. My only consolation is that if I remained I could not avert it, but should only be a sharer in it.

"September 18th:

"We left Khartoum on the 14th, and came down without any serious trouble until this morning, when the boat struck on a rock in the cataract, opposite a village called Hebbeh. A hole has been knocked in her bottom, and there is not a shadow of hope of getting her off. Numbers of the natives have gathered on the shore. I have advised that we should disregard their invitations to land, but that, as there would be no animosity against the black crew, they would be safe; and that we three whites should take the ship's boat, and four of the crew, put provisions for a week on board, and make our way down the river. Colonel Stewart, however, feels convinced that the people can be trusted, and that we had better land and place ourselves under the protection of the sheik. He does not know the Arabs as well as I do.

"However, as he has determined to go ashore, I can do nothing. I consider it unlikely, in the extreme, that there will be any additions to this journal. If, at any time in the future, this should fall into the hands of any of my countrymen, I pray that they will send it down to my dear wife, Mrs. Hilliard, whom, I pray, God may bless and comfort, care of the Manager of the Bank, Cairo."



Chapter 20: A Momentous Communication.


Gregory had, after finishing the record, sat without moving until the dinner hour. It was a relief to him to know that his father had not spent the last years of his life as he had feared, as a miserable slave -- ill treated, reviled, insulted, perhaps chained and beaten by some brutal taskmaster; but had been in a position where, save that he was an exile, kept from his home and wife, his lot had not been unbearable. He knew more of him than he had ever known before. It was as a husband that his mother had always spoken of him; but here he saw that he was daring, full of resource, quick to grasp any opportunity, hopeful and yet patient, longing eagerly to rejoin his wife, and yet content to wait until the chances should be all in his favour. He was unaffectedly glad thus to know him; to be able, in future, to think of him as one of whom he would have been proud; who would assuredly have won his way to distinction.

It was not so that he had before thought of him. His mother had said that he was of good family, and that it was on account of his marriage with her that he had quarrelled with his relations. It had always seemed strange to him that he should have been content to take, as she had told him, an altogether subordinate position in a mercantile house in Alexandria. She had accounted for his knowledge of Arabic by the fact that he had been, for two years, exploring the temples and tombs of Egypt with a learned professor; but surely, as a man of good family, he could have found something to do in England, instead of coming out to take so humble a post in Egypt.

Gregory knew nothing of the difficulty that a young man in England has, in obtaining an appointment of any kind, or of fighting his way single handed. Influence went for much in Egypt, and it seemed to him that, even if his father had quarrelled with his own people, there must have been many ways open to him of maintaining himself honourably. Therefore he had always thought that, although he might have been all that his mother described him -- the tenderest and most loving of husbands, a gentleman, and estimable in all respects -- his father must have been wanting in energy and ambition, deficient in the qualities that would fit him to fight his own battle, and content to gain a mere competence, instead of struggling hard to make his way up the ladder. He had accounted for his going up as interpreter, with Hicks Pasha, by the fact that his work with the contractor was at an end, and that he saw no other opening for himself.

He now understood how mistaken he had been, in his estimate of his father's character; and wondered, even more than before, why he should have taken that humble post at Alexandria. His mother had certainly told him, again and again, that he had done so simply because the doctors had said that she could not live in England; but surely, in all the wide empire of England, there must be innumerable posts that a gentleman could obtain. Perhaps he should understand it better, some day. At present, it seemed unaccountable to him. He felt sure that, had he lived, his father would have made a name for himself; and that it was in that hope, and not of the pay that he would receive as an interpreter, that he had gone up with Hicks; and that, had he not died at that little village by the Nile, he would assuredly have done so, for the narrative he had left behind him would in itself, if published, have shown what stuff there was in him.

It was hard that fate should have snatched him away, just when it had seemed that his trials were over, that he was on the point of being reunited to his wife. Still, it was a consolation to know he had died suddenly, as one falls in battle; not as a slave, worn out by grief and suffering.

As he left his hut, he said to Zaki:

"I shall not want you again this evening; but mind, we must be on the move at daylight."

"You did not say whether we were to take the horses, Master; but I suppose you will do so?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you that we are going to have camels. They are to be put on board for us, tonight. They are fast camels and, as the distance from the point where we shall land to the Atbara will not be more than seventy or eighty miles, we shall be able to do it in a day."

"That will be very good, master. Camels are much better than horses, for the desert. I have got everything else ready."

After dinner was over, the party broke up quickly, as many of the officers had preparations to make. Gregory went off to the tent of the officer with whom he was best acquainted in the Soudanese regiment.

"I thought that I would come and have a chat with you, if you happened to be in."

"I shall be very glad, but I bar Fashoda. One is quite sick of the name."

"No, it was not Fashoda that I was going to talk to you about. I want to ask you something about England. I know really nothing about it, for I was born in Alexandria, shortly after my parents came out from England.

"Is it easy for anyone who has been well educated, and who is a gentleman, to get employment there? I mean some sort of appointment, say, in India or the West Indies."

"Easy! My dear Hilliard, the camel in the eye of a needle is a joke to it. If a fellow is eighteen, and has had a first-rate education and a good private coach, that is, a tutor, he may pass through his examination either for the army, or the civil service, or the Indian service. There are about five hundred go up to each examination, and seventy or eighty at the outside get in. The other four hundred or so are chucked. Some examinations are for fellows under nineteen, others are open for a year or two longer. Suppose, finally, you don't get in; that is to say, when you are two-and-twenty, your chance of getting any appointment, whatever, in the public service is at an end."

"Then interest has nothing to do with it?"

"Well, yes. There are a few berths in the Foreign Office, for example, in which a man has to get a nomination before going in for the exam; but of course the age limit tells there, as well as in any other."

"And if a man fails altogether, what is there open to him?"

The other shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, as far as I know, if he hasn't capital he can emigrate. That is what numbers of fellows do. If he has interest, he can get a commission in the militia, and from that possibly into the line; or he can enlist as a private, for the same object. There is a third alternative, he can hang himself. Of course, if he happens to have a relation in the city he can get a clerkship; but that alternative, I should say, is worse than the third."

"But I suppose he might be a doctor, a clergyman, or a lawyer?"

"I don't know much about those matters, but I do know that it takes about five years' grinding, and what is called 'walking the hospitals,' that is, going round the wards with the surgeons, before one is licensed to kill. I think, but I am not sure, that three years at the bar would admit you to practice, and usually another seven or eight years are spent, before you earn a penny. As for the Church, you have to go through the university, or one of the places we call training colleges; and when, at last, you are ordained, you may reckon, unless you have great family interest, on remaining a curate, with perhaps one hundred or one hundred and fifty pounds per annum, for eighteen or twenty years."

"And no amount of energy will enable a man of, say, four-and-twenty, without a profession, to obtain a post on which he could live with some degree of comfort?"

"I don't think energy would have anything to do with it. You cannot drop into a merchant's office and say, 'I want a snug berth, out in China;' or 'I should like an agency, in Mesopotamia.' If you have luck, anything is possible. If you haven't luck, you ought to fall back on my three alternatives -- emigrate, enlist, or hang yourself. Of course, you can sponge on your friends for a year or two, if you are mean enough to do so; but there is an end to that sort of thing, in time.

"May I ask why you put the question, Hilliard? You have really a splendid opening, here. You are surely not going to be foolish enough to chuck it, with the idea of returning to England, and taking anything that may turn up?"

"No, I am not so foolish as that. I have had, as you say, luck -- extraordinary luck -- and I have quite made up my mind to stay in the service. No, I am really asking you because I know so little of England that I wondered how men who had a fair education, but no family interest, did get on."

"They very rarely do get on," the other said. "Of course, if they are inventive geniuses they may discover something -- an engine, for example, that will do twice the work with half the consumption of fuel that any other engine will do; or, if chemically inclined, they may discover something that will revolutionize dyeing, for example: but not one man in a thousand is a genius; and, as a rule, the man you are speaking of -- the ordinary public school and 'varsity man -- if he has no interest, and is not bent upon entering the army, even as a private, emigrates if he hasn't sufficient income to live upon at home."

"Thank you! I had no idea it was so difficult to make a living in England, or to obtain employment, for a well-educated man of two or three and twenty."

"My dear Hilliard, that is the problem that is exercising the minds of the whole of the middle class of England, with sons growing up. Of course, men of business can take their sons into their own offices, and train them to their own profession; but after all, if a man has four or five sons, he cannot take them all into his office with a view to partnership. He may take one, but the others have to make their own way, somehow."

They chatted now upon the war, the dates upon which the various regiments would go down, and the chance of the Khalifa collecting another army, and trying conclusions with the invaders again. At last, Gregory got up and went back to his hut. He could now understand why his father, having quarrelled with his family, might have found himself obliged to take the first post that was offered, however humble, in order to obtain the advantage of a warm climate for his wife.

"He must have felt it awfully," he mused. "If he had been the sort of man I had always thought him, he could have settled down to the life. But now I know him better, I can understand that it must have been terrible for him, and he would be glad to exchange it for the interpretership, where he would have some chance of distinguishing himself; or, at any rate, of taking part in exciting events.

"I will open that packet, but from what my mother said, I do not think it will be of any interest to me, now. I fancy, by what she said, that it contained simply my father's instructions as to what she was to do, in the event of his death during the campaign. I don't see what else it can be."

He drew the curtains he had rigged up, at the doorway and window, to keep out insects; lighted his lantern; and then, sitting down on the ground by his bed, opened the packet his mother had given him. The outer cover was in her handwriting.

"My dearest boy:

"I have, as I told you, kept the enclosed packet, which is not to be opened until I have certain news of your father's death. This news, I trust, you will some day obtain. As you see, the enclosed packet is directed to me. I do not think that you will find in it anything of importance, to yourself. It probably contains only directions and advice for my guidance, in case I should determine to return to England. I have been the less anxious to open it, because I have been convinced that it is so; for of course, I know the circumstances of his family, and there could be nothing new that he could write to me on that score.

"I have told you that he quarrelled with his father, because he chose to marry me. As you have heard from me, I was the daughter of a clergyman, and at his death took a post as governess. Your father fell in love with me. He was the son of the Honorable James Hartley, who was brother to the Earl of Langdale. Your father had an elder brother. Mr. Hartley was a man of the type now, happily, less common than it was twenty years ago. He had but a younger brother's portion, and a small estate that had belonged to his mother; but he was as proud as if he had been a peer of the realm, and owner of a county. I do not know exactly what the law of England is -- whether, at the death of his brother, your grandfather would have inherited the title, or not. I never talked on this subject with your father, who very seldom alluded to matters at home. He had, also, two sisters.

"As he was clever, and had already gained some reputation by his explorations in Egypt; and was, moreover, an exceptionally handsome man -- at least, I thought so -- your grandfather made up his mind that he would make a very good marriage. When he learned of your father's affection for me, he was absolutely furious, told his son that he never wished to see him again, and spoke of me in a manner that Gregory resented; and as a result, they quarrelled.

"Your father left the house, never to enter it again. I would have released him from his promise, but he would not hear of it, and we were married. He had written for magazines and newspapers, on Egyptian subjects, and thought that he could make a living for us both, with his pen; but unhappily, he found that great numbers of men were trying to do the same; and that, although his papers on Egyptian discoveries had always been accepted, it was quite another thing when he came to write on general subjects.

"We had a hard time of it, but we were very happy, nevertheless. Then came the time when my health began to give way. I had a terrible cough, and the doctor said that I must have a change to a warmer climate. We were very poor then -- so poor that we had only a few shillings left, and lived in one room. Your father saw an advertisement for a man to go out to the branch of a London firm, at Alexandria. Without saying a word to me, he went and obtained it, thanks to his knowledge of Arabic.

"He was getting on well in the firm, when the bombardment of Alexandria took place. The offices and stores of his employers were burned; and, as it would take many months before they could be rebuilt, the employees were ordered home; but any who chose to stay were permitted to do so, and received three months' pay. Your father saw that there would be many chances, when the country settled down, and so took a post under a contractor of meat for the army.

"We moved to Cairo. Shortly after our arrival there he was, as he thought, fortunate in obtaining the appointment of an interpreter with Hicks Pasha. I did not try to dissuade him. Everyone supposed that the Egyptian troops would easily defeat the Dervishes. There was some danger, of course; but it seemed to me, as it did to him, that this opening would lead to better things; and that, when the rebellion was put down, he would be able to obtain some good civil appointment, in the Soudan. It was not the thought of his pay, as interpreter, that weighed in the slightest with either of us. I was anxious, above all things, that he should be restored to a position where he could associate with gentlemen, as one of themselves, and could again take his real name."

Gregory started, as he read this. He had never had an idea that the name he bore was not rightly his own, and even the statement of his grandfather's name had not struck him as affecting himself.

"Your father had an honourable pride in his name, which was an old one; and when he took the post at Alexandria, which was little above that of an ordinary office messenger, he did not care that he should be recognized, or that one of his name should be known to be occupying such a station. He did not change his name, he simply dropped the surname. His full name was Gregory Hilliard Hartley. He had always intended, when he had made a position for himself, to recur to it; and, of course, it will be open to you to do so, also. But I know that it would have been his wish that you, like him, should not do so, unless you had made such a position for yourself that you would be a credit to it.

"On starting, your father left me to decide whether I should go home. I imagine that the packet merely contains his views on that subject. He knew what mine were. I would rather have begged my bread, than have gone back to ask for alms of the man who treated his son so cruelly. It is probable that, by this time, the old man is dead; but I should object as much to have to appeal to my husband's brother, a character I disliked. Although he knew that his father's means were small, he was extravagant to the last degree, and the old man was weak enough to keep himself in perpetual difficulties, to satisfy his son. Your father looked for no pecuniary assistance from his brother; but the latter might, at least, have come to see him; or written kindly to him, when he was in London. As your father was writing in his own name for magazines, his address could be easily found out, by anyone who wanted to know it. He never sent one single word to him, and I should object quite as much to appeal to him, as to the old man.

"As to the sisters, who were younger than my husband, they were nice girls; but even if your grandfather is dead, and has, as no doubt would be the case, left what he had between them, it certainly would not amount to much. Your father has told me that the old man had mortgaged the estate, up to the hilt, to pay his brother's debts; and that when it came to be sold, as it probably would be at his death, there would be very little left for the girls. Therefore, certainly I could not go and ask them to support us.

"My hope is, my dear boy, that you may be able to make your way, here, in the same manner as your father was doing, when he fell; and that, someday, you may attain to an honourable position, in which you will be able, if you visit England, to call upon your aunts, not as one who has anything to ask of them, but as a relative of whom they need not feel in any way ashamed.

"I feel that my end is very near, Gregory. I hope to say all that I have to say to you, before it comes, but I may not have an opportunity; and in that case, some time may elapse before you read this, and it will come to you as a voice from the grave. I am not, in any way, wishing to bind you to any course of action, but only to explain fully your position to you, and to tell you my thoughts.

"God bless you, my dear boy, prosper and keep you! I know enough of you to be sure that, whatever your course may be, you will bear yourself as a true gentleman, worthy of your father and of the name you bear.

"Your loving Mother."

Gregory sat for some time before opening the other enclosure. It contained an open envelope, on which was written "To my Wife;" and three others, also unfastened, addressed respectively, "The Hon. James Hartley, King's Lawn, Tavistock, Devon"; the second, "G. Hilliard Hartley, Esquire, The Albany, Piccadilly, London;" the third, "Miss Hartley," the address being the same as that of her father. He first opened the one to his mother.

"My dearest Wife,

"I hope that you will never read these lines, but that I shall return to you safe and sound -- I am writing this, in case it should be otherwise -- and that you will never have occasion to read these instructions, or rather I should say this advice, for it is no more than that. We did talk the matter over, but you were so wholly averse from any idea of ever appealing to my father, or family, however sore the straits to which you might be reduced, that I could not urge the matter upon you; and yet, although I sympathize most thoroughly with your feelings, I think that in case of dire necessity you should do so, and at least afford my father the opportunity of making up for his treatment of myself. The small sum that I left in your hands must soon be exhausted. If I am killed, you will, perhaps, obtain a small pension; but this, assuredly, would not be sufficient to maintain you and the boy in comfort. I know that you said, at the time, that possibly you could add to it by teaching. Should this be so, you may be able to remain in Egypt; and when the boy grows up, he will obtain employment of some sort, here.

"But should you be unsuccessful in this direction, I do not see what you could do. Were you to go to England, with the child, what chance would you have of obtaining employment there, without friends or references? I am frightened at the prospect. I know that, were you alone, you would do anything rather than apply to my people; but you have the child to think of, and, painful as it would be to you, it yet seems to me the best thing that could be done. At any rate, I enclose you three letters to my brother, father, and sisters. I have no legal claim on any of them, but I certainly have a moral claim on my brother. It is he who has impoverished the estate, so that, even had I not quarrelled with my father, there could never, after provision had been made for my sisters, have been anything to come to me.

"I do not ask you to humiliate yourself, by delivering these letters personally. I would advise you to post them from Cairo, enclosing in each a note saying how I fell, and that you are fulfilling my instructions, by sending the letter I wrote before leaving you. It may be that you will receive no reply. In that case, whatever happens to you and the child, you will have nothing to reproach yourself for. Possibly my father may have succeeded to the title and, if for no other reason, he may then be willing to grant you an allowance, on condition that you do not return to England; as he would know that it would be nothing short of a scandal, that the wife of one of his sons was trying to earn her bread in this country.

"Above all, dear, I ask you not to destroy these letters. You may, at first, scorn the idea of appealing for help; but the time might come, as it came to us in London, when you feel that fate is too strong for you, and that you can struggle no longer. Then you might regret, for the sake of the child, that you had not sent these letters.

"It is a terrible responsibility that I am leaving you. I well know that you will do all, dear, that it is possible for you to do, to avoid the necessity for sending these letters. That I quite approve, if you can struggle on. God strengthen you to do it! It is only if you fail that I say, send them. My father may, by this time, regret that he drove me from home. He may be really anxious to find me, and at least it is right that he should have the opportunity of making what amends he can. From my sisters, I know that you can have little but sympathy; but that, I feel sure, they will give you, and even sympathy is a great deal, to one who has no friends. I feel it sorely that I should have naught to leave you but my name, and this counsel. Earnestly I hope and pray that it may never be needed.

"Yours till death,

"Gregory Hilliard Hartley."

Gregory then opened the letter to his grandfather.

"Dear Father,

"You will not receive this letter till after my death. I leave it behind me, while I go up with General Hicks to the Soudan. It will not be sent to you, unless I die there. I hope that, long ere this, you may have felt, as I have done, that we were both somewhat in the wrong, in the quarrel that separated us. You, I think, were hard. I, no doubt, was hasty. You, I think, assumed more than was your right, in demanding that I should break a promise that I had given, to a lady against whom nothing could be said, save that she was undowered. Had I, like Geoffrey, been drawing large sums of money from you, you would necessarily have felt yourself in a position to have a very strong voice in so important a matter. But the very moderate allowance I received, while at the University, was never increased. I do not think it is too much to say that, for every penny I have got from you, Geoffrey has received a guinea.

"However, that is past and gone. I have been fighting my own battle, and was on my way to obtaining a good position. Until I did so, I dropped our surname. I did not wish that it should be known that one of our family was working, in an almost menial position, in Egypt. I have now obtained the post of interpreter, on the staff of General Hicks; and, if he is successful in crushing the rebellion, I shall be certain of good, permanent employment, when I can resume my name. The fact that you receive this letter will be a proof that I have fallen in battle, or by disease.

"I now, as a dying prayer, beg you to receive my wife and boy; or, if that cannot be, to grant her some small annuity, to assist her in her struggle with the world. Except for her sake, I do not regret my marriage. She has borne the hardships, through which we have passed, nobly and without a murmur. She has been the best of wives to me, and has proved herself a noble woman, in every respect.

"I leave the matter in your hands, Father, feeling assured that, from your sense of justice alone, if not for the affection you once bore me, you will befriend my wife. As I know that the Earl was in feeble health, when I left England; you may, by this time, have come into the title, in which case you will be able, without in any way inconveniencing yourself, to settle an annuity upon my wife, sufficient to keep her in comfort. I can promise, in her name, that in that case you will never be troubled in any way by her; and she will probably take up her residence, permanently, in Egypt, as she is not strong, and the warm climate is essential to her."

The letter to his brother was shorter.

"My dear Geoffrey,

"I am going up, with General Hicks, to the Soudan. If you receive this letter, it will be because I have died there. I leave behind me my wife, and a boy. I know that, at present, you are scarcely likely to be able to do much for them, pecuniarily; but as you will someday -- possibly not a very distant one -- inherit the title and estate, you will then be able to do so, without hurting yourself.

"We have never seen much of each other. You left school before I began it, and you left Oxford two years before I went up to Cambridge. You have never been at home much, since; and I was two years in Egypt, and have now been about the same time, here. I charge my wife to send you this, and I trust that, for my sake, you will help her. She does not think of returning to England. Life is not expensive, in this country. Even an allowance of a hundred a year would enable her to remain here. If you can afford double that, do so for my sake; but, at any rate, I feel that I can rely upon you to do at least that much, when you come into the title. Had I lived, I should never have troubled anyone at home; but as I shall be no longer able to earn a living for her and the boy, I trust that you will not think it out of the way for me to ask for what would have been a very small younger brother's allowance, had I remained at home."

The letter to his sisters was in a different strain.

"My dear Flossie and Janet,

"I am quite sure that you, like myself, felt deeply grieved over our separation; and I can guess that you will have done what you could, with our father, to bring about a reconciliation. When you receive this, dears, I shall have gone. I am about to start on an expedition that is certain to be dangerous, and which may be fatal; and I have left this with my wife, to send you if she has sure news of my death. I have had hard times. I see my way now, and I hope that I shall, ere long, receive a good official appointment, out here. Still, it is as well to prepare for the worst; and if you receive this letter, the worst has come. As I have only just begun to rise again in the world, I have been able to make no provision for my wife. I know that you liked her, and that you would by no means have disapproved of the step I took. If our father has not come into the title, when you receive this, your pocket money will be only sufficient for your own wants; therefore I am not asking for help in that way, but only that you will write to her an affectionate letter. She is without friends, and will fight her battle as best she can. She is a woman in a thousand, and worthy of the affection and esteem of any man on earth.

"There is a boy, too -- another Gregory Hilliard Hartley. She will be alone in the world with him, and a letter from you would be very precious to her. Probably, by the same post as you receive this, our father will also get one requesting more substantial assistance, but with that you have nothing to do. I am only asking that you will let her know there are, at least, two people in the world who take an interest in her, and my boy.

"Your affectionate Brother."

There was yet another envelope, with no address upon it. It contained two documents. One was a copy of the certificate of marriage, between Gregory Hilliard Hartley and Anne Forsyth, at Saint Paul's Church, Plymouth; with the names of two witnesses, and the signature of the officiating minister. The other was a copy of the register of the birth, at Alexandria, of Gregory Hilliard, son of Gregory Hilliard Hartley and Anne, his wife. A third was a copy of the register of baptism of Gregory Hilliard Hartley, the son of Gregory Hilliard and Anne Hartley, at the Protestant Church, Alexandria.

"I will write, someday, to my aunts," Gregory said, as he replaced the letters in the envelopes. "The others will never go. Still, I may as well keep them.

"So I am either grandson or nephew of an earl. I can't say that I am dazzled by the honour. I should like to know my aunts, but as for the other two, I would not go across the street to make their acquaintance."

He carefully stowed the letters away in his portmanteau, and then lay down for a few hours' sleep.

"The day is breaking, master," Zaki said, laying his hand upon Gregory's shoulder.

"All right, Zaki! While you get the water boiling, I shall run down to the river and have a bathe, and shall be ready for my cocoa, in twenty minutes."

"Are we going to put on those Dervish dresses at once, master? They came yesterday evening."

"No; I sha'n't change till we get to the place where we land."

As soon as he had breakfasted, he told Zaki to carry his portmanteau, bed, and other belongings to the house that served as a store for General Hunter's staff. He waited until his return, and then told him to take the two rifles, the packets of ammunition, the spears, and the Dervish dresses down to the steamer. Then he joined the General, who was just starting, with his staff, to superintend the embarkation.

Three steamers were going up, and each towed a barge, in which the greater part of the troops was to be stowed, and in the stern of one of these knelt two camels.

"There are your nags, Mr. Hilliard," the General said. "There is an attendant with each. They will manage them better than strangers, and without them we might have a job in getting the animals ashore. Of course, I shall take the drivers on with us. The sheik told me the camels are two of the fastest he has ever had. He has sent saddles with them, and water skins. The latter you will probably not want, if all goes well. Still, it is better to take them."

"I shall assuredly do so, sir. They may be useful to us, on the ride, and though I suppose the camels would do well enough without them, it is always well to be provided, when one goes on an expedition, for any emergency that may occur."

An hour later, the steamer started. The river was still full, and the current rapid, and they did not move more than five miles an hour against it. At the villages they passed, the people flocked down to the banks, with cries of welcome and the waving of flags. They felt, now, that their deliverance was accomplished, and that they were free from the tyranny that had, for so many years, oppressed them.

The banks were for the most part low; and, save at these villages, the journey was a monotonous one. The steamers kept on their way till nightfall, and then anchored.

They started again, at daybreak. At breakfast, General Hunter said:

"I think that in another two hours we shall be pretty well due west of El Fasher, so you had better, presently, get into your Dervish dress. You have got some iodine from the doctor, have you not?"

"Yes."

"You had better stain yourself all over, and take a good supply, in case you have to do it again."

Gregory went below, and had his head shaved by one of the Soudanese; then re-stained himself, from head to foot, and put on the Dervish attire -- loose trousers and a long smock, with six large square patches, arranged in two lines, in front. A white turban and a pair of shoes completed the costume. The officers laughed, as he came on deck again.

"You look an out-and-out Dervish, Hilliard," one of them said. "It is lucky that there are none of the Lancers scouting about. They would hardly give you time to explain, especially with that rifle and spear."

Presently they came to a spot where the water was deep up to the bank, which was some six feet above its level. The barge with the camels was brought up alongside. It had no bulwark, and as the deck was level with the land, the camels were, with a good deal of pressing on the part of their drivers, and pushing by as many Soudanese as could come near enough to them, got ashore.

None of the Soudanese recognized Gregory, and looked greatly surprised at the sudden appearance of two Dervishes among them. As soon as the camels were landed, Gregory and Zaki mounted them.

"You had better keep, if anything, to the south of east," General Hunter's last instructions had been. "Unless Parsons has been greatly delayed, they should be two or three days' march farther up the river, and every mile you strike the stream, behind him, is so much time lost."

He waved his hand to them and wished them farewell, as they started, and his staff shouted their wishes for a safe journey. The black soldiers, seeing that, whoever these Dervishes might be, they were well known to the General and his officers, raised a cheer; to which Zaki, who had hitherto kept in the background, waved his rifle in reply. As his face was familiar to numbers of the Soudanese, they now recognized him, and cheered more heartily than before, laughing like schoolboys at the transformation.



Chapter 21: Gedareh.


"Abdul Azim was right about the camels," Gregory said, as soon as they were fairly off. "I have never ridden on one like this, before. What a difference there is between them and the ordinary camel! It is not only that they go twice as fast, but the motion is so pleasant, and easy."

"Yes, Master, these are riding camels of good breed. They cost twenty times as much as the others. They think nothing of keeping up this rate for twelve hours, without a stop."

"If they do that, we shall be near the Atbara before it is dark. It is ten o'clock now, and if General Hunter's map is right, we have only about eighty miles to go, and I should think they are trotting seven miles an hour."

They carried their rifles slung behind them and across the shoulders, rather than upright, as was the Arab fashion. The spears were held in their right hands.

"We must see if we can't fasten the spears in some other way, Zaki. We should find them a nuisance, if we held them in our hands all the way. I should say it would be easy to fasten them across the saddle in front of us. If we see horsemen in the distance, we can take them into our hands."

"I think, Master, it would be easier to fasten them behind the saddles, where there is more width, and rings on the saddle on both sides."

A short halt was made, and the spears fixed. Gregory then looked at his compass.

"We must make for that rise, two or three miles away. I see exactly the point we must aim for. When we get there, we must look at the compass again."

They kept steadily on for six hours. They had seen no human figure, since they started.

"We will stop here for half an hour," Gregory said. "Give the animals a drink of water, and a handful or two of grain."

"I don't think they will want water, Master. They had as much as they could drink, before starting, and they are accustomed to drink when their work is over."

"Very well. At any rate, we will take something."

They opened one of the water skins, and poured some of the contents into a gourd. Then, sitting down in the shadow of the camels, they ate some dates and bread. They had only brought native food with them so that, if captured and examined, there should be nothing to show that they had been in contact with Europeans. Gregory had even left his revolver behind him as, being armed with so good a weapon as a Remington, it was hardly likely that it would be needed; and if found upon them, it would be accepted as a proof that he was in the employment of the infidels.

It was dusk when they arrived at the bank of the river. No incident had marked the journey, nor had they seen any sign that Dervishes were in the neighbourhood. The Atbara was in full flood, and was rushing down at six or seven miles an hour.

"Colonel Parsons must have had great difficulty in crossing, Zaki. He is hardly likely to have brought any boats across, from Kassala. I don't know whether he has any guns with him, but if he has, I don't think he can have crossed, even if they made rafts enough to carry them."

They kept along the bank, until they reached a spot where the river had overflowed. Here the camels drank their fill. A little grain was given to them, and then they were turned loose, to browse on the bushes.

"There is no fear of their straying, I suppose, Zaki?"

"No, Master. They are always turned loose at night. As there are plenty of bushes here, they will not go far."

After another meal, they both lay down to sleep; and, as soon as it was light, Zaki fetched in the camels and they continued their journey. In an hour, they arrived at a village. The people were already astir, and looked with evident apprehension at the seeming Dervishes.

"Has a party of infidels passed along here?" Gregory asked the village sheik, who came out and salaamed humbly.

"Yes, my lord, a party of soldiers, with some white officers, came through here three days ago."

"How many were there of them?"

"There must have been more than a thousand of them."

"Many more?"

"Not many; perhaps a hundred more. Your servant did not count them."

"Had they any cannon with them?"

"No, my lord. They were all on foot. They all carried guns, but there were no mounted men, or cannon."

"Where is Fadil and his army, that they thus allowed so small a force to march along, unmolested?"

"They say that he is still near the Nile. Two of his scouts were here, the day before the Turks came along. They stayed here for some hours, but as they said nothing about the Turks coming from Kassala, I suppose they did not know they had crossed the river."

"Well, we must go on, and see where they are. They must be mad to come with so small a force, when they must have known that Fadil has a large army. They will never go back again."

Without further talk, Gregory rode farther on. At each village through which they passed, they had some news of the passage of Colonel Parsons' command. The camels had been resting, from the time when Omdurman was taken; and, having been well fed that morning, Gregory did not hesitate to press them. The troops would not march above twenty-five miles a day, and two days would take them to Mugatta, so that if they halted there but for a day, he should be able to overtake them that night.

The character of the country was now greatly changed. The bush was thick and high, and a passage through it would be very difficult for mounted men. There was no fear, therefore, that they would turn off before arriving at Mugatta; from which place there would probably be a track, of some sort, to Gedareh. It was but a thirty-mile ride and, on arriving near the village, Gregory saw that a considerable number of men were assembled there. He checked his camel.

"What do you make them out to be, Zaki? Your eyes are better than mine. They may be Colonel Parsons' force, and on the other hand they may be Dervishes, who have closed in behind him to cut off his retreat."

"They are not Dervishes, master," Zaki said, after a long, steady look. "They have not white turbans. Some of their clothes are light, and some dark; but all have dark caps, like those the Soudanese troops wear."

"That is good enough, Zaki. We will turn our robes inside out, so as to hide the patches, as otherwise we might have a hot reception."

When they were a quarter of a mile from the village, several men started out from the bushes, rifle in hand. They were all in Egyptian uniform.

"We are friends!" Gregory shouted in Arabic. "I am an officer of the Khedive, and have come from Omdurman, with a message to your commander."

A native officer, one of the party, at once saluted.

"You will find the bey in the village, Bimbashi."

"How long have you been here?"

"We came in yesterday, and I hear that we shall start tomorrow, but I know not whether that is so."

"Are there any Dervishes about?"

"Yes; forty of them yesterday afternoon, coming from Gedareh, and ignorant that we were here, rode in among our outposts on that hill to the west. Three of them were killed, and three made prisoners. The rest rode away."

With a word of thanks, Gregory rode on. He dismounted when he reached the village, and was directed to a neighbouring hut. Here Colonel Parsons and the six white officers with him were assembled. A native soldier was on sentry, at the door.

"I want to speak to Parsons Bey."

The Colonel, hearing the words, came to the door.

"Colonel Parsons," Gregory said in English, "I am Major Hilliard of the Egyptian Army, and have the honour to be the bearer of a message to you, from General Rundle, now in command at Omdurman."

"You are well disguised, indeed, sir," the Colonel said with a smile, as he held out his hand. "I should never have taken you for anything but a native. Where did you spring from? You can never have ridden, much less walked, across the desert from Omdurman?"

"No, sir. I was landed from one of the gunboats in which General Hunter, with fifteen hundred Soudanese troops, is ascending the Blue Nile, to prevent Fadil from crossing and joining the Khalifa."

"Have you a written despatch?"

"It was thought better that I should carry nothing, so that even the strictest search would not show that I was a messenger."

"Is your message of a private character?"

"No, sir, I think not."

"Then will you come in?"

Gregory followed Colonel Parsons into the hut, which contained but one room.

"Gentlemen," the former said with a smile, "allow me to introduce Bimbashi Hilliard, who is the bearer of a message to me from General Rundle, now in command at Omdurman.

"Major Hilliard, these are Captain MacKerrel, commanding four hundred and fifty men of the 16th Egyptians; Captain Wilkinson, an equal number of the Arab battalion; Major Lawson, who has under his command three hundred and seventy Arab irregulars; Captain the Honorable H. Ruthven, who has under him eighty camel men; also Captain Fleming of the Royal Army Medical Corps, who is at once our medical officer, and in command of the baggage column; and Captain Dwyer. They are all, like yourself, officers in the Egyptian Army; and rank, like yourself, as Bimbashis.

"Now, sir, will you deliver your message to me?"

"It is of a somewhat grave character, sir, but General Rundle thought it very important that you should be acquainted with the last news. The Sirdar has gone up the White Nile, with some of the gunboats and the 11th Soudanese. He deemed it necessary to go himself, because a body of foreign troops -- believed to be French -- have established themselves at Fashoda."

An exclamation of surprise broke from all the officers.

"In the next place, sir, Fadil, who had arrived with his force within forty miles of Khartoum, has retired up the banks of the Blue Nile, on hearing of the defeat of the Khalifa. Major General Hunter has therefore gone up that river, with three gunboats and another Soudanese battalion, to prevent him, if possible, from crossing it and joining the Khalifa, who is reported to be collecting the remains of his defeated army.

"It is possible -- indeed the General thinks it is probable -- that Fadil, if unable to cross, may return with his army to Gedareh. It is to warn you of this possibility that he sent me here. Gedareh is reported to be a defensible position, and therefore he thinks that, if you capture it, it would be advisable to maintain yourself there until reinforcements can be sent to you, either from the Blue Nile or the Atbara. The place, it seems, is well supplied with provisions and stores; and in the event of Fadil opposing you, it would be far safer for you to defend it than to be attacked in the open, or during a retreat."

"It is certainly important news, Mr. Hilliard. Hitherto we have supposed that Fadil had joined the Khalifa before the fight at Omdurman, and there was therefore no fear of his reappearing here. We know very little of the force at Gedareh. We took some prisoners yesterday, but their accounts are very conflicting. Still, there is every reason to believe that the garrison is not strong. Certainly, as General Rundle says, we should be in a much better position there than if we were attacked in the open. No doubt the Arabs who got off in the skirmish, yesterday, carried the news there; and probably some of them would go direct to Fadil, and if he came down upon us here, with his eight thousand men, our position would be a desperate one. It cost us four days to cross the river at El Fasher, and would take us as much to build boats and recross here; and before that time, he might be upon us.

"It is evident, gentlemen, that we have only the choice of these alternatives -- either to march, at once, against Gedareh; or to retreat immediately, crossing the river here, or at El Fasher. As to remaining here, of course, it is out of the question."

The consultation was a short one. All the officers were in favour of pushing forward, pointing out that, as only the 16th Egyptians could be considered as fairly disciplined, the troops would lose heart if they retired; and could not be relied upon to keep steady, if attacked by a largely superior force; while, at present, they would probably fight bravely. The Arab battalion had been raised by the Italians, and were at present full of confidence, as they had defeated the Mahdists who had been besieging Kassala. The Arab irregulars had, of course, the fighting instincts of their race, and would assault an enemy bravely; but in a defensive battle, against greatly superior numbers, could scarcely be expected to stand well. As for the eighty camel men, they were all Soudanese soldiers, discharged from the army for old age and physical unfitness. They could be relied upon to fight but, small in number as they were, could but have little effect on the issue of a battle. All therefore agreed that, having come thus far, the safest, as well as the most honourable course, would be to endeavour to fight the enemy in a strong position.

Although it may be said that success justified it, no wilder enterprise was ever undertaken than that of sending thirteen hundred only partly disciplined men into the heart of the enemy's country. Omdurman and Atbara, to say nothing of previous campaigns, had shown how desperately the Dervishes fought; and the order, for the garrison of Kassala to undertake it, can only have been given under an entire misconception of the circumstances, and of the strength of the army under Fadil, that they would almost certainly be called upon to encounter. This was the more probable, as all the women and the property of his soldiers had been left at Gedareh, when he marched away; and his men would, therefore, naturally wish to go there, before they made any endeavour to join the Khalifa.

Such, indeed, was the fact. Fadil concealed from them the news of the disaster at Omdurman, for some days; and, when it became known, he had difficulty in restraining his troops from marching straight for Gedareh.

"Do you go on with us, Mr. Hilliard?" Colonel Parsons asked, when they had decided to start for Gedareh.

"Yes, sir. My instructions are to go on with you and, if the town is besieged, to endeavour to get through their lines, and carry the news to General Hunter, if I can ascertain his whereabouts. If not, to make straight for Omdurman. I have two fast camels, which I shall leave here, and return for them with my black boy, when we start."

"We shall be glad to have you with us," the Colonel said. "Every white officer is worth a couple of hundred men."

As they sat and chatted, Gregory asked how the force had crossed the Atbara.

"It was a big job," Colonel Parsons said. "The river was wider than the Thames, below London Bridge; and running something like seven miles an hour. We brought with us some barrels to construct a raft. When this was built, it supported the ten men who started on it; but they were, in spite of their efforts, carried ten miles down the stream, and it was not until five hours after they embarked that they managed to land. The raft did not get back from its journey till the next afternoon, being towed along the opposite bank by the men.

"It was evident that this would not do. The Egyptian soldiers then took the matter in hand. They made frameworks with the wood of the mimosa scrub, and covered these with tarpaulins, which we had fortunately brought with us. They turned out one boat a day, capable of carrying two tons; and, six days after we reached the river, we all got across.

"The delay was a terrible nuisance at the time, but it has enabled you to come up here and warn us about Fadil. Fortunately no Dervishes came along while we were crossing, and indeed we learned, from the prisoners we took yesterday, that the fact that a force from Kassala had crossed the river was entirely unknown, so no harm was done."

The sheik of the little village took charge of Gregory's camels. Some stores were also left there, under a small guard, as it was advisable to reduce the transport to the smallest possible amount.

The next morning the start was made. The bush was so thick that it was necessary to march in single file. In the evening, the force halted in a comparatively open country. The camel men reconnoitred the ground, for some little distance round, and saw no signs of the enemy. They camped, however, in the form of a square; and lay with their arms beside them, in readiness to resist an attack.

The night passed quietly, and at early dawn they moved forward again. At six o'clock the camel men exchanged a few shots with the Dervish scouts, who fell back at once. At eight a village was sighted, and the force advanced upon it, in fighting order.

It was found, however, to have been deserted, except by a few old people. These, on being questioned, said that the Emir Saadalla, who commanded, had but two hundred rifles and six hundred spearmen, and had received orders from Fadil to surrender. Subsequent events showed that they had been carefully tutored as to the reply to be given.

The force halted here, as Gedareh was still twelve miles away; and it was thought better that, if there was fighting, they should be fresh. At midnight, a deserter from the Dervishes came in, with the grave news that the Emir had three thousand five hundred men, and was awaiting them two miles outside the town. There was another informal council of war, but all agreed that a retreat, through this difficult country, would bring about the total annihilation of the force; and that there was nothing to do but to fight.

Early in the morning, they started again. For the first two hours, the road led through grass so high that even the men on camels could not see above it. They pushed on till eight o'clock, when they reached a small knoll. At the foot of this they halted, and Colonel Parsons and the officers ascended it, to reconnoitre.

They saw, at once, that the deserter's news was true. A mile away four lines of Dervishes, marching in excellent order, were making their way towards them. Colonel Parsons considered that their numbers could not be less than four thousand, and at once decided to occupy a saddle-back hill, half a mile away; and the troops were hurried across. The Dervishes also quickened their movements, but were too late to prevent the hill from being seized.

The Arab battalion had been leading, followed by the Egyptians; while the irregulars, divided into two bodies under Arab chiefs, guarded the hospital and baggage. The Dervishes at once advanced to the attack of the hill, and the column wheeled into line, to meet it. Even on the crest of the hill, the grass was breast high, but it did not impede the view of the advancing lines of the Dervishes. Into these a heavy and destructive fire was at once poured. The enemy, however, pushed on, firing in return; but being somewhat out of breath, from the rapidity with which they had marched; and seeing nothing of the defenders of the hill, save their heads, they inflicted far less loss than they were themselves suffering.

The fight was continuing, when Colonel Parsons saw that a force of about three hundred Dervishes had worked round the back of the hill, with the intention of falling upon the baggage. He at once sent one of the Arab sheiks to warn Captain Fleming; who, from his position, was unable to see the approaching foe. Colonel Parsons had asked Gregory to take up his position with the baggage, as he foresaw that, with their vastly greater numbers, it was likely that the Dervishes might sweep round and attack it.

Scarcely had the messenger arrived with the news, when the Dervishes came rushing on through the high grass. In spite of the shouts of Doctor Fleming and Gregory, the escort of one hundred and twenty irregular Arabs, stationed at this point, at once broke and fled. Happily, a portion of the camel corps, with its commander, Captain Ruthven, a militia officer, was close at hand. Though he had but thirty-four of these old soldiers with him, he rushed forward to meet the enemy. Doctor Fleming and Gregory joined him and, all cheering to encourage the Soudanese, made a determined stand.

Gregory and Zaki kept up a steady fire with their Remingtons, and picked off several of the most determined of their assailants. The fight, however, was too unequal; the Dervishes got in behind them, and cut off the rear portion of the transport; and the little band, fighting obstinately, fell back, with their faces to the foe, towards the main body.

One of the native officers of the Soudanese fell. Captain Ruthven, a very powerful man, ran back and lifted the wounded soldier, and made his way towards his friends. So closely pressed was he, by the Dervishes, that three times he had to lay his burden down and defend himself with his revolver; while Gregory and Zaki aided his retreat, by turning their fire upon his assailants. For this splendid act of bravery, Captain Ruthven afterwards received the Victoria Cross.

Flushed by their success, the Dervishes pushed on. Fortunately, at this time the main force of the Dervishes was beginning to waver, unable to withstand the steady fire of the defenders of the hill; and as they drew back a little, the Egyptian and Arab battalions rushed forward.

Shaken as they were, the Dervishes were unable to resist the attack; and broke and fled, pursued by the Arab battalion. The Egyptians, however, obeyed the orders of Captain MacKerrel and, halting, faced about to encounter the attack from the rear. Their volleys caused the Dervishes to hesitate, and Captain Ruthven and his party reached the summit of the hill in safety.

The enemy, however, maintained a heavy fire for a few minutes; but the volleys of the Egyptians, at a distance of only a hundred yards, were so deadly that they soon took to flight.

The first shot had been fired at half-past eight. At ten, the whole Dervish force was scattered in headlong rout. Had Colonel Parsons possessed a cavalry force, the enemy would have been completely cut up. As it was, pursuit was out of the question.

The force therefore advanced, in good order, to Gedareh. Here a Dervish Emir, who had been left in charge when the rest of the garrison moved out, surrendered at once, with the two hundred black riflemen under him. He had long been suspected of disloyalty by the Khalifa, and at once declared his hatred of Mahdism; declaring that, though he had not dared to declare himself openly, he had always been friendly to Egyptian rule.

The men with him at once fraternized with the Arabs of Colonel Parsons' force, and were formally received into their ranks. The Emir showed his sincerity by giving them all the information in his power, as to Fadil's position and movements, and by pointing out the most defensible positions.

None of the British officers had been wounded, but fifty-one of the men had been killed, and eighty wounded. Five hundred of the Dervishes were left dead upon the field, including four Emirs.

Not a moment was lost in preparing for defence, for it was certain that Fadil, on hearing the news, would at once march to retake the town. The position was naturally a strong one. Standing on rising ground was Fadil's house, surrounded by a brick wall, twelve feet high. Here the Egyptian battalion and camel corps were placed, with the hospital, and two brass guns which had been found there.

A hundred yards away was another enclosure, with a five-foot wall, and two hundred yards away a smaller one. The Arab battalion was stationed to the rear of this, in a square enclosure with a brick wall, twelve feet high, in which was situated a well. These four buildings were so placed, that the fire from each covered the approaches to the other. Two hundred yards from the well enclosure was a fortified house, surrounded by a high wall. As the latter would need too many men for its defence, the wall was pulled down, and a detachment placed in the house.

No time was lost. The whole force was at once employed in pulling down huts, clearing the ground of the high grass, and forming a zareba round the town. The greatest cause for anxiety was ammunition. A large proportion of that carried in the pouches had been expended during the battle, and the next morning Colonel Parsons, with a small force, hurried back to Mugatta to fetch up the reserve ammunition, which had been left there under a guard. He returned with it, three days later.

An abundant supply of provisions had been found in Gedareh, for here were the magazines, not only of the four thousand men of the garrison and the women who had been left there, but sufficient for Fadil's army, on their return. There were three or four wells, and a good supply of water.

The ammunition arrived just in time; for, on the following morning, Captain Ruthven's camel men brought in news that Fadil was close at hand. At half-past eight the Dervishes began the attack, on three sides of the defences. Sheltered by the long grass, they were able to make their way to within three hundred yards of the dwellings occupied by the troops. But the intervening ground had all been cleared, and though time after time they made rushes forward, they were unable to withstand the withering fire to which they were exposed.

After an hour's vain efforts their musketry fire ceased; but, half an hour later, strong reinforcements came up, and the attack recommenced. This was accompanied with no greater success than the first attack, and Fadil retired to a palm grove, two miles away. Of the defenders five men were killed, and Captain Dwyer and thirteen men wounded.

For two days, Fadil endeavoured to persuade his troops to make another attack; but although they surrounded the town, and maintained a scattered fire, they could not be brought to attempt another assault, having lost over five hundred men in the two attacks the first day. He then fell back, eight miles.

Three days later, Colonel Parsons said to Gregory:

"I think the time has come, Mr. Hilliard, when I must apply for reinforcements. I am convinced that we can repel all attacks, but we are virtually prisoners here. Were we to endeavour to retreat, Fadil would probably annihilate us. Our men have behaved admirably; but it is one thing to fight well, when you are advancing; and another to be firm in retreat.

"But our most serious enemy, at present, is fever. Already, the stink of the unburied bodies of the Dervishes is overpowering, and every day it will become worse. Doctor Fleming reports to me that he has a great many sick on his hands, and that he fears the conditions that surround us will bring about an epidemic. Therefore I have decided to send to General Rundle, for a reinforcement that will enable us to move out to attack Fadil."

"Very well, sir, I will start at once."

"I will write my despatch. It will be ready for you to carry in an hour's time. You had better pick out a couple of good donkeys, from those we captured here. As it is only nine o'clock, you will be able to get to Mugatta this evening. I don't think there is any fear of your being interfered with, by the Dervishes. We may be sure that Fadil is not allowing his men to roam over the country, for there can be little doubt that a good many of them would desert, as soon as they got fairly beyond his camp."

"I don't think there is any fear of that, sir; and as my camels will have had ten days' rest, I should have very little fear of being overtaken, even if they did sight us."

"We are off again, Zaki," Gregory said. "We will go down to the yard where the animals we captured are kept, and choose a couple of good donkeys. I am to carry a despatch to Omdurman, and as time is precious, we will make a straight line across the desert; it will save us fifty or sixty miles."

"I am glad to be gone, Master. The smells here are as bad as they were at Omdurman, when we went in there."

"Yes, I am very glad to be off, too."

An hour later they started, and arrived at Mugatta at eight o'clock in the evening. The native with whom the camels had been left had taken good care of them; and, after rewarding him and taking a meal, Gregory determined to start at once. The stars were bright, and there was quite light enough for the camels to travel.

The water was emptied from the skins, and filled again. They had brought with them sufficient food for four days' travel, and a sack of grain for the camels. An hour after arriving at the village they again started.

"We will follow the river bank, till we get past the country where the bushes are so thick, and then strike west by north. I saw, by Colonel Parsons' map, that that is about the line we should take."

They left the river before they reached El Fasher, and continued their journey all night, and onward till the sun was well up. Then they watered the camels (they had, this time, brought with them a large half gourd for the purpose), ate a good meal themselves; and, after placing two piles of grain before the camels, lay down and slept until five o'clock in the afternoon.

"We ought to be opposite Omdurman, tomorrow morning. I expect we shall strike the river, tonight. I have kept our course rather to the west of the direct line, on purpose. It would be very awkward if we were to miss it. I believe the compass is right, and I have struck a match every hour to look at it; but a very slight deviation would make a big difference, at the end of a hundred and fifty miles."

It was just midnight when they saw the river before them.

"We can't go wrong now, Zaki."

"That is a comfort. How many miles are we above its junction with the White Nile?"

"I don't know."

They rode steadily on, and day was just breaking when he exclaimed:

"There are some buildings opposite. That must be Khartoum. We shall be opposite Omdurman in another hour."

Soon after six o'clock, they rode down to the river bank opposite the town; and, in answer to their signals, a large native boat was rowed across to them. After some trouble the camels were got on board, and in a quarter of an hour they landed.

"Take the camels up to my house, Zaki. I must go and report myself, at headquarters."

General Rundle had not yet gone out, and on Gregory sending in his name, he was at once admitted.

"So you are back, Mr. Hilliard!" the General said. "I am heartily glad to see you, for it was a very hazardous mission that you undertook. What news have you?"

"This is Colonel Parsons' report."

Before reading the long report, the General said, "Tell me, in a few words, what happened."

"I overtook Colonel Parsons at Mugatta, on the third morning after leaving. We were attacked by nearly four thousand Dervishes, five miles from Gedareh. After a sharp fight they were defeated, and we occupied the town without resistance. Four days later, Fadil came up with his army and attacked the town; but was driven off, with a loss of five hundred men. He is now eight miles from the town. The place is unhealthy and, although it can be defended, Colonel Parsons has asked for reinforcements, to enable him to attack Fadil."

"That is good news, indeed. We have all been extremely anxious, for there was no doubt that Colonel Parsons' force was wholly inadequate for the purpose. How long is it since you left?"

"About forty-six hours, sir."

"Indeed! That seems almost impossible, Mr. Hilliard."

"We started at eleven o'clock in the morning, sir, and rode on donkeys to Mugatta, where I had left my camels; arrived there at eight, and started an hour later on the camels. We rode till nine o'clock the next day, halted till five, and have just arrived here. The camels were excellent beasts, and travelled a good six miles an hour. I did not press them, as I knew that, if we arrived opposite the town at night, we should have difficulty in getting across the river."

"It was a great ride, a great achievement! You must be hungry, as well as tired. I will tell my man to get you some breakfast, at once. You can eat it, while I read this despatch. Then I may have a few questions to ask you. After that, you had better turn in till evening."

Gregory enjoyed his breakfast, with the luxuries of tinned fruit, after his rough fare for the past fortnight. When he went to the General's room again, the latter said:

"Colonel Parsons' despatches are very full, and I think I quite understand the situation. No praise is too high for the conduct of his officers and troops. All seemed to have behaved equally well, and he mentions the gallant part you took in the defence of the baggage, with Captain Ruthven and the doctor, and only some thirty-four soldiers of the camel corps.

"Now, I will not detain you longer. I hope you will dine with me this evening. I should like to hear more of the affair."

Returning to his hut, Gregory found that Zaki had already got his bed, and other things, from the store; and he was just about to boil the kettle.

"I have breakfasted, Zaki. Here is a dollar. Go to one of those big shops, and buy anything you like, and have a good meal. Then you had better take the camels across to Azim's camp. I shall not want you then, till evening."

No time was lost. Three battalions and a half of Soudanese were sent up the Blue Nile, in steamers, and the garrisons stationed at several points on the river were also taken on board. Three companies of camel corps marched along the bank, and arrived at Abu Haraz, a hundred and thirty miles up the river, in fifty-six hours after starting. Five hundred baggage camels were also sent up. As the distance from Gedareh to this point was a hundred miles, and as water was only to be found at one point, it was necessary to carry up a supply for the troops.

Colonel Collinson, who was in command, pushed forward at once with the 12th Soudanese and the camel corps. When Fadil heard of their approach, he made a night attack on Gedareh. This, however, was easily repulsed by the garrison. He then broke up his camp and marched away, intending to cross the Blue Nile, and join the Khalifa.

His troops were greatly demoralized by their failures, and in spite of the precautions he took, the Darfur Sheik, with five hundred of his men, succeeded in effecting his escape; and at once joined us, actively, in the further operations against Fadil. As there was no further danger, the Soudanese marched back again and joined the other battalions, the garrisons on the river were re-established, and part of the force returned to Omdurman.

The Sirdar had returned from Fashoda before Gregory came back, and had left almost immediately for Cairo. On the day after Gregory's return, he had a sharp attack of fever; the result partly of the evil smells at Gedareh, heightened by the fact that the present was the fever season, in the Blue Nile country.



Chapter 22: The Crowning Victory.


It was eight weeks before he recovered, and even then the doctor said that he was not fit for any exertion. He learned that on the 22nd of October, Colonel Lewis, with two companies of the camel corps and three squadrons of Lancers, had started from Omdurman to visit the various villages between the White and Blue Niles; to restore order, and proclaim that the authority of the Khedive was established there. On the 7th of November, following the Blue Nile up, he reached Karkoj, but a short distance below the point at which the navigation of the river ceased. He had come in contact with a portion of Fadil's force, but nothing could be done, in the thick undergrowth in which the latter was lurking; and he therefore remained, waiting for the next move on the part of the Dervish commander, while the gunboats patrolled the Blue river up to Rosaires.

Six weeks passed. His force, and all the garrisons on the river, suffered severely from heat, thirty percent of the troops being down together. The cavalry had suffered particularly heavily. Of the four hundred and sixty men, ten had died and four hundred and twenty were reported unfit for duty, a month after their arrival at Karkoj; while of the thirty white officers on the Blue Nile, only two escaped an attack of fever.

At the end of the month, Colonel Lewis was joined by the Darfur Sheik and three hundred and fifty of his men. He had had many skirmishes with Dervish parties, scouring the country for food, and his arrival was very welcome.

Gregory was recommended to take a river trip, to recover his health; and left on a steamer going up with stores, and some small reinforcements, to Colonel Lewis. They arrived at Karkoj on the 14th of December, and learned that the little garrison at Rosaires had been attacked by the Dervishes.

The fifty fever-stricken men who formed the garrison would have had no chance of resisting the attack, but fortunately they had, that very morning, been reinforced by two hundred men of the 10th Soudanese, and two Maxims; and the Dervishes were repulsed, with considerable loss. Two companies of the same battalion had reinforced Colonel Lewis, who marched, on the day after receiving the news, to Rosaires. The gunboat went up to that point, and remained there for some days.

Gregory went ashore, as soon as the boat arrived, and saw Colonel Lewis, to whom he was well known.

"I am supposed to be on sick leave, sir; but I feel quite strong now, and shall be glad to join you, if you will have me."

"I can have no possible objection, Mr. Hilliard. I know that you did good service with Colonel Parsons, and it is quite possible that we shall find ourselves in as tight a place as he was. So many of our white officers have been sent down, with fever, that I am very short-handed, and shall be glad if you will temporarily serve as my assistant."

On the 20th, the news came that Fadil was crossing the river at Dakhila, twenty miles farther to the south. He himself had crossed, and the women and children had been taken over on a raft. On the 22nd, the Darfur Sheik was sent off up the west bank, to harass the Dervishes who had already crossed. On the 24th two gunboats arrived, with two hundred more men of the 10th Soudanese, and a small detachment of the 9th.

On the following day the little force started, at five in the afternoon; and, at eleven at night, halted at a little village. At three in the morning they again advanced, and at eight o'clock came in contact with the Dervish outposts. Colonel Lewis had already learned that, instead of half the Dervish force having crossed, only one division had done so, and that he had by far the greater part of Fadil's army opposed to him.

It was a serious matter to attack some four or five thousand men, with so small a force at his disposal; for he had but half the 10th Soudanese, a handful of the 9th, and two Maxim guns. As to the Darfur irregulars, no great reliance could be placed upon them.

As the force issued from the wood through which they had been marching, they saw the river in front of them. In its midst rose a large island, a mile and a quarter long, and more than three-quarters of a mile wide. There were clumps of sand hills upon it. They had learned that the intervening stream was rapid, but not deep; while that on the other side of the island was very deep, with a precipitous bank.

It was upon this island that Fadil's force was established. The position was a strong one -- the sand hills rose from an almost flat plain, a thousand yards away; and this would have to be crossed by the assailants, without any shelter whatever. The Dervishes were bound to fight their hardest, as there was no possibility of escape, if defeated.

At nine o'clock the Soudanese and irregulars lined the bank and opened fire, while the two Maxims came into action. The Dervishes replied briskly, and it was soon evident that, at so long a range, they could not be driven from their position. Several fords were found, and the irregulars, supported by a company of the 10th, crossed the river, and took up a position two hundred yards in advance, to cover the passage of the rest. These crossed with some difficulty, for the water was three and a half feet deep, and the current very strong; and they were, moreover, exposed to the fire of Fadil's riflemen, from the high cliff on the opposite bank.

Colonel Lewis, determined to turn the left flank of the Dervishes, kept along the river's edge until he reached the required position; then wheeled the battalion into line, and advanced across the bare shingle against the sand hills. Major Ferguson, with one company, was detached to attack a knoll on the right, held by two hundred Dervishes. The remaining four companies, under Colonel Mason, kept straight on towards the main position.

A very heavy fire was concentrated upon them, not only from the sand hills, but from Fadil's riflemen. The Soudanese fell fast, but held on, increasing their pace to a run; until they reached the foot of the first sandhill, where they lay down in shelter to take breath. A quarter of the force had already fallen, and their doctor, Captain Jennings, remained out in the open, binding up their wounds, although exposed to a continuous fire.

This halt was mistaken by the Dervishes, who thought that the courage of the Soudanese was exhausted; and Fadil, from the opposite bank, sounded the charge on drum and bugle; and the whole Dervish force, with banners waving and exultant shouts, poured down to annihilate their assailants.

But the Soudanese, led by Colonels Lewis and Mason, who were accompanied by Gregory, leapt to their feet, ran up the low bank behind which they were sheltering, and opened a terrible fire. The Dervishes were already close at hand, and every shot told among them. Astonished at so unlooked-for a reception, and doubtless remembering the heavy loss they had suffered at Gedareh, they speedily broke. Like dogs slipped from their leash, the black troops dashed on with triumphant shouts, driving the Dervishes from sandhill to sandhill, until the latter reached the southern end of the island.

Here the Soudanese were joined by the irregulars who had first crossed, and a terrible fire was maintained, from the sand hills, upon the crowded mass on the bare sand, cut off from all retreat by the deep river. Some tried to swim across, to join their friends on the west bank. A few succeeded in doing so, among them the Emir who had given battle to Colonel Parsons' force, near Gedareh.

Many took refuge from the fire by standing in the river, up to their necks. Some four hundred succeeded in escaping, by a ford, to a small island lower down; but they found no cover there, and after suffering heavily from the musketry fire, the survivors, three hundred strong, surrendered.

Major Ferguson's company, however, was still exposed to a heavy fire, turned upon them by the force on the other side of the river. He himself was severely wounded, and a third of his men hit. The Maxims were accordingly carried over the river to the island, and placed so as to command the west bank, which they soon cleared of the riflemen.

Over five hundred Arabs lay dead on the two islands. Two thousand one hundred and seventy-five fighting men surrendered, and several hundred women and children. Fadil, with the force that had escaped, crossed the desert to Rung, on the White Nile, where on the 22nd of January they surrendered to the English gunboats; their leader, with ten or twelve of his followers only, escaping to join the Khalifa.

Our casualties were heavy. Twenty-five non-commissioned officers and men were killed; one British officer, six native officers, and one hundred and seventeen non-commissioned officers and men wounded of the 10th Soudanese, out of a total strength of five hundred and eleven. The remaining casualties were among the irregulars.

Never was there a better proof of the gallantry of the black regiments of Egypt; for, including the commander and medical officer, there were but five British officers, and two British sergeants, to direct and lead them.

After the battle of Rosaires, there was a lull in the fighting on the east of the White Nile. The whole country had been cleared of the Dervishes, and it was now time for the Sirdar, who had just returned from England, to turn his attention to the Khalifa. The latter was known to be near El Obeid, where he had now collected a force, of whose strength very different reports were received.

Gregory, whose exertions in the fight, and the march through the scrub from Karkoj, had brought on a slight return of fever, went down in the gunboat, with the wounded, to Omdurman. Zaki was with him, but as a patient. He had been hit through the leg, while charging forward with the Soudanese. At Omdurman, Gregory fell into regular work again. So many of the officers of the Egyptian battalions had fallen in battle, or were down with fever, that Colonel Wingate took him as his assistant, and his time was now spent in listening to the stories of tribesmen; who, as soon as the Khalifa's force had passed, had brought in very varying accounts of his strength. Then there were villagers who had complaints to make of robbery, of ill usage -- for this the Arab irregulars, who had been disbanded after the capture of Omdurman, were largely responsible. Besides these, there were many petitions by fugitives, who had returned to find their houses occupied, and their land seized by others.

Gregory was constantly sent off to investigate and decide in these disputes, and was sometimes away for a week at a time. Zaki had recovered rapidly and, as soon as he was able to rise, accompanied his master; who obtained valuable assistance from him as, while Gregory was hearing the stories of witnesses, Zaki went quietly about the villages, talking to the old men and women, and frequently obtained evidence that showed that many of the witnesses were perjured; and so enabled his master to give decisions which astonished the people by their justness.

Indeed, the reports of the extraordinary manner in which he seemed able to pick out truth from falsehood, and to decide in favour of the rightful claimant, spread so rapidly from village to village, that claimants who came in to Colonel Wingate often requested, urgently, that the young Bimbashi should be sent out to investigate the matter.

"You seem to be attaining the position of a modern Solomon, Hilliard," the Colonel said one day, with a smile. "How do you do it?"

Gregory laughed, and told him the manner in which he got at the truth.

"An excellent plan," he said, "and one which it would be well to adopt, generally, by sending men beforehand to a village. The only objection is, that you could not rely much more upon the reports of your spies than on those of the villagers. The chances are that the claimant who could bid highest would receive their support."

Matters were quiet until the Sirdar returned from England, and determined to make an attempt to capture the Khalifa, whose force was reported not to exceed one thousand men. Two squadrons of Egyptian cavalry and a Soudanese brigade, two Maxims, two mule guns, and a company of camel corps were placed under the command of Colonel Kitchener. The great difficulty was the lack of water along the route to be traversed. Camels were brought from the Atbara and the Blue Nile; and the whole were collected at Kawa, on the White Nile. They started from that point, but the wells were found to be dry; and the force had to retrace its steps, and to start afresh from Koli, some forty miles farther up the river.

They endured great hardships, for everything was left behind save the clothes the men and officers stood in, and one hundred rounds of ammunition each; only one pint of water being allowed per head. The country was a desert, covered with interlacing thorn bushes. An eight days' march brought the force to a village which was considered sacred, as it contained the grave of the Khalifa's father, and the house where the Khalifa himself had been born.

Three days later they reached the abandoned camp of the Khalifa, a wide tract that had been cleared of bush. A great multitude of dwellings, constructed of spear grass, stretched away for miles; and at the very lowest compilation it had contained twenty thousand people, of which it was calculated that from eight thousand to ten thousand must have been fighting men, ten times as many as had before been reported to be with the Khalifa. A reconnaissance showed that a large army was waiting to give battle, on a hill which was of great strength, surrounded by deep ravines and pools of water.

The position was an anxious one. The total force was about fourteen hundred strong, and a defeat would mean annihilation; while even a victory would scarcely secure the capture of the Khalifa; who, with his principal emirs, Osman Digna, El Khatim the Sheik of El Obeid, the Sheik Ed Din, and Fadil, would be able to gallop off if they saw the battle going against them. Colonel Kitchener had the wisdom to decide against risking the destruction of his followers by an assault against so great a force, posted in so strong a position. It was a deep mortification to him to have to retreat, and the soldiers were bitterly disappointed; but their commander felt that, brave as the Egyptians and Soudanese had shown themselves, the odds against victory were too great. After a terrible march, and great sufferings from thirst and scanty food, the force reached Koli on the 5th of February, and were conveyed in steamers down to Omdurman.

After this somewhat unfortunate affair, which naturally added to the prestige of the Khalifa, the months passed uneventfully; but, late in October, preparations were made for an attack upon a large scale against the Khalifa's camp, and eight thousand men were concentrated at Karla, on the White Nile. It was known that the Khalifa was at Gedir, eighty miles away; but after proceeding half the distance, it was found that he had marched away, and the column returned, as pursuit through a densely-wooded country would have been impracticable.

The gunboats had gone up the river with a flying column, under Colonel Lewis, to check any of the Khalifa's forces that attempted to establish themselves on the banks. Mounted troops and transport were at once concentrated, and Colonel Wingate was sent up to take command. The force consisted of a brigade of infantry, under Colonel Lewis, with the 9th and 13th Soudanese, an irregular Soudanese battalion, a company of the 2nd Egyptians, six companies of camel corps, a squadron of cavalry, a field battery, six Maxims, and detachments of medical and supply departments, with a camel transport train to carry rations and three days' water -- in all, three thousand seven hundred men.

On the afternoon of the 21st of November, the column moved forward and, favoured by a bright moonlight, made a march of fifteen miles; the cavalry scouting two miles in front, the flanks and rear being covered by the camel corps. Native reports had brought in information that Fadil, who had been raiding the country, was now in the neighbourhood, on his way to rejoin the main Dervish army, which was lying near Gadi.

The cavalry pushed forward at dawn, and found that Fadil had retreated, leaving a quantity of grain behind. A sick Dervish who had remained there said that the Dervishes had moved to a point seven miles away. The cavalry, camel corps, and some of the guns advanced, and seized a position within three hundred yards of the Dervish encampment, on which they immediately opened fire.

The rest of the guns were at once pushed forward, to reinforce them, and arrived in time to assist them in repulsing a fierce attack of the Dervishes. Owing to the nature of the ground, these were able to approach to within sixty yards of the guns, before coming under their fire. They were then mowed down by the guns and Maxims, and the musketry fire of the camel corps; to which was added that of the infantry brigade, when they arrived. This was too much even for Dervish valour to withstand, and they fled back to their camp.

The British force then advanced. They met with but little opposition and, as they entered the camp, they saw the enemy in full flight. The infantry followed them for a mile and a half, while the cavalry and camel corps kept up the pursuit for five miles.

Fadil's camp, containing a large amount of grain and other stores, fell into the hands of the captors; with a number of prisoners, including women and children, and animals. Four hundred Dervishes had fallen, great numbers had been wounded, while the British casualties amounted to a native officer of the camel corps dangerously wounded, one man killed, and three wounded.

Gregory had accompanied Colonel Wingate, and acted as one of his staff officers. He had, of course, brought his horse with him. It was an excellent animal, and had been used by him in all his excursions from Omdurman.

"That is rather a different affair from the fight on the Atbara, Zaki," he said, when the force gathered in Fadil's camp, after the pursuit was relinquished; "the Dervishes fought just as bravely, but in one case they had a strong position to defend, while today they took the offensive. It makes all the difference."

"I am glad to have seen some fighting again, Master, for it has been dull work stopping ten months in Omdurman, with nothing to do but ride about the country, and decide upon the villagers' quarrels."

"It has been useful work, Zaki, and I consider myself very fortunate in being so constantly employed. I was desperately afraid that Colonel Wingate would leave me there, and I was greatly relieved when he told me that I was to come with him. It is a fortunate thing that we have beaten our old enemy, Fadil, here. In the first place because, if the three or four thousand men he had with him had joined the Khalifa, it would have given us harder work in tomorrow's fight; and in the next place his arrival, with his followers who have escaped, at the Khalifa's camp, is not likely to inspirit the Dervishes there."

Gregory was occupied, all the afternoon, in examining the prisoners. They affirmed that they had left the former camp, three days before, with the intention of proceeding to Gedid; where Fadil was to join the Khalifa with captured grain, when the whole Dervish force was to march north.

The troops slept during the afternoon, and in the evening set out for Gedid, which they reached at ten o'clock the next morning. A Dervish deserter reported that the Khalifa was encamped seven miles to the southeast. Fortunately, a pool with sufficient water for the whole force was found at Gedid; which was a matter of great importance, for otherwise the expedition must have fallen back.

It was hoped that the Khalifa would now stand at bay, as our occupation of Gedid barred his advance north. Behind him was a waterless, and densely wooded district. The capture of the grain on which he had relied would render it impossible for him to remain long in his present position, and his only chance of extricating himself was to stand and fight.

After twelve hours' rest the troops were roused, and started a few minutes after midnight. The transport was left, under a strong guard, near the water; with orders to follow, four hours later. The cavalry, with two Maxims, moved in advance; and the camel corps on the flanks. The ground was thickly wooded. In many places, a way had to be cut for the guns.

At three o'clock news was received, from the cavalry, that the enemy's camp was but three miles distant from the point which the infantry had reached; and that they and the Maxims had halted two miles ahead, at the foot of some slightly rising ground; beyond which the scouts had, on the previous day, discovered the main force of the enemy to be stationed. The infantry continued to advance, slowly and cautiously, making as little noise as possible.

It was soon evident, however, that in spite of their caution, the enemy were aware of their approach, as there was an outburst of the beating of drums, and the blowing of war horns. This did not last long, but it was enough to show that the Dervishes were not to be taken by surprise. When the infantry reached the spot where the cavalry were halted, the latter's scouts were withdrawn and the infantry pickets thrown out, and the troops then lay down to await daybreak.

The officers chatted together in low tones. There were but two hours till dawn, and with the prospect of heavy fighting before them, none were inclined to sleep. The question was whether the Dervishes would defend their camp, or attack. The result of the battle of Omdurman should have taught them that it was impossible to come to close quarters, in the face of the terrible fire of our rifles. Fadil could give his experience at Gedareh, which would teach the same lesson. On the other hand, the storming of the Dervish camp on the Atbara, and the fight at Rosaires, would both seem to show them that the assault of the Egyptian force was irresistible.

As Gregory had been present at all four of these battles, he was asked to give his opinion.

"I think that they will attack," he said. "The Dervish leaders rely upon the enthusiasm of their followers; and, in almost all the battles we have fought here, they have rushed forward to the assault. It was so in all the fights down by the Red Sea. It was so in the attacks on Lord Wolseley's desert column. It succeeded against Hicks's and Baker's forces; and even now they do not seem to have recognized that the Egyptians, whom they once despised, have quite got over their dread of them, and are able to face them steadily."

There was only the faintest light in the sky, when firing broke out in front. Everyone leapt to his feet, and stood listening intently. Was it merely some Dervish scouts, who had come in contact with our pickets, or was it an attacking force?

The firing increased in volume, and was evidently approaching. The pickets, then, were being driven in, and the Dervishes were going to attack. The men were ordered to lie down, in the position in which they were to fight. In five minutes after the first shot all were ready for action, the pickets had run in; and, in the dim light, numbers of dark figures could be made out.

The guns and Maxims at once spoke out, while the infantry fired volleys. It was still too dark to make out the movements of the enemy, but their reply to our fire came louder and louder on our left, and it was apparent that the intention of the Dervishes was to turn that flank of our position.

Colonel Wingate sent Gregory, to order the guns to turn their fire more in that direction; and other officers ordered our right to advance somewhat, while the left were slightly thrown back, and pushed farther out. The light was now getting brighter, and heavy bodies of Dervishes, shouting and firing, rushed forward; but they were mown down by grape from our guns, a storm of Maxim bullets, and the steady volleys of the infantry. They wavered for a moment, and then gradually fell back.

The bugles sounded the advance and, with a cheer, our whole line moved forward down the gentle slope; quickening their pace as the enemy retired before them, and still keeping up a heavy fire towards the clump of trees that concealed the Dervish camp from sight. The enemy's fire had now died out. At twenty-five minutes past six the "cease fire" was sounded and, as the troops advanced, it was evident that resistance was at an end.

As they issued through the trees, many Dervishes ran forward and surrendered, and thousands of women and children were found in the camp. Happily, none of these had been injured, as a slight swell in the ground had prevented our bullets from falling among them. Numbers of Dervishes who had passed through now turned and surrendered, and the cavalry and camel corps started in pursuit.

Gregory had learned, from the women, that the Emir El Khatim, with a number of his trained men from El Obeid, had passed through the camp in good order, but that none of the other emirs had been seen; and the 9th Soudanese stated that, as they advanced, they had come upon a number of chiefs lying together, a few hundred yards in advance of our first position. One of the Arab sheiks of the irregulars was sent to examine the spot, and reported that the Khalifa himself, and almost all his great emirs, lay there dead.

With the Khalifa were Ali Wad, Helu, Fadil, two of his brothers, the Mahdi's son, and many other leaders. Behind them lay their dead horses, and one of the men still alive said that the Khalifa, having failed in his attempt to advance over the crest, had endeavoured to turn our position; but, seeing his followers crushed by our fire and retiring, and after making an ineffectual attempt to rally them, he recognized that the day was lost; and, calling on his emirs to dismount, seated himself on his sheepskin, as is the custom of Arab chiefs who disdain to surrender. The emirs seated themselves round him, and all met their death unflinchingly, the greater part being mowed down by the volleys fired by our troops, as they advanced.

Gregory went up to Colonel Wingate.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but I find that Khatim, and probably his son, who were so kind to my father at El Obeid, have retired with a fighting force. Have I your permission to ride forward, and call upon them to surrender?"

"Certainly, Mr. Hilliard, there has been bloodshed enough."

Being well mounted, Gregory overtook the cavalry and camel corps, before they had gone two miles; as they were delayed by disarming the Dervishes, who were coming in in large numbers. Half a mile away, a small body of men were to be seen keeping together, firing occasionally. Their leader's flag was flying, and Gregory learned, from a native, that it was Khatim's. The cavalry were on the point of gathering for a charge, as he rode up to the officer in command.

"I have Colonel Wingate's orders, sir, to ride forward and try to persuade the emir to surrender. He does not wish any further loss of life."

"Very well, sir. I am sure we have killed enough of the poor beggars. I hope he will give in."

As Gregory neared the party, which was some five hundred strong, several shots were fired at him. He waved a white handkerchief, and the firing ceased. Two emirs rode forward to meet him.

"I have come, sir, from the English General, to ask you to surrender. Your cause is lost. The Khalifa is dead, and most of his principal emirs. He is anxious that there should be no further loss of blood."

"We can die, sir, as the others have done," the elder emir, a man of some sixty years old, said sternly.

"But that would not avail your cause, sir. I solicited this mission, as I owe much to you."

"How can that be?" the chief asked.

"I am the son of that white man whom you so kindly treated, at El Obeid, where he saved the life of your son Abu;" and he bowed to the younger emir.

"Then he escaped?" the latter exclaimed.

"No, sir. He was killed at Hebbeh, when the steamer in which he was going down from Khartoum was wrecked there; but I found his journal, in which he told the story of your kindness to him. I can assure you that you shall be well treated, if you surrender; and those of your men who wish to do so will be allowed to return to El Obeid. I feel sure that when I tell our General how kindly you acted, to the sole white officer who escaped from the battle, you and your son will be treated with the greatest consideration."

"I owe more to your father than he did to me," Abu exclaimed. "He saved my life, and did many great services to us.

"What say you, Father? I am ready to die if you will it; but as the Khalifa is dead, and the cause of Mahdism lost, I see no reason, and assuredly no disgrace, in submitting to the will of Allah."

"So be it," Khatim said. "I have never thought of surrendering to the Turks, but as it is the will of Allah, I will do so."

He turned to his men.

"It is useless to fight further," he said. "The Khalifa is dead. It were better to return to your wives and families than to throw away your lives. Lay down your arms. None will be injured."

It was with evident satisfaction that the Arabs laid musket and spear on the ground. They would have fought to the death, had he ordered them, for they greatly loved their old chief; but as it was his order, they gladly complied with it, as they saw that they had no chance of resisting the array of cavalry and camel corps, gathered less than half a mile away.

"If you will ride back with me," Gregory said to the emir, "I will present you to the General. The men had better follow. I will ride forward, and tell the officer commanding the cavalry that you have surrendered, and that the men approaching are unarmed."

He cantered back to the cavalry.

"They have all surrendered, sir," he said. "They have laid down their arms at the place where they stood, and are going back to camp, to surrender to Colonel Wingate."

"I am glad of it. My orders are to push on another three miles. On our return the camel corps shall collect the arms, and bring them in."

Gregory rode back to the emirs, who were slowly crossing the plain, but who halted as the cavalry dashed on.

"Now, Emirs," he said, "we can ride quietly back to camp."

"You have not taken our arms," Khatim said.

"No, Emir, it is not for me to ask for them. It is the General to whom you surrender, not me."

"I mourn to hear of the death of your father," Abu said, as they rode in. "He was a good man, and a skilful hakim."

"He speaks always in the highest terms of you, Emir, in his journal, and tells how he performed that operation on your left arm, which was necessary to save your life; but did so with great doubt, fearing that, never having performed one before, he might fail to save your life."

"I have often wondered what became of him," Abu said. "I believed that he had got safely into Khartoum, and I enquired about him when we entered. When I found that he was not among the killed, I trusted that he might have escaped. I grieve much to hear that he was killed while on his way down."

"Such was the will of Allah," Khatim said. "He preserved him at the battle, He preserved him in the town, He enabled him to reach Khartoum; but it was not His will that he should return to his countrymen. I say, with Abu, that he was a good man; and while he remained with us, was ever ready to use his skill for our benefit. It was Allah's will that his son should, after all these years, come to us; for assuredly, if any other white officer had asked us to surrender, I would have refused."

"Many strange things happen by the will of God," Gregory said. "It was wonderful that, sixteen years after his death, I should find my father's journal at Hebbeh, and learn the story of his escape after the battle, and of his stay with you at El Obeid."

Gregory rode into camp between the two emirs. He paused for a minute, and handed over their followers to the officer in charge of the prisoners; and then went to the hut formerly occupied by the Khalifa, where Colonel Wingate had now established himself. Colonel Wingate came to the entrance.

"These are El Khatim and his son Abu, sir. They surrendered on learning that I was the son of the British officer whom they had protected, and sheltered, for a year after the battle of El Obeid."

The two emirs had withdrawn their swords and pistols from their sashes; and, advancing, offered them to the Colonel. The latter did not offer to receive them.

"Keep them," he said. "We can honour brave foes; and you and your followers were ready to fight and die, when all seemed lost. Still more do I refuse to receive the weapons of the men who defended an English officer, when he was helpless and a fugitive; such an act would, alone, ensure good treatment at our hands. Your followers have surrendered?"

"They have all laid down their arms," Khatim said.

"Do you give me your promise that you will no more fight against us?"

"We do," Khatim replied. "We have received our weapons back from you, and would assuredly not use them against our conquerors."

"In that case, Emir, you and your son are at liberty to depart, and your men can return with you. There will, I trust, be no more fighting in the land. The Mahdi is dead. His successor proved a false prophet and is dead also. Mahdism is at an end, and now our object will be to restore peace and prosperity to the land.

"In a short time, all the prisoners will be released. Those who choose will be allowed to enter our service. The rest can return to their homes. We bear no enmity against them. They fought under the orders of their chiefs, and fought bravely and well. When they return, I hope they will settle down and cultivate the land; and undo, as far as may be, the injuries they have inflicted upon it.

"I will write an order, Mr. Hilliard, to release at once the men you have brought in. Then I will ask you to ride, with these emirs, to a point where there will be no fear of their falling in with our cavalry."

"You are a generous enemy," Khatim said, "and we thank you. We give in our allegiance to the Egyptian government, and henceforth regard ourselves as its servants."

"See, Mr. Hilliard, that the party takes sufficient food with it for their journey to El Obeid."

Colonel Wingate stepped forward, and shook hands with the two emirs.

"You are no longer enemies," he said, "and I know that, henceforth, I shall be able to rely upon your loyalty."

"We are beaten," Khatim said, as they walked away, each leading his horse. "You can fight like men, and we who thought ourselves brave have been driven before you, like dust before the wind. And now, when you are masters, you can forgive as we should never have done. You can treat us as friends. You do not even take our arms, and we can ride into El Obeid with our heads high."

"It will be good for the Soudan," Abu said. "Your father told me, often, how peace and prosperity would return, were you ever to become our masters; and I felt that his words were true. Two hours ago I regretted that Allah had not let me die, so that I should not have lived to see our people conquered. Now, I am glad. I believe all that he said, and that the Soudan will some day become, again, a happy country."

Khatim's men were separated from the rest of the prisoners. Six days' supply of grain, from the stores found in the camp, were handed over to them; together with ten camels with water skins, and they started at once on their long march. Gregory rode out for a couple of miles with them, and then took leave of the two emirs.

"Come to El Obeid," Khatim said, "and you shall be treated as a king. Farewell! And may Allah preserve you!"

So they parted; and Gregory rode back to the camp, with a feeling of much happiness that he had been enabled, in some way, to repay the kindness shown to his dead father.



Chapter 23: An Unexpected Discovery.


The victory had been a decisive one, indeed. Three thousand prisoners, great quantities of rifles, swords, grain, and cattle had been captured; together with six thousand women and children. A thousand Dervishes had been killed or wounded. All the most important emirs had been killed, and the Sheik Ed Din, the Khalifa's eldest son and intended successor, was, with twenty-nine other emirs, among the prisoners. Our total loss was four men killed, and two officers and twenty-seven men wounded in the action.

"I am much obliged to you, Mr. Hilliard," Colonel Wingate said to him, that evening, "for the valuable services you have rendered, and shall have the pleasure of including your name among the officers who have specially distinguished themselves. As it was mentioned by General Rundle and Colonel Parsons -- by the former for undertaking the hazardous service of carrying despatches to the latter, and by Colonel Parsons for gallant conduct in the field -- you ought to be sure of promotion, when matters are arranged here."

"Thank you very much, sir! May I ask a favour?

"You know the outline of my story. I have learned, by the papers I obtained at Hebbeh, and others which I was charged not to open until I had certain proof of my father's death, that the name under which he was known was an assumed one. He had had a quarrel with his family; and as, when he came out to Egypt, he for a time took a subordinate position, he dropped a portion of his name, intending to resume it when he had done something that even his family could not consider was any discredit to it. I was myself unaware of the fact until, on returning to Omdurman from Hebbeh, I opened those papers. I continued to bear the name by which I am known, but as you are good enough to say that you will mention me in despatches, I feel that I can now say that my real name is Gregory Hilliard Hartley."

"I quite appreciate your motives in adhering to your former name, Mr. Hartley; and in mentioning your services under your new name, I will add a note saying that your name mentioned in former despatches, for distinguished services, had been erroneously given as Gregory Hilliard only."

"Thank you very much, sir!"

That evening, when several of the officers were gathered in Colonel Wingate's hut, the latter said, when one of them addressed Gregory as Hilliard:

"That is not his full name, Colonel Hickman. For various family reasons, with which he has acquainted me, he has borne it hitherto; but he will, in future, be known by his entire name, which is Gregory Hilliard Hartley. I may say that the reasons he has given me for not having hitherto used the family name are, in my opinion, amply sufficient; involving, as they do, no discredit to himself; or his father, a brave gentleman who escaped from the massacre of Hicks's force at El Obeid; and finally died, with Colonel Stewart, at Hebbeh."

"I seem to know the name," Colonel Lewis said. "Gregory Hilliard Hartley! I have certainly either heard or seen it, somewhere. May I ask if your father bore the same Christian names?"

"Yes, sir."

"I have it now!" Colonel Lewis exclaimed, a minute or two later. "I have seen it in an advertisement. Ever since I was a boy, that name has occasionally been advertised for. Every two or three months, it appeared in the Times. I can see it plainly, now.

"'Five hundred pounds reward will be given for any information concerning the present abode, or death, of Gregory Hilliard Hartley; or the whereabouts of his issue, if any. He left England about the year 1881. It is supposed that he went to the United States, or to one of the British Colonies. Apply to Messieurs Tufton and Sons, solicitors, Lincoln's Inn Fields.'

"Do you know when your father left England?"

"He certainly left about that time. I am nineteen now, and I know that I was born a few weeks after he came out to Alexandria."

"Then there ought to be something good in store for you," Colonel Wingate said. "People don't offer a reward of five hundred pounds, unless something important hangs to it. Of course, there may be another of the same name, but it is hardly likely that anyone would bear the two same Christian names, as well as surname. Is it indiscreet to ask you if you know anything about your father's family?"

"Not at all, sir. Now that I have taken his name, I need have no hesitation in relating what I know of him. Previous to his leaving England, he married without his father's consent; and, failing to make a living in England, he accepted a situation in Alexandria; which he gained, I may say, because he was an excellent Arabic scholar, as he had spent two years in exploring tombs and monuments in Egypt. He was the second son of the Honourable James Hartley; who was brother, and I believe heir, of the Marquis of Langdale, and I should think by this time has succeeded to the title. At his death, my father's eldest brother would, of course, succeed him."

"Then, my dear fellow," Colonel Mahon said, giving him a hearty slap on the shoulder, "allow me to congratulate you. I can tell you that the title has been in abeyance, for the past fourteen years. Everyone knows the facts. Your grandfather died before the Marquis. Your uncle succeeded him, lived only three years and, being unmarried, your father became the next Earl; and has been advertised for, in vain, ever since. As, unhappily, your father is dead also, you are unquestionably the Marquis of Langdale."

Gregory looked round with a bewildered air. The news was so absolutely unexpected that he could hardly take it in.

"It seems impossible," he said at last.

"It is not only impossible, but a fact," the Colonel said. "There is nothing very surprising in it. There were only two lives between your father and the peerage; and as one was that of an old man, the second of a man certainly in the prime of life, but unmarried, why, the Jews would have lent money on the chance.

"I fancy your uncle was a somewhat extravagant man. I remember he kept a lot of race horses and so on, but he could not have dipped very seriously into the property. At any rate, there will be fourteen years' accumulations, which will put matters straight.

"I hope you have got papers that will prove you are your father's son, and that he was brother of the late Earl."

"I think there can be no difficulty about that," Gregory said. "I have letters from both my parents, a copy of their marriage certificate, and of the registers of my birth and baptism. There are some persons in Cairo who knew my father, and a good many who knew my mother."

"Then I should say that it would be quite safe sailing.

"I don't know, Lewis, whether you are not entitled to that five hundred pounds."

"I am afraid not," the other laughed. "Mr. Hartley; or rather, I should say, the Earl; would have discovered it, himself. I only recognized the name, which plenty of people would have done, as soon as they saw it in despatches."

"It will be a great disappointment to someone," Gregory said; "if they have been, for fourteen years, expecting to come in for this."

"You need not fret about that," another officer said. "The next heir is a distant cousin. He has been trying, over and over again, to get himself acknowledged; but the courts would not hear of it, and told him that it was no use applying, until they had proof of the death of your father. I know all about it, because there was a howling young ass in the regiment from which I exchanged. He was always giving himself airs, on the strength of the title he expected to get; and if he is still in the regiment, there will be general rejoicings at his downfall."

"Then I have met him," Gregory said. "On the way up, he made himself very unpleasant, and I heard from the other officers that he was extremely unpopular. The Major spoke very sharply to him, for the offensive tone in which he addressed me; and an officer sitting next to me said that he was terribly puffed, by his expectations of obtaining a title shortly, owing to the disappearance of those who stood before him in succession. Some of the officers chaffed him about it, then. I remember now that his name was Hartley; but as I had no idea, at that time, that that was also mine, I never thought anything more about it, until now. As he was the only officer who has been in any way offensive to me, since I left Cairo nearly three years ago, certainly I would rather that he should be the sufferer, if I succeed in proving my right to the title, than anyone else."

"I don't think he will suffer, except in pride," the officer said. "His father, who was a very distant cousin of the Earl's, had gone into trade and made a considerable fortune; so that the young fellow was a great deal better off than the vast majority of men in the army. It was the airs he gave himself, on the strength of being able to indulge in an expenditure such as no one else in the regiment could attempt -- by keeping three or four race horses in training, and other follies -- that had more to do with his unpopularity, than his constant talk about the peerage he was so confident of getting."

"Of course you will go home to England, at once," Colonel Wingate said. "The war is over now, and it would be rank folly for you to stay here. You have got the address of the lawyers who advertised for you; and have only to go straight to them, with your proofs in your hand, and they will take all the necessary steps.

"I should say that it would facilitate matters if, as you go through Cairo, you were to obtain statements or affidavits from some of the people who knew your mother; stating that you are, as you claim to be, her son; and that she was the wife of the gentleman known as Gregory Hilliard, who went up as an interpreter with Hicks. I don't say that this would be necessary at all, for the letters you have would, in themselves, go far to prove your case. Still, the more proofs you accumulate, the less likely there is of any opposition being offered to your claim. Any papers or letters of your mother might contain something that would strengthen the case.

"It is really a pity, you know, when you have done so well out here, and would be certain to rise to a high post under the administration of the province; (which will be taken in hand, in earnest, now), that you should have to give it all up."

"I scarcely know whether to be pleased or sorry, myself, sir. At present, I can hardly take in the change that this will make, or appreciate its advantages."

"You will appreciate them, soon enough," one of the others laughed. "As long as this war has been going on, one could put up with the heat, and the dust, and the horrible thirst one gets, and the absence of anything decent to drink; but now that it is all over, the idea of settling down here, permanently, would be horrible; except to men -- and there are such fellows -- who are never happy, unless they are at work; to whom work is everything -- meat, and drink, and pleasure. It would have to be everything, out here; for no one could ever think of marrying, and bringing a wife, to such a country as this. Women can hardly live in parts of India, but the worst station in India would be a paradise, in comparison with the Soudan; though possibly, in time, Khartoum will be rebuilt and, being situated between two rivers, might become a possible place -- which is more than any other station in the Soudan can be -- for ladies."

"I am not old enough to take those matters into consideration," Gregory laughed. "I am not twenty, yet. Still, I do think that anyone permanently stationed, in the Soudan, would have to make up his mind to remain a bachelor."

The next morning, the greater portion of the prisoners were allowed to return to their homes. All the grain and other stores, found in the camp, were divided among the women, who were advised to return to their native villages; but those who had lost their husbands were told that they might accompany the force to the river, and would be taken down to Omdurman, and given assistance for a time, until they could find some means of obtaining a subsistence.

On returning to Khartoum, Colonel Wingate, at Gregory's request, told Lord Kitchener of the discovery that had been made; and said that he wished to return to England, at once. The next day, the Sirdar sent for Gregory.

"Colonel Wingate has been speaking to me about you," he said, "and I congratulate you on your good fortune. In one respect, I am sorry; for you have done so surprisingly well, that I had intended to appoint you to a responsible position in the Soudan Civil Service, which is now being formed. Colonel Wingate says that you naturally wish to resign your present post, but I should advise you not to do so. The operation of the law in England is very uncertain. I trust that, in your case, you will meet with but small difficulty in proving your birth; but there may be some hitch in the matter, some missing link.

"I will, therefore, grant you six months' leave of absence. At the end of that time, you will see how you stand. If things have gone on well with you, you can then send in your resignation. If, on the other hand, you find yourself unable to prove your claim, it will still be open to you to return here, and continue the career in which you have begun so well."

"I am greatly obliged to you, sir, for your kindness; and should I fail in proving my claim, I shall gladly avail myself of your offer, at the end of the six months."

"Now, Zaki," he said, on returning to the hut, of which he had again taken possession, "we must have one more talk. I have told you about the possible change in my position, and that I was shortly leaving for England. You begged me to take you with me, and I told you that if you decided to go, I would do so. I shall be put in orders, tomorrow, for six months' leave. If I succeed in proving my claim to a title, which is what you would call here an emirship, I shall not return. If I fail, I shall be back again, in six months. Now, I want you to think it over seriously, before you decide.

"Everything will be different there from what you are accustomed to. You will have to dress differently, live differently, and be among strangers. It is very cold there, in winter; and it is never what you would call hot, in summer.

"It is not that I should not like to have you with me; we have been together, now, for three years. You saved my life at Atbara, and have always been faithfully devoted to me. It is for your sake, not my own, that I now speak."

"I will go with you, Master, if you will take me. I hope never to leave you, till I die."

"Very well, Zaki, I am more than willing to take you. If I remain in England, you shall always be with me, if you choose to remain. But I shall then be able to give you a sum that will enable you to buy much land, and to hire men to work your sakies, to till your land, and to make you what you would call a rich man here, should you wish to return at the end of the six months. If I return, you will, of course, come back with me."

On the following day, after having said goodbye to all his friends, disposed of his horse and belongings, and drawn the arrears of his pay, Gregory took his place in the train; for the railway had now been carried to Khartoum.

Four days later, he arrived at Cairo. His first step was to order European clothes for Zaki, and a warm and heavily-lined greatcoat; for it was now the first week in December, and although delightful at Cairo, it would be, to the native, bitterly cold in England.

Then he went to the bank, and Mr. Murray, on hearing the story, made an affidavit at the British resident's; affirming that he had, for fifteen years, known Mrs. Gregory Hilliard, and was aware that she was the widow of Mr. Gregory Hilliard, who joined Hicks Pasha; and that Mr. Gregory Hilliard, now claiming to be Mr. Gregory Hilliard Hartley, was her son. Mr. Gregory Hilliard, senior, had kept an account at the bank for eighteen months; and had, on leaving, given instructions for Mrs. Hilliard's cheques to be honoured. Mrs. Hilliard had received a pension from the Egyptian government, up to the date of her death, as his widow; he having fallen in the service of the Khedive.

Gregory looked up his old nurse, whom he found comfortable and happy. She also made an affidavit, to the effect that she had entered the service of Mrs. Hilliard more than eighteen years before, as nurse to Gregory Hilliard, then a child of a year old. She had been in her service until her death, and she could testify that Gregory Hilliard Hartley was the child she had nursed.

After a stay of four days at Cairo, Gregory started for England. Even he, who had heard of London from his mother, was astonished at its noise, extent, and bustle; while Zaki was almost stupefied. He took two rooms at Cannon Street Hotel, for himself and servant, and next morning went to the offices of Messieurs Tufton and Sons, the solicitors. He sent in his name as Mr. Gregory Hilliard Hartley.

Even in the outer office, he heard an exclamation of surprise, as the piece of paper on which he had written his name was read. He was at once shown in. Mr. Tufton looked at him, with a little surprise.

"I am the son of the gentleman for whom, I understand, you have advertised for a long time."

"If you can prove that you are so, sir," Mr. Tufton said, wearily, "you are the Marquis of Langdale -- that is to say, if your father is deceased.

"May I ask, to begin with, how it is that the advertisement has, for so many years, remained unanswered?"

"That is easily accounted for, sir. My father, being unable to obtain a situation in England, accepted a very minor appointment in the house of Messieurs Partridge and Company, at Alexandria. This he obtained owing to his knowledge of Arabic. He had been engaged, as you doubtless know, for two years in explorations there. He did not wish it to be known that he had been obliged to accept such a position, so he dropped his surname, and went out as Gregory Hilliard. As the firm's establishment at Alexandria was burned, during the insurrection there, he went to Cairo and obtained an appointment as interpreter to General Hicks. He escaped when the army of that officer was destroyed, at El Obeid; was a prisoner, for many months, at that town; and then escaped to Khartoum. He came down in the steamer with Colonel Stewart. That steamer was wrecked at Hebbeh, and all on board, with one exception, were massacred.

"My mother always retained some hope that he might have escaped, from his knowledge of Arabic. She received a small pension from the Egyptian government, for the loss of my father, and added to this by teaching in the families of several Turkish functionaries. Three years ago she died, and I obtained, through the kindness of Lord Kitchener, an appointment as interpreter in the Egyptian army. I was present at the fights of Abu Hamed, the Atbara, Omdurman, and the late victory by Colonel Wingate. My name, as Gregory Hilliard, was mentioned in despatches; and will be mentioned, again, in that sent by Colonel Wingate, but this time with the addition of Hartley.

"It was only accidentally, on the night after that battle, that I learned that my father was the heir to the Marquis of Langdale, and I thereupon obtained six months' leave, to come here."

"It is a singular story," the lawyer said, "and if supported by proofs, there can be no question that you are the Marquis, for whom we have been advertising, for many years."

"I think that I have ample proof, sir. Here is the certificate of my father's marriage, and the copies of the registers of my birth and baptism. Here is the journal of my father, from the time he was taken prisoner till his death. Here are his letter to my mother, and letters to his father, brother, and sisters, which were to be forwarded by her should she choose to return to England. Here are two affidavits -- the one from a gentleman who has known me from childhood, the other from the woman who nursed me, and who remained with our family till I reached the Soudan. Here also is a letter that I found among my mother's papers, written from Khartoum, in which my father speaks of resuming the name of Hartley, if things went well there."

"Then, sir," Mr. Tufton said, "I think I can congratulate you upon obtaining the title; but at the same time, I will ask you to leave these papers with me, for an hour. I will put everything else aside, and go through them. You understand, I am not doubting your word; but of course, it is necessary to ascertain the exact purport of these letters, and documents. If they are as you say, the evidence in favour of your claim would be overwhelming.

"Of course, it is necessary that we should be most cautious. We have, for upwards of a hundred years, been solicitors to the family; and as such have contested all applications, from the junior branch of the family, that the title should be declared vacant by the death of the last Marquis, who would be your uncle. We have been the more anxious to do so, as we understand the next claimant is a young man of extravagant habits, and in no way worthy to succeed to the title."

"I will return in an hour and a half, sir," Gregory said, rising. "I may say that the contents of this pocketbook, although intensely interesting to myself, as a record of my father, do not bear upon the title. They are a simple record of his life, from the time when the army of Hicks Pasha was destroyed, to the date of his own murder at Hebbeh. The last entry was made before he landed. I mention this, as it may save you time in going through the papers."

Gregory went out, and spent the time in watching the wonderful flow of traffic, and gazing into the shops; and when he returned to the office, he was at once shown in. Mr. Tufton rose, and shook him warmly by the hand.

"I consider these documents to be absolutely conclusive, my lord," he said. "The letters to your grandfather, uncle, and aunts are conclusive as to his identity; and that of your mother, strengthened by the two affidavits, is equally conclusive as to your being his son. I will take the necessary measures to lay these papers before the court, which has several times had the matter in hand, and to obtain a declaration that you have indisputably proved yourself to be the son of the late Gregory Hilliard Hartley, and therefore entitled to the title and estates, with all accumulations, of the Marquis of Langdale."

"Thank you very much, sir! I will leave the matter entirely in your hands. Can you tell me the address of my aunts? As you will have seen, by my father's letter, he believed implicitly in their affection for him."

"Their address is, The Manor House, Wimperton, Tavistock, Devon. They retired there at the accession of their brother to the title. It has been used as a dower house in the family for many years; and, pending the search for your father, I obtained permission for them to continue to reside there. I was not obliged to ask for an allowance for them, as they had an income, under their mother's marriage settlement, sufficient for them to live there in comfort.

"I will not give you the letter addressed to them, as I wish to show the original in court; but I will have a copy made for you, at once, and I will attest it.

"Now, may I ask how you are situated, with regard to money? I have sufficient confidence in the justice of your claim to advance any sum, for your immediate wants."

"Thank you, sir! I am in no need of any advance. My mother's savings amounted to five hundred pounds, of which I only drew fifty to buy my outfit, when I went up to the Soudan. My pay sufficed for my wants there, and I drew out the remaining four hundred and fifty pounds when I left Cairo; so I am amply provided."

Gregory remained four days in London, obtaining suitable clothes. Then, attended by Zaki, he took his place in the Great Western for Tavistock. Zaki had already picked up a good deal of English, and Gregory talked to him only in that language, on their way down from the battlefield; so that he could now express himself in simple phrases.

Mr. Tufton had on the previous day written, at Gregory's request, to his aunts; saying that the son of their brother had called upon him, and given him proofs, which he considered incontestable, of his identity and of the death of his father. He was the bearer of a letter from his father to them, and proposed delivering it the next day, in person. He agreed with Gregory that it was advisable to send down this letter, as otherwise the ladies might doubt whether he was really what he claimed to be, as his father's letter might very well have come into the hands of a third person.

He went down by the night mail to Tavistock, put up at an hotel; and, after breakfast, drove over to the Manor House, and sent in a card which he had had printed in town. He was shown into a room where the two ladies were waiting for him. They had been some four or five years younger than his father, a fact of which he was not aware; and instead of being elderly women, as he expected, he found, by their appearance, they were scarcely entering middle age. They were evidently much agitated.

"I have come down without waiting for an invitation," he said. "I was anxious to deliver my father's letter to you, or at least a copy of it, as soon as possible. It was written before his death, some eighteen years ago, and was intended for my mother to give to you, should she return to England. Its interest to you consists chiefly in the proof of my father's affection for you, and that he felt he could rely on yours for him. I may say that this is a copy, signed as correct by Mr. Tufton. He could not give me the original, as it would be required as an evidence of my father's identity, in the application he is about to make for me to be declared heir to the title."

"Then Gregory has been dead eighteen years!" the elder of the ladies said. "We have always hoped that he would be alive, in one of the colonies, and that sooner or later he would see the advertisement that had been put in the papers."

"No, madam. He went out to Alexandria with my mother, shortly before I was born. He died some three or four years before his brother. It was seldom my mother saw an English paper. Unfortunately, as it turned out, my father had dropped his surname when he accepted a situation, which was a subordinate one, at Alexandria; and his reason for taking it was that my mother was in weak health, and the doctor said it was necessary she should go to a warm climate; therefore, had any of her friends seen the advertisement, they would not have known that it applied to her. I, myself, did not know that my proper name was Hartley until a year back, when I discovered my father's journal at Hebbeh, the place where he was murdered; and then opened the documents that my mother had entrusted to me, before her death, with an injunction not to open them until I had ascertained, for certain, that my father was no longer alive."

One of the ladies took the letter, and opened it. They read it together.

"Poor Gregory!" one said, wiping her eyes, "we were both fond of him, and certainly would have done all in our power to assist his widow. He was nearer our age than Geoffrey. It was a terrible grief to us, when he quarrelled with our father. Of course our sympathies were with Gregory, but we never ventured to say so; and our father never mentioned his name, from the day he left the house. Why did not your mother send his letter to us?"

"Because she did not need assistance. She was maintaining herself and me in comfort by teaching music, French, and English to the wives and children of several of the high Egyptian officials."

"How long is it since you lost her?"

"More than three years ago. At her death, I was fortunate enough to obtain an appointment similar to that my father had, and at the same time a commission in the Egyptian service; and have been fortunate in being, two or three times, mentioned in despatches."

"Yes; curiously enough, after receiving Mr. Tufton's letter, we saw Colonel Wingate's despatch in the paper, in which your name is mentioned. We should have been astonished, indeed, had we not opened the letter before we looked at the paper.

"Well, Gregory, we are very glad to see you, and to find that you have done honour to the name. The despatch said that you have been previously mentioned, under the name of Gregory Hilliard. We always file our papers, and we spent an hour after breakfast in going through them. I suppose you threw up your appointment, as soon as you discovered that Geoffrey died, years ago, and that you had come into the title?"

"I should have thrown it up, but Lord Kitchener was good enough to give me six months' leave; so that, if I should fail to prove my right to the title, I could return there and take up my work again. He was so kind as to say that I should be given a responsible position, in the civil administration of the Soudan."

"Well, we both feel very proud of you; and it does sound wonderful that, being under twenty, you should have got on so well, without friends or influence. I hope you intend to stay with us, until you have to go up to London about these affairs."

"I shall be very happy to stay a few days, Aunt; but it is better that I should be on the spot, as there may be questions that have to be answered, and signatures, and all sorts of things.

"I have brought my Arab servant down with me. He has been with me for three years, and is most faithful and devoted; and moreover, he once saved my life, at tremendous risk to himself."

"Oh, of course we can put him up! Can he speak English?"

"He speaks a little English, and is improving fast."

"Does he dress as a native?"

"No, Aunt. He would soon freeze to death, in his native garb. As soon as I got down to Cairo with him, I put him into good European clothes. He is a fine specimen of a Soudan Arab, but when he came to me he was somewhat weakly; however, he soon got over that."

"Where is he, now?"

"He is with the trap, outside. I told him that he had better not come in until I had seen you, for I thought that your domestics would not know what to do with him, till they had your orders."

"You brought your portmanteau with you, I hope?"

"I have brought it, but not knowing whether it would be wanted; for I did not know whether you would take sufficiently to me, to ask me to stay."

"The idea of such a thing! You must have had a bad opinion of us."

"No, Aunt. I had the best of opinions. I am sure that my father would not have written as he did to you, unless he had been very fond of you. Still, as at present I am not proved to be your nephew, I thought that you might not be disposed to ask me to stay.

"Now, with your permission, I will go and tell Zaki -- that is the man's name -- to bring in my portmanteau. I can then send the trap back."

"Do you know, Gregory," one of his aunts said that evening; "even putting aside the fact that you are our nephew, we are delighted that the title and estates are not to go to the next heir. He came down here about a year ago. His regiment had just returned from the Soudan. He drove straight to the hall, and requested to be shown over it, saying that in a short time he was going to take possession. The housekeeper came across here, quite in distress, and said that he talked as if he were already master; said he should make alterations in one place, enlarge the drawing room, build a conservatory against it, do away with some of the pictures on the walls; and, in fact, he made himself very objectionable. He came on here, and behaved in a most offensive and ungentlemanly way. He actually enquired of us whether we were tenants by right, or merely on sufferance. I told him that, if he wanted to know, he had better enquire of Mr. Tufton; and Flossie, who is more outspoken than I am, said at once that whether we were tenants for life, or not, we should certainly not continue to reside here, if so objectionable a person were master at the hall. He was very angry, but I cut him short by saying:

"'This is our house at present, sir; and, unless you leave it at once, I shall call the gardener in and order him to eject you.'"

"I am not surprised at what you say, Aunt, for I met the fellow myself, on the way up to Omdurman; and found him an offensive cad. It has been a great satisfaction to me to know that he was so; for if he had been a nice fellow, I could not have helped being sorry to deprive him of the title and estates which he has, for years, considered to be his."

After remaining four days at the Manor House, Gregory went back to town. A notice had already been served, upon the former claimant to the title, that an application would be made to the court to hear the claim of Gregory Hilliard Hartley, nephew of the late Marquis, to be acknowledged as his successor to the title and estates; and that if he wished to appear by counsel, he could do so.

The matter was not heard of, for another three months. Lieutenant Hartley was in court, and was represented by a queen's counsel of eminence; who, however, when Gregory's narrative had been told, and the various documents put in, at once stated that after the evidence he had heard, he felt that it would be vain to contest the case at this point; but that he reserved the right of appealing, should anything come to light which would alter the complexion of the affair.

The judgment was that Gregory Hilliard Hartley had proved himself to be the son of the late Gregory Hilliard Hartley, brother of and heir to the late Marquis of Langdale, and was therefore seized of the title and estates.

As soon as the case was decided, Gregory went down again to Devonshire, and asked his aunts to take charge for him. This they at first said was impossible; but he urged that, if they refused to do so, he should be driven to go back to the Soudan again.

"My dear Aunts," he said, "what in the world am I to do? I know no one. I know nothing of English customs, or society. I should, indeed, be the most forlorn person in existence, with a large country estate and a mansion in London. I want someone to introduce me into society, and set me on my legs; manage me and my house, and preside at my table. I am not yet twenty, and have not as much knowledge of English ways as a boy of ten. I should be taken in and duped in every way, and be at the mercy of every adventurer. I feel that it would be a sacrifice for you to leave your pretty home here, but I am sure, for the sake of my father, you will not refuse to do so."

His aunts admitted that there was great justice in what he said, and finally submitted to his request to preside over his house; until, as they said, the time came when he would introduce a younger mistress.

Zaki, when his six months' trial was over, scorned the idea of returning to the Soudan; declaring that, if Gregory would not keep him, he would rather beg in the streets than go back there.

"It is all wonderful here," he said; "we poor Arabs could not dream of such things. No, Master, as long as you live, I shall stay here."

"Very well, Zaki, so be it; and I can promise you that if I die before you, you will be so provided for that you will be able to live in as much comfort as you now enjoy, and in addition you will be your own master."

Zaki shook his head.

"I should be a fool to wish to be my own master," he said, "after having such a good one, at present."

Gregory is learning the duties of a large land owner, and is already very popular in his part of Devonshire. The mansion in London has not yet been reopened, as Gregory says he must learn his lessons perfectly, before he ventures to take his place in society.

<eob>

The Lost Word: A Christmas Legend Of Long Ago

By

Henry Van Dyke



I

The Poverty Of Hermas


"COME down, Hermas, come down! The night is past. It is time to be stirring. Christ is born to-day. Peace be with you in His name. Make haste and come down!"

A little group of young men were standing in a street of Antioch, in the dusk of early morning, fifteen hundred years ago. It was a class of candidates who had nearly finished their two years of training for the Christian church. They had come to call their fellow-student Hermas from his lodging.

Their voices rang out cheerily through the cool air. They were full of that glad sense of life which the young feel when they awake and come to rouse one who is still sleeping. There was a note of friendly triumph in their call, as if they were exulting unconsciously in having begun the adventure of the new day before their comrade.

But Hermas was not asleep. He had been waking for hours, and the dark walls of his narrow lodging had been a prison to his restless heart. A nameless sorrow and discontent had fallen upon him, and he could find no escape from the heaviness of his own thoughts.

There is a sadness of youth into which the old cannot enter. It seems to them unreal and causeless. But it is even more bitter and burdensome than the sadness of age. There is a sting of resentment in it, a fever of angry surprise that the world should so soon be a disappointment, and life so early take on the look of a failure. It has little reason in it, perhaps, but it has all the more weariness and gloom, because the man who is oppressed by it feels dimly that it is an unnatural and an unreasonable thing, that he should be separated from the joy of his companions, and tired of living before he has fairly begun to live.

Hermas had fallen into the very depths of this strange self-pity. He was out of tune with everything around him. He had been thinking, through the dead, still night, of all that he had given up when he left the house of his father, the wealthy pagan Demetrius, to join the company of the Christians. Only two years ago he had been one of the richest young men in Antioch. Now he was one of the poorest. And the worst of it was that, though he had made the choice willingly and accepted the sacrifice with a kind of enthusiasm, he was already dissatisfied with it.

The new life was no happier than the old. He was weary of vigils and fasts, weary of studies and penances, weary of prayers and sermons. He felt like a slave in a treadmill. He knew that he must go on. His honour, his conscience, his sense of duty, bound him. He could not go back to the old careless pagan life again; for something had happened within him which made a return impossible. Doubtless he had found the true religion, but he had found it only as a task and a burden; its joy and peace had slipped away from him.

He felt disillusioned and robbed. He sat beside his hard little couch, waiting without expectancy for the gray dawn of another empty day, and hardly lifting his head at the shouts of his friends.

"Come down, Hermas, you sluggard! Come down! It is Christmas morn. Awake and be glad with us!"

"I am coming," he answered listlessly; "only have patience a moment. I have been awake since midnight, and waiting for the day."

"You hear him!" said his friends one to another. "How he puts us all to shame! He is more watchful, more eager, than any of us. Our master, John the Presbyter, does well to be proud of him. He is the best man in our class. When he is baptized the church will get a strong member."

While they were talking the door opened and Hermas stepped out. He was a figure to be remarked in any company -- tall, broad-shouldered, straight-hipped, with a head proudly poised on the firm column of the neck, and short brown curls clustering over the square forehead. It was the perpetual type of vigourous and intelligent young manhood, such as may be found in every century among the throngs of ordinary men, as if to show what the flower of the race should be. But the light in his dark blue eyes was clouded and uncertain; his smooth cheeks were leaner than they should have been at twenty; and there were downward lines about his mouth which spoke of desires unsatisfied and ambitions repressed. He joined his companions with brief greetings, -- a nod to one, a word to another, -- and they passed together down the steep street.

Overhead the mystery of daybreak was silently transfiguring the sky. The curtain of darkness had lifted softly upward along the edge of the horizon. The ragged crests of Mount Silpius were outlined with pale rosy light. In the central vault of heaven a few large stars twinkled drowsily. The great city, still chiefly pagan, lay more than half asleep. But multitudes of the Christians, dressed in white and carrying lighted torches in their hands, were hurrying toward the Basilica of Constantine to keep the latest holy day of the church, the new festival of the birthday of their Master.

The vast, bare building was soon crowded, and the younger converts, who were not yet permitted to stand among the baptized, found it difficult to come to their appointed place between the first two pillars of the house, just within the threshold. There was some good-humoured pressing and jostling about the door; but the candidates pushed steadily forward.

"By your leave, friends, our station is beyond you. Will you let us pass? Many thanks."

A touch here, a courteous nod there, a little patience, a little persistence, and at last they stood in their place. Hermas was taller than his companions; he could look easily over their heads and survey the white sea of people stretching away through the columns, under the shadows of the high roof, as the tide spreads on a calm day into the pillared cavern of Staffa, quiet as if the ocean hardly dared to breathe. The light of many flambeaux fell, in flickering, uncertain rays, over the assembly. At the end of the vista there was a circle of clearer, steadier radiance. Hermas could see the bishop in his great chair, surrounded by the presbyters, the lofty desks on either side for the readers of the Scripture, the communion-table and the table of offerings in the middle of the church.

The call to prayer sounded down the long aisle. Thousands of hands were joyously lifted in the air, as if the sea had blossomed into waving lilies, and the "Amen" was like the murmur of countless ripples in an echoing place.

Then the singing began, led by the choir of a hundred trained voices which the Bishop Paul had founded in Antioch. Timidly, at first, the music felt its way, as the people joined with a broken and uncertain cadence, the mingling of many little waves not yet gathered into rhythm and harmony. Soon the longer, stronger billows of song rolled in, sweeping from side to side as the men and the women answered in the clear antiphony.

Hermas had often been carried on those "Tides of music's golden sea Setting toward eternity." But to-day his heart was a rock that stood motionless. The flood passed by and left him unmoved.

Looking out from his place at the foot of the pillar, he saw a man standing far off in the lofty bema. Short and slender, wasted by sickness, gray before his time, with pale cheeks and wrinkled brow, he seemed at first like a person of no significance -- a reed shaken in the wind. But there was a look in his deep-set, poignant eyes, as he gathered all the glances of the multitude to himself, that belied his mean appearance and prophesied power. Hermas knew very well who it was: the man who had drawn him from his father's house, the teacher who was instructing him as a son in the Christian faith, the guide and trainer of his soul -- John of Antioch, whose fame filled the city and began to overflow Asia, and who was called already Chrysostom, the golden-mouthed preacher.

Hermas had felt the magic of his eloquence many a time; and to-day, as the tense voice vibrated through the stillness, and the sentences moved onward, growing fuller and stronger, bearing argosies of costly rhetoric and treasures of homely speech in their bosom, and drawing the hearts of men with a resistless magic, Hermas knew that the preacher had never been more potent, more inspired.

He played on that immense congregation as a master on an instrument. He rebuked their sins, and they trembled. He touched their sorrows, and they wept. He spoke of the conflicts, the triumphs, the glories of their faith, and they broke out in thunders of applause. He hushed them into reverent silence, and led them tenderly, with the wise men of the East, to the lowly birthplace of Jesus.

"Do thou, therefore, likewise leave the Jewish people, the troubled city, the bloodthirsty tyrant, the pomp of the world, and hasten to Bethlehem, the sweet house of spiritual bread. For though thou be but a shepherd, and come hither, thou shalt behold the young Child in an inn. Though thou be a king, and come not hither, thy purple robe shall profit thee nothing. Though thou be one of the wise men, this shall be no hindrance to thee. Only let thy coming be to honour and adore, with trembling joy, the Son of God, to whose name be glory, on this His birthday, and forever and forever."

The soul of Hermas did not answer to the musician's touch. The strings of his heart were slack and soundless; there was no response within him. He was neither shepherd, nor king, nor wise man, only an unhappy, dissatisfied, questioning youth. He was out of sympathy with the eager preacher, the joyous hearers. In their harmony he had no part. Was it for this that he had forsaken his inheritance and narrowed his life to poverty and hardship? What was it all worth?

The gracious prayers with which the young converts were blessed and dismissed before the sacrament sounded hollow in his ears. Never had he felt so utterly lonely as in that praying throng. He went out with his companions like a man departing from a banquet where all but he had been fed.

"Farewell, Hermas," they cried, as he turned from them at the door. But he did not look back, nor wave his hand. He was alone already in his heart.

When he entered the broad Avenue of the Colonnades, the sun had already topped the eastern hills, and the ruddy light was streaming through the long double row of archways and over the pavements of crimson marble. But Hermas turned his back to the morning, and walked with his shadow before him.

The street began to swarm and whirl and quiver with the motley life of a huge city: beggars and jugglers, dancers and musicians, gilded youths in their chariots, and daughters of joy looking out from their windows, all intoxicated with the mere delight of living and the gladness of a new day. The pagan populace of Antioch -- reckless, pleasure-loving, spendthrift -- were preparing for the Saturnalia. But all this Hermas had renounced. He cleft his way through the crowd slowly, like a reluctant swimmer weary of breasting the tide.

At the corner of the street where the narrow, populous Lane of the Camel-drivers crossed the Colonnades, a story-teller had bewitched a circle of people around him. It was the same old tale of love and adventure that many generations have listened to; but the lively fancy of the hearers lent it new interest, and the wit of the improviser drew forth sighs of interest and shouts of laughter.

A yellow-haired girl on the edge of the throng turned, as Hermas passed, and smiled in his face. She put out her hand and caught him by the sleeve.

"Stay," she said, "and laugh a bit with us. I know who you are -- the son of Demetrius. You must have bags of gold. Why do you look so black? Love is alive yet."

Hermas shook off her hand, but not ungently.

"I don't know what you mean," he said. "You are mistaken in me. I am poorer than you are."

But as he passed on, he felt the warm touch of her fingers through the cloth on his arm. It seemed as if she had plucked him by the heart.

He went out by the Western Gate, under the golden cherubim that the Emperor Titus had stolen from the ruined Temple of Jerusalem and fixed upon the arch of triumph. He turned to the left, and climbed the hill to the road that led to the Grove of Daphne.

In all the world there was no other highway as beautiful. It wound for five miles along the foot of the mountains, among gardens and villas, plantations of myrtles and mulberries, with wide outlooks over the valley of Orontes and the distant, shimmering sea.

The richest of all the dwellings was the House of the Golden Pillars, the mansion of Demetrius. He had won the favor of the apostate Emperor Julian, whose vain efforts to restore the worship of the heathen gods, some twenty years ago, had opened an easy way to wealth and power for all who would mock and oppose Christianity. Demetrius was not a sincere fanatic like his royal master; but he was bitter enough in his professed scorn of the new religion, to make him a favourite at the court where the old religion was in fashion. He had reaped a rich reward of his policy, and a strange sense of consistency made him more fiercely loyal to it than if it had been a real faith. He was proud of being called "the friend of Julian"; and when his son joined himself to the Christians, and acknowledged the unseen God, it seemed like an insult to his father's success. He drove the boy from his door and disinherited him.

The glittering portico of the serene, haughty house, the repose of the well-ordered garden, still blooming with belated flowers, seemed at once to deride and to invite the young outcast plodding along the dusty road. "This is your birthright," whispered the clambering rose-trees by the gate; and the closed portals of carven bronze said: "You have sold it for a thought -- a dream."



II

A Christmas Loss


HERMAS found the Grove of Daphne quite deserted. There was no sound in the enchanted vale but the rustling of the light winds chasing each other through the laurel thickets, and the babble of innumerable streams. Memories of the days and nights of delicate pleasure that the grove had often seen still haunted the bewildered paths and broken fountains. At the foot of a rocky eminence, crowned with the ruins of Apollo's temple, which had been mysteriously destroyed by fire just after Julian had restored and reconsecrated it, Hermas sat down beside a gushing spring, and gave himself up to sadness.

"How beautiful the world would be, how joyful, how easy to live in, without religion. These questions about unseen things, perhaps about unreal things, these restraints and duties and sacrifices -- if I were only free from them all, and could only forget them all, then I could live my life as I pleased, and be happy."

"Why not?" said a quiet voice at his back.

He turned, and saw an old man with a long beard and a threadbare cloak (the garb affected by the pagan philosophers) standing behind him and smiling curiously.

"How is it that you answer that which has not been spoken?" said Hermas; "and who are you that honour me with your company?"

"Forgive the intrusion," answered the stranger; "it is not ill meant. A friendly interest is as good as an introduction."

"But to what singular circumstance do I owe this interest?"

"To your face," said the old man, with a courteous inclination. "Perhaps also a little to the fact that I am the oldest inhabitant here, and feel as if all visitors were my guests, in a way."

"Are you, then, one of the keepers of the grove? And have you given up your work with the trees to take a holiday as a philosopher?"

"Not at all. The robe of philosophy is a mere affectation, I must confess. I think little of it. My profession is the care of altars. In fact, I am that solitary priest of Apollo whom the Emperor Julian found here when he came to revive the worship of the grove, some twenty years ago. You have heard of the incident?"

"Yes," said Hermas, beginning to be interested; "the whole city must have heard of it, for it is still talked of. But surely it was a strange sacrifice that you brought to celebrate the restoration of Apollo's temple?"

"You mean the goose? Well, perhaps it was not precisely what the emperor expected. But it was all that I had, and it seemed to me not inappropriate. You will agree to that if you are a Christian, as I guess from your dress."

"You speak lightly for a priest of Apollo."

"Oh, as for that, I am no bigot. The priesthood is a professional matter, and the name of Apollo is as good as any other. How many altars do you think there have been in this grove?"

"I do not know."

"Just four-and-twenty, including that of the martyr Babylas, whose ruined chapel you see just beyond us. I have had something to do with most of them in my time. They -- are transitory. They give employment to care-takers for a while. But the thing that lasts, and the thing that interests me, is the human life that plays around them. The game has been going on for centuries. It still disports itself very pleasantly on summer evenings through these shady walks. Believe me, for I know. Daphne and Apollo were shadows. But the flying maidens and the pursuing lovers, the music and the dances, these are the realities. Life is the game, and the world keeps it up merrily. But you? You are of a sad countenance for one so young and so fair. Are you a loser in the game?"

The words and tone of the speaker fitted Hermas' mood as a key fits the lock. He opened his heart to the old man, and told him the story of his life: his luxurious boyhood in his father's house; the irresistible spell which compelled him to forsake it when he heard John's preaching of the new religion; his lonely year with the anchorites among the mountains; the strict discipline in his teacher's house at Antioch; his weariness of duty, his distaste for poverty, his discontent with worship.

"And to-day," said he, "I have been thinking that I am a fool. My life is swept as bare as a hermit's cell. There is nothing in it but a dream, a thought of God, which does not satisfy me."

The singular smile deepened on his companion's face. "You are ready, then," he suggested, "to renounce your new religion and go back to that of your father?"

"No; I renounce nothing, I accept nothing. I do not wish to think about it. I only wish to live."

"A very reasonable wish, and I think you are about to see its accomplishment. Indeed, I may even say that I can put you in the way of securing it. Do you believe in magic?"

"I have told you already that I do not know whether I believe in anything. This is not a day on which I care to make professions of faith. I believe in what I see. I want what will give me pleasure."

"Well," said the old man, soothingly, as he plucked a leaf from the laurel-tree above them and dipped it in the spring, "let us dismiss the riddles of belief. I like them as little as you do. You know this is a Castalian fountain. The Emperor Hadrian once read his fortune here from a leaf dipped in the water. Let us see what this leaf tells us. It is already turning yellow. How do you read that?"

"Wealth," said Hermas, laughing, as he looked at his mean garments.

"And here is a bud on the stem that seems to be swelling. What is that?"

"Pleasure," answered Hermas, bitterly.

"And here is a tracing of wreaths upon the surface. What do you make of that?"

"What you will," said Hermas, not even taking the trouble to look. "Suppose we say success and fame?"

"Yes," said the stranger; "it is all written here. I promise that you shall enjoy it all. But you do not need to believe in my promise. I am not in the habit of requiring faith of those whom I would serve. No such hard conditions for me! There is only one thing that I ask. This is the season that you Christians call the Christmas, and you have taken up the pagan custom of exchanging gifts. Well, if I give to you, you must give to me. It is a small thing, and really the thing you can best afford to part with: a single word -- the name of Him you profess to worship. Let me take that word and all that belongs to it entirely out of your life, so that you shall never need to hear it or speak it again. You will be richer without it. I promise you everything, and this is all I ask in return. Do you consent?"

"Yes, I consent," said Hermas, mocking. "If you can take your price, a word, you can keep your promise, a dream."

The stranger laid the long, cool, wet leaf softly across the young man's eyes. An icicle of pain darted through them; every nerve in his body was drawn together there in a knot of agony.

Then all the tangle of pain seemed to be lifted out of him. A cool languor of delight flowed back through every vein, and he sank into a profound sleep.



III

Parting, But No Farewell


THERE is a slumber so deep that it annihilates time. It is like a fragment of eternity. Beneath its enchantment of vacancy, a day seems like a thousand years, and a thousand years might well pass as one day.

It was such a sleep that fell upon Hermas in the Grove of Daphne. An immeasurable period, an interval of life so blank and empty that he could not tell whether it was long or short, had passed over him when his senses began to stir again. The setting sun was shooting arrows of gold under the glossy laurel-leaves. He rose and stretched his arms, grasping a smooth branch above him and shaking it, to make sure that he was alive. Then he hurried back toward Antioch, treading lightly as if on air.

The ground seemed to spring beneath his feet. Already his life had changed, he knew not how. Something that did not belong to him had dropped away; he had returned to a former state of being. He felt as if anything might happen to him, and he was ready for anything. He was a new man, yet curiously familiar to himself -- as if he had done with playing a tiresome part and returned to his natural state. He was buoyant and free, without a care, a doubt, a fear.

As he drew near to his father's house he saw a confusion of servants in the porch, and the old steward ran down to meet him at the gate.

"Lord, we have been seeking you everywhere. The master is at the point of death, and has sent for you. Since the sixth hour he calls your name continually. Come to him quickly, lord, for I fear the time is short."

Hermas entered the house at once; nothing could amaze him to-day. His father lay on an ivory couch in the inmost chamber, with shrunken face and restless eyes, his lean fingers picking incessantly at the silken coverlet.

"My son!" he murmured; "Hermas, my son! It is good that you have come back to me. I have missed you. I was wrong to send you away. You shall never leave me again. You are my son, my heir. I have changed everything. Hermas, my son, come nearer -- close beside me. Take my hand, my son!"

The young man obeyed, and, kneeling by the couch, gathered his father's cold, twitching fingers in his firm, warm grasp.

"Hermas, life is passing -- long, rich, prosperous; the last sands, I -- cannot stay them. My religion, a good policy -- Julian was my friend. But now he is gone -- where? My soul is empty -- nothing beyond -- very dark -- I am afraid. But you know something better. You found something that made you willing to give up your life for it -- it must have been almost like dying -- yet you were happy. What was it you found? See, I am giving you everything. I have forgiven you. Now forgive me. Tell me, what is it? Your secret, your faith -- give it to me before I go."

At the sound of this broken pleading a strange passion of pity and love took the young man by the throat. His voice shook a little as he answered eagerly:

"Father, there is nothing to forgive. I am your son; I will gladly tell, you all that I know. I will give you the secret of faith. Father, you must believe with all your heart, and soul, and strength in -- "

Where was the word -- the word that he had been used to utter night and morning, the word that had meant to him more than he had ever known? What had become of it?

He groped for it in the dark room of his mind. He had thought he could lay his hand upon it in a moment, but it was gone. Some one had taken it away. Everything else was most clear to him: the terror of death; the lonely soul appealing from his father's eyes; the instant need of comfort and help. But at the one point where he looked for help he could find nothing; only an empty space. The word of hope had vanished. He felt for it blindly and in desperate haste.

"Father, wait! I have forgotten something -- it has slipped away from me. I shall find it in a moment. There is hope -- I will tell you presently -- oh, wait!"

The bony hand gripped his like a vice; the glazed eyes opened wider. "Tell me," whispered the old man; "tell me quickly, for I must go."

The voice sank into a dull rattle. The fingers closed once more, and relaxed. The light behind the eyes went out.

Hermas, the master of the House of the Golden Pillars, was keeping watch by the dead.



IV

Love In Search Of A Word


THE break with the old life was as clean as if it had been cut with a knife. Some faint image of a hermit's cell, a bare lodging in a back street of Antioch, a class-room full of earnest students, remained in Hermas' memory. Some dull echo of the voice of John the Presbyter, and the murmured sound of chanting, and the murmur of great congregations, still lingered in his ears; but it was like something that had happened to another person, something that he had read long ago, but of which he had lost the meaning.

His new life was full and smooth and rich -- too rich for any sense of loss to make itself felt. There were a hundred affairs to busy him, and the days ran swiftly by as if they were shod with winged sandals.

Nothing needed to be considered, prepared for, begun. Everything was ready and waiting for him. All that he had to do was to go on with it. The estate of Demetrius was even greater than the world had supposed. There were fertile lands in Syria which the emperor had given him, marble-quarries in Phrygia, and forests of valuable timber in Cilicia; the vaults of the villa contained chests of gold and silver; the secret cabinets in the master's room were full of precious stones. The stewards were diligent and faithful. The servants of the magnificent household rejoiced at the young master's return. His table was spread; the rose-garland of pleasure was woven for his head, and his cup was already filled with the spicy wine of power.

The period of mourning for his father came at a fortunate moment, to seclude and safeguard him from the storm of political troubles and persecutions that fell upon Antioch after the insults offered by the mob to the imperial statues in the year 887. The friends of Demetrius, prudent and conservative persons, gathered around Hermas and made him welcome to their circle. Chief among them was Libanius, the sophist, his nearest neighbour, whose daughter Athenais had been the playmate of Hermas in the old days.

He had left her a child. He found her a beautiful woman. What transformation is so magical, so charming, as this? To see the uncertain lines of-youth rounded into firmness and symmetry, to discover the half-ripe, merry, changing face of the girl matured into perfect loveliness, and looking at you with calm, clear, serious eyes, not forgetting the past, but fully conscious of the changed present -- this is to behold a miracle in the flesh.

"Where have you been, these two years?" said Athenais, as they walked together through the garden of lilies where they had so often played.

"In a land of tiresome dreams," answered Hermas; "but you have wakened me, and I am never going back again."

It was not to be supposed that the sudden disappearance of Hermas from among his former associates could long remain unnoticed. At first it was a mystery. There was a fear, for two or three days, that he might be lost. Some of his more intimate companions maintained that his devotion had led him out into the desert to join the anchorites. But the news of his return to the House of the Golden Pillars, and of his new life as its master, filtered quickly through the gossip of the city.

Then the church was filled with dismay and grief and reproach. Messengers and letters were sent to Hermas. They disturbed him a little, but they took no hold upon him. It seemed to him as if the messengers spoke in a strange language. As he read the letters there were words blotted out of the writing which made the full sense unintelligible.

His old companions came to reprove him for leaving them, to warn him of the peril of apostasy, to entreat him to return. It all sounded vague and futile. They spoke as if he had betrayed or offended some one; but when they came to name the object of his fear -- the one whom he had displeased, and to whom he should return -- he heard nothing; there was a blur of silence in their speech. The clock pointed to the hour, but the bell did not strike. At last Hermas refused to see them any more.

One day John the Presbyter stood in the atrium. Hermas was entertaining Libanius and Athenais in the banquet-hall. When the visit of the Presbyter was announced, the young master loosed a collar of gold and jewels from his neck, and gave it to his scribe.

"Take this to John of Antioch, and tell him it is a gift from his former pupil -- as a token of remembrance, or to spend for the poor of the city. I will always send him what he wants, but it is idle for us to talk together any more. I do not understand what he says. I have not gone to the temple, nor offered sacrifice, nor denied his teaching. I have simply forgotten. I do not think about those things any longer. I am only living. A happy man wishes him all happiness and farewell."

But John let the golden collar fall on the marble floor. "Tell your master that we shall talk together again, after all," said he, as he passed sadly out of the hall.

The love of Athenais and Hermas was like a tiny rivulet that sinks out of sight in a cavern, but emerges again as a bright and brimming stream. The careless comradery of childhood was mysteriously changed into a complete companionship.

When Athenais entered the House of the Golden Pillars as a bride, all the music of life came with her. Hermas called the feast of her welcome "the banquet of the full chord." Day after day, night after night, week after week, month after month, the bliss of the home unfolded like a rose of a thousand leaves. When a child came to them, a strong, beautiful boy, worthy to be the heir of such a house, the heart of the rose was filled with overflowing fragrance. Happiness was heaped upon happiness. Every wish brought its own accomplishment. Wealth, honour, beauty, peace, love -- it was an abundance of felicity so great that the soul of Hermas could hardly contain it.

Strangely enough, it began to press upon him, to trouble him with the very excess of joy. He felt as if there were something yet needed to complete and secure it all. There was an urgency within him, a longing to find some outlet for his feelings, he knew not how -- some expression and culmination of his happiness, he knew not what.

Under his joyous demeanour a secret fire of restlessness began to burn -- an expectancy of something yet to come which should put the touch of perfection on his life, He spoke of it to Athenais, as they sat together, one summer evening, in a bower of jasmine, with their boy playing at their feet. There had been music in the garden; but now the singers and lute-players had withdrawn, leaving the master and mistress alone in the lingering twilight, tremulous with inarticulate melody of unseen birds. There was a secret voice in the hour seeking vainly for utterance -- a word waiting to be spoken at the centre of the charm.

"How deep is our happiness, my beloved!" said Hermas; "deeper than the sea that slumbers yonder, below the city. And yet I feel it is not quite full and perfect. There is a depth of joy that we have not yet known -- a repose of happiness that is still beyond us. What is it? I have no superstitious fears, like the king who cast his signet-ring into the sea because he dreaded that some secret vengeance would fall on his unbroken good fortune. That was an idle terror. But there is something that oppresses me like an invisible burden. There is something still undone, unspoken, unfelt -- something that we need to complete everything. Have you not felt it, too? Can you not lead me to it?"

"Yes," she answered, lifting her eyes to his face; "I, too, have felt it, Hermas, this burden, this need, this unsatisfied longing. I think I know what it means. It is gratitude -- the language of the heart, the music of happiness. There is no perfect joy without gratitude. But we have never learned it, and the want of it troubles us. It is like being dumb with a heart full of love. We must find the word for it, and say it together. Then we shall be perfectly joined in perfect joy. Come, my dear lord, let us take the boy with us, and give thanks."

Hermas lifted the child in his arms, and turned with Athenais into the depth of the garden. There was a dismantled shrine of some forgotten fashion of worship half hidden among the luxuriant flowers. A fallen image lay beside it, face downward in the grass. They stood there, hand in hand, the boy drowsily resting on his father's shoulder -- a threefold harmony of strength and beauty and innocence.

Silently the roseate light caressed the tall spires of the cypress-trees; silently the shadows gathered at their feet; silently the crystal stars looked out from the deepening arch of heaven. The very breath of being paused. It was the hour of culmination, the supreme moment of felicity waiting for its crown. The tones of Hermas were clear and low as he began, half speaking and half chanting, in the rhythm of an ancient song:

"Fair is the world, the sea, the sky, the double kingdom of day and night, in the glow of morning, in the shadow of evening, and under the dripping light of stars.

"Fairer still is life in our breasts, with its manifold music and meaning, with its wonder of seeing and hearing and feeling and knowing and being.

"Fairer and still more fair is love, that draws us together, mingles our lives in its flow, and bears them along like a river, strong and clear and swift, rejecting the stars in its bosom.

"Wide is our world; we are rich; we have all things. Life is abundant within us -- a measureless deep. Deepest of all is our love, and it longs to speak.

"Come, thou final word! Come, thou crown of speech! Come, thou charm of peace! Open the gates of our hearts. Lift the weight of our joy and bear it upward.

"For all good gifts, for all perfect gifts, for love, for life, for the world, we praise, we bless, we thank -- "

As a soaring bird, struck by an arrow, falls headlong from the sky, so the song of Hermas fell. At the end of his flight of gratitude there was nothing -- a blank, a hollow space.

He looked for a face, and saw a void. He sought for a hand, and clasped vacancy. His heart was throbbing and swelling with passion; the bell swung to and fro within him, beating from side to side as if it would burst; but not a single note came from it. All the fulness of his feeling, that had risen upward like a living fountain, fell back from the empty sky, as cold as snow, as hard as hail, frozen and dead. There was no meaning in his happiness. No one had sent it to him. There was no one to thank for it. His felicity was a closed circle, a wall of eternal ice.

"Let us go back," he said sadly to Athenais; "the child is heavy upon my shoulder. We will lay him to sleep, and go into the library. The air grows chilly. We were mistaken. The gratitude of life is only a dream. There is no one to thank."

And in the garden it was already night.



V

Riches Without Rest


NO outward change came to the House of the Golden Pillars. Everything moved as smoothly, as delicately, as prosperously, as before. But inwardly there was a subtle, inexplicable transformation. A vague discontent -- a final and inevitable sense of incompleteness, overshadowed existence from that night when Hermas realized that his joy could never go beyond itself.

The next morning the old man whom he had seen in the Grove of Daphne, but never since, appeared mysteriously at the door of the house, as if he had been sent for, and entered, to dwell there like an invited guest.

Hermas could not but make him welcome, and at first he tried to regard him with reverence and affection as the one through whom fortune had come. But it was impossible. There was a chill in the inscrutable smile of Marcion, as he called himself, that seemed to mock at reverence. He was in the house as one watching a strange experiment -- tranquil, interested, ready to supply anything that might be needed for its completion, but thoroughly indifferent to the feelings of the subject; an anatomist of life, looking curiously to see how long it would continue, and how it would behave, after the heart had been removed.

In his presence Hermas was conscious of a certain irritation, a resentful anger against the calm, frigid scrutiny of the eyes that followed him everywhere, like a pair of spies, peering out over the smiling mouth and the long white beard.

"Why do you look at me so curiously?" asked Hermas, one morning, as they sat together in the library. "Do you see anything strange in me?"

"No," answered Marcion; "something familiar."

"And what is that?"

"A singular likeness to a discontented young man that I met some years ago in the Grove of Daphne."

"But why should that interest you? Surely it was to be expected."

"A thing that we expect often surprises us when we see it. Besides, my curiosity is piqued. I suspect you of keeping a secret from me."

"You are jesting with me. There is nothing in my life that you do not know. What is the secret?"

"Nothing more than the wish to have one. You are growing tired of your bargain. The game wearies you. That is foolish. Do you want to try a new part?"

The question was like a mirror upon which one comes suddenly in a half-lighted room, A quick illumination falls on it, and the passer-by is startled by the look of his own face.

"You are right," said Hermas. "I am tired. We have been going on stupidly in this house, as if nothing were possible but what my father had done before me. There is nothing original in being rich, and well fed, and well dressed. Thousands of men have tried it, and have not been very well satisfied. Let us do something new. Let us make a mark in the world."

"It is well said," nodded the old man; "you are speaking again like a man after my own heart. There is no folly but the loss of an opportunity to enjoy a new sensation."

From that day Hermas seemed to be possessed with a perpetual haste, an uneasiness that left him no repose. The summit of life had been attained, the highest possible point of felicity. Henceforward the course could only be at a level -- perhaps downward. It might be brief; at the best it could not be very long. It was madness to lose a day, an hour. That would be the only fatal mistake: to forfeit anything of the bargain that he had made. He would have it, and hold it, and enjoy it all to the full. The world might have nothing better to give than it had already given; but surely it had many things that were new to bestow upon him, and Marcion should help him to find them.

Under his learned counsel the House of the Golden Pillars took on a new magnificence. Artists were brought from Corinth and Rome and Byzantium to adorn it with splendour. Its fame glittered around the world. Banquets of incredible luxury drew the most celebrated guests into its triclinium, and filled them with envious admiration. The bees swarmed and buzzed about the golden hive. The human insects, gorgeous moths of pleasure and greedy flies of appetite, parasites and flatterers and crowds of inquisitive idlers, danced and fluttered in the dazzling light that surrounded Hermas.

Everything that he touched prospered. He bought a tract of land in the Caucasus, and emeralds were discovered among the mountains. He sent a fleet of wheat-ships to Italy, and the price of grain doubled while it was on the way. He sought political favour with the emperor, and was rewarded with the governorship of the city. His name was a word to conjure with.

The beauty of Athenais lost nothing with the passing seasons, but grew more perfect, even under the inexplicable shade of dissatisfaction that sometimes veiled it as a translucent cloud that passes before the full moon. "Fair as the wife of Hermas" was a proverb in Antioch; and soon men began to add to it, "Beautiful as the son of Hermas"; for the child developed swiftly in that favouring clime. At nine years of age he was straight and strong, firm of limb and clear of eye. His brown head was on a level with his father's heart. He was the jewel of the House of the Golden Pillars; the pride of Hermas, the new Fortunatus.

That year another drop of success fell into his brimming cup. His black Numidian horses, which he had been training for three years for the world-renowned chariot-races of Antioch, won the victory over a score of rivals. Hermas received the prize carelessly from the judge's hands, and turned to drive once more around the circus, to show himself to the people. He lifted the eager boy into the chariot beside him to share his triumph.

Here, indeed, was the glory of his life -- this matchless son, his brighter counterpart carved in breathing ivory, touching his arm, and balancing himself proudly on the swaying floor of the chariot. As the horses pranced around the ring, a great shout of applause filled the amphitheatre, and thousands of spectators waved their salutations of praise: "Hail, fortunate Hermas, master of success! Hail, little Hermas, prince of good luck!"

The sudden tempest of acclamation, the swift fluttering of innumerable garments in the air, startled the horses. They dashed violently forward, and plunged upon the bits. The left rein broke. They swerved to the right, swinging the chariot sideways with a grating noise, and dashing it against the stone parapet of the arena. In an instant the wheel was shattered. The axle struck the ground, and the chariot was dragged onward, rocking and staggering.

By a strenuous effort Hermas kept his place on the frail platform, clinging to the unbroken rein. But the boy was tossed lightly from his side at the first shock. His head struck the wall. And when Hermas turned to look for him, he was lying like a broken flower on the sand.



VI

Great Fear And Recovered Joy


THEY carried the boy in a litter to the House of the Golden Pillars, summoning the most skilful physician of Antioch to attend him. For hours the child was as quiet as death. Hermas watched the white eyelids, folded close like lily-buds at night, even as one watches for the morning. At last they opened; but the fire of fever was burning in the eyes, and the lips were moving in a wild delirium.

Hour after hour that sweet childish voice rang through the halls and chambers of the splendid, helpless house, now rising in shrill calls of distress and senseless laughter, now sinking in weariness and dull moaning. The stars waxed and waned; the sun rose and set; the roses bloomed and fell in the garden, the birds sang and slept among the jasmine-bowers. But in the heart of Hermas there was no song, no bloom, no light -- only speechless anguish, and a certain fearful looking-for of desolation.

He was like a man in a nightmare. He saw the shapeless terror that was moving toward him, but he was impotent to stay or to escape it. He had done all that he could. There was nothing left but to wait.

He paced to and fro, now hurrying to the boy's bed as if he could not bear to be away from it, now turning back as if he could not endure to be near it. The people of the house, even Athenais, feared to speak to him, there was something so vacant and desperate in his face.

At nightfall, on the second of those eternal days, he shut himself in the library. The unfilled lamp had gone out, leaving a trail of smoke in the air. The sprigs of mignonette and rosemary, with which the room was sprinkled every day, were unrenewed, and scented the gloom with a close odor of decay. A costly manuscript of Theocritus was tumbled in disorder on the floor. Hermas sank into a chair like a man in whom the very spring of being is broken. Through the darkness some one drew near. He did not even lift his head. A hand touched him; a soft arm was laid over his shoulders. It was Athenais, kneeling beside him and speaking very low:

"Hermas -- it is almost over -- the child! His voice grows weaker hour by hour. He moans and calls for some one to help him; then he laughs. It breaks my heart. He has just fallen asleep. The moon is rising now. Unless a change comes he cannot last till sunrise. Is there nothing we can do? Is there no power that can save him? Is there no one to pity us and spare us? Let us call, let us beg for compassion and help; let us pray for his life!"

Yes; that was what he wanted -- that was the only thing that could bring relief: to pray; to pour out his sorrow somewhere; to find a greater strength than his own, and cling to it and plead for mercy and help. To leave that undone was to be false to his manhood; it was to be no better than the dumb beasts when their young perish. How could he let his boy suffer and die, without an effort, a cry, a prayer?

He sank on his knees beside Athenais.

"Out of the depths -- out of the depths we call for pity. The light of our eyes is fading -- the child is dying. Oh, the child, the child! Spare the child's life, thou merciful -- "

Not a word; only that deathly blank. The hands of Hermas, stretched out in supplication, touched the marble table. He felt the cool hardness of the polished stone beneath his fingers. A book, dislodged by his touch, fell rustling to the floor. Through the open door, faint and far off, came the footsteps of the servants, moving cautiously. The heart of Hermas was like a lump of ice in his bosom. He rose slowly to his feet, lifting Athenais with him.

"It is in vain," he said; "there is nothing for us to do. Long ago I knew something. I think it would have helped us. But I have forgotten it. It is all gone. But I would give all that I have, if I could bring it back again now, at this hour, in this time of our bitter trouble."

A slave entered the room while he was speaking, and approached hesitatingly.

"Master," he said, "John of Antioch, whom we were forbidden to admit to the house, has come again. He would take no denial. Even now he waits in the peristyle; and the old man Marcion is with him, seeking to turn him away."

"Come," said Hermas to his wife, "let us go to him; for I think I see the beginning of a way that may lead us out of this dreadful darkness."

In the central hall the two men were standing; Marcion, with disdainful eyes and sneering lips, taunting the unbidden guest to depart; John silent, quiet, patient, while the wondering slaves looked on in dismay. He lifted his searching gaze to the haggard face of Hermas.

"My son, I knew that I should see you again, even though you did not send for me. I have come to you because I have heard that you are in trouble."

"It is true," answered Hermas, passionately; "we are in trouble, desperate trouble, trouble accursed. Our child is dying. We are poor, we are destitute, we are afflicted. In all this house, in all the world, there is no one that can help us. I knew something long ago, when I was with you, -- a word, a name, -- in which we might have found hope. But I have lost it. I gave it to this man. He has taken it away from me forever."

He pointed to Marcion. The old man's lips curled scornfully. "A word, a name!" he sneered. "What is that, O most wise and holy Presbyter? A thing of air, an unreal thing that men make to describe their own dreams and fancies. Who would go about to rob any one of such a thing as that? It is a prize that only a fool would think of taking. Besides, the young man parted with it of his own free will. He bargained with me cleverly. I promised him wealth and pleasure and fame. What did he give in return? An empty name, which was a burden -- "

"Servant of demons, be still!" The voice of John rang clear, like a trumpet, through the hall. "There is a name which none shall dare to take in vain. There is a name which none can lose without being lost. There is a name at which the devils tremble. Depart quickly, before I speak it!"

Marcion had shrunk into the shadow of one of the pillars. A bright lamp near him tottered on its pedestal and fell with a crash. In the confusion he vanished, as noiselessly as a shade.

John turned to Hermas, and his tone softened as he said: "My son, you have sinned deeper than you know. The word with which you parted so lightly is the key-word of all life and joy and peace. Without it the world has no meaning, and existence no rest, and death no refuge. It is the word that purifies love, and comforts grief, and keeps hope alive forever. It is the most precious thing that ever ear has heard, or mind has known, or heart has conceived. It is the name of Him who has given us life and breath and all things richly to enjoy; the name of Him who, though we may forget Him, never forgets us; the name of Him who pities us as you pity your suffering child; the name of Him who, though we wander far from Him, seeks us in the wilderness, and sent His Son, even as His Son has sent me this night, to breathe again that forgotten name in the heart that is perishing without it. Listen, my son, listen with all your soul to the blessed name of God our Father."

The cold agony in the breast of Hermas dissolved like a fragment of ice that melts in the summer sea. A sense of sweet release spread through him from head to foot. The lost was found. The dew of a divine peace fell on his parched soul, and the withering flower of human love lifted its head again. The light of a new hope shone on his face. He stood upright, and lifted his hands high toward heaven.

"Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord! O my God, be merciful to me, for my soul trusteth in Thee. My God, Thou hast given; take not Thy gift away from me, O my God! Spare the life of this my child, O Thou God, my Father, my Father!"

A deep hush followed the cry. "Listen!" whispered Athenais, breathlessly.

Was it an echo? It could not be, for it came again -- the voice of the child, clear and low, waking from sleep, and calling: "My father, my father!"

<eob>

Mother Carey's Chickens

By

Kate Douglas Wiggin



I

Mother Carey Herself


"By and by there came along a flock of petrels, who are Mother Carey's own chickens.... They flitted along like a flock of swallows, hopping and skipping from wave to wave, lifting their little feet behind them so daintily that Tom fell in love with them at once."

Nancy stopped reading and laid down the copy of "Water Babies" on the sitting-room table. "No more just now, Peter-bird," she said; "I hear mother coming."

It was a cold, dreary day in late October, with an east wind and a chill of early winter in the air. The cab stood in front of Captain Carey's house, with a trunk beside the driver and a general air of expectancy on the part of neighbors at the opposite windows.

Mrs. Carey came down the front stairway followed by Gilbert and Kathleen; Gilbert with his mother's small bag and travelling cloak, Kathleen with her umbrella; while little Peter flew to the foot of the stairs with a small box of sandwiches pressed to his bosom.

Mrs. Carey did not wear her usual look of sweet serenity, but nothing could wholly mar the gracious dignity of her face and presence. As she came down the stairs with her quick, firm tread, her flock following her, she looked the ideal mother. Her fine height, her splendid carriage, her deep chest, her bright eye and fresh color all bespoke the happy, contented, active woman, though something in the way of transient anxiety lurked in the eyes and lips.

"The carriage is too early," she said; "let us come into the sitting room for five minutes. I have said my good-byes and kissed you all a dozen times, but I shall never be done until I am out of your sight."

"O mother, mother, how can we let you go!" wailed Kathleen.

"Kitty! how can you!" exclaimed Nancy. "What does it matter about us when mother has the long journey and father is so ill?"

"It will not be for very long, -- it can't be," said Mrs. Carey wistfully. "The telegram only said 'symptoms of typhoid'; but these low fevers sometimes last a good while and are very weakening, so I may not be able to bring father back for two or three weeks; I ought to be in Fortress Monroe day after to-morrow; you must take turns in writing to me, children!"

"Every single day, mother!"

"Every single thing that happens."

"A fat letter every morning," they promised in chorus.

"If there is any real trouble remember to telegraph your Uncle Allan -- did you write down his address, 11 Broad Street, New York? Don't bother him about little things, for he is not well, you know."

Gilbert displayed a note-book filled with memoranda and addresses.

"And in any small difficulty send for Cousin Ann," Mrs. Carey went on.

"The mere thought of her coming will make me toe the mark, I can tell you that!" was Gilbert's rejoinder.

"Better than any ogre or bug-a-boo, Cousin Ann is, even for Peter!" said Nancy.

"And will my Peter-bird be good and make Nancy no trouble?" said his mother, lifting him to her lap for one last hug.

"I'll be an angel boy pretty near all the time," he asserted between mouthfuls of apple, "or most pretty near," he added prudently, as if unwilling to promise anything superhuman in the way of behavior. As a matter of fact it required only a tolerable show of virtue for Peter to win encomiums at any time. He would brush his curly mop of hair away from his forehead, lift his eyes, part his lips, showing a row of tiny white teeth; then a dimple would appear in each cheek and a seraphic expression (wholly at variance with the facts) would overspread the baby face, whereupon the beholder -- Mother Carey, his sisters, the cook or the chambermaid, everybody indeed but Cousin Ann, who could never be wheedled -- would cry "Angel boy!" and kiss him. He was even kissed now, though he had done nothing at all but exist and be an enchanting personage, which is one of the injustices of a world where a large number of virtuous and well-behaved people go unkissed to their graves!

"I know Joanna and Ellen will take good care of the housekeeping," continued Mrs. Carey, "and you will be in school from nine to two, so that the time won't go heavily. For the rest I make Nancy responsible. If she is young, you must remember that you are all younger still, and I trust you to her."

"The last time you did it, it didn't work very well!" And Gilbert gave Nancy a sly wink to recall a little matter of family history when there had been a delinquency on somebody's part.

Nancy's face crimsoned and her lips parted for a quick retort, and none too pleasant a one, apparently.

Her mother intervened quietly. "We'll never speak of 'last times,' Gilly, or where would any of us be? We'll always think of 'next' times. I shall trust Nancy next time, and next time and next time, and keep on trusting till I can trust her forever!"

Nancy's face lighted up with a passion of love and loyalty. She responded to the touch of her mother's faith as a harp to the favoring wind, but she said nothing; she only glowed and breathed hard and put her trembling hand about her mother's neck and under her chin.

"Now it's time! One more kiss all around. Remember you are Mother Carey's own chickens! There may be gales while I am away, but you must ride over the crests of the billows as merry as so many flying fish! Good-by! Good-by! Oh, my littlest Peter-bird, how can mother leave you?"

"I opened the lunch box to see what Ellen gave you, but I only broke off two teenty, weenty corners of sandwiches and one little new-moon bite out of a cookie," said Peter, creating a diversion according to his wont.

Ellen and Joanna came to the front door and the children flocked down the frozen pathway to the gate after their mother, getting a touch of her wherever and whenever they could and jumping up and down between whiles to keep warm. Gilbert closed the door of the carriage, and it turned to go down the street. One window was open, and there was a last glimpse of the beloved face framed in the dark blue velvet bonnet, one last wave of a hand in a brown muff.

"Oh! she is so beautiful!" sobbed Kathleen, "her bonnet is just the color of her eyes; and she was crying!"

"There never was anybody like mother!" said Nancy, leaning on the gate, shivering with cold and emotion. "There never was, and there never will be! We can try and try, Kathleen, and we must try, all of us; but mother wouldn't have to try; mother must have been partly born so!"



II

The Chickens


It was Captain Carey's favorite Admiral who was responsible for the phrase by which mother and children had been known for some years. The Captain (then a Lieutenant) had brought his friend home one Saturday afternoon a little earlier than had been expected, and they went to find the family in the garden.

Laughter and the sound of voices led them to the summer-house, and as they parted the syringa bushes they looked through them and surprised the charming group.

A throng of children like to flowers were sown About the grass beside, or climbed her knee. I looked who were that favored company.

That is the way a poet would have described what the Admiral saw, and if you want to see anything truly and beautifully you must generally go to a poet.

Mrs. Carey held Peter, then a crowing baby, in her lap. Gilbert was tickling Peter's chin with a buttercup, Nancy was putting a wreath of leaves on her mother's hair, and Kathleen was swinging from an apple-tree bough, her yellow curls flying.

"Might I inquire what you think of that?" asked the father.

"Well," the Admiral said, "mothers and children make a pretty good picture at any time, but I should say this one couldn't be 'beat.' Two for the Navy, eh?"

"All four for the Navy, perhaps," laughed the young man. "Nancy has already chosen a Rear-Admiral and Kathleen a Commodore; they are modest little girls!"

"They do you credit, Peter!"

"I hope I've given them something, -- I've tried hard enough, but they are mostly the work of the lady in the chair. Come on and say how d'ye do."

Before many Saturdays the Admiral's lap had superseded all other places as a gathering ground for the little Careys, whom he called the stormy petrels.

"Mother Carey," he explained to them, came from the Latin mater cara, this being not only his personal conviction, but one that had the backing of Brewer's "Dictionary of Phrase and Fable."

"The French call them Les Oiseaux de Notre Dame. That means 'The Birds of our Lady,' Kitty, and they are the sailors' friends. Mother Carey sends them to warn seafarers of approaching storms and bids them go out all over the seas to show the good birds the way home. You'll have your hands full if you're going to be Mother Carey's chickens."

"I'd love to show good birds the way home!" said Gilbert.

"Can a naughty bird show a good bird the way home, Addy?" This bland question came from Nancy, who had a decided talent for sarcasm, considering her years. (Of course the Admiral might have stopped the children from calling him Addy, but they seemed to do it because "Admiral" was difficult, and anyway they loved him so much they simply had to take some liberties with him. Besides, although he was the greatest disciplinarian that ever walked a deck, he was so soft and flexible on land that he was perfectly ridiculous and delightful.)

The day when the children were christened Mother Carey's chickens was Nancy's tenth birthday, a time when the family was striving to give her her proper name, having begun wrong with her at the outset. She was the first, you see, and the first is something of an event, take it how you will.

It is obvious that at the beginning they could not address a tiny thing on a pillow as Nancy, because she was too young. She was not even alluded to at that early date as "she," but always as "it," so they called her "baby" and let it go at that. Then there was a long period when she was still too young to be called Nancy, and though, so far as age was concerned, she might properly have held on to her name of baby, she couldn't with propriety, because there was Gilbert then, and he was baby. Moreover, she gradually became so indescribably quaint and bewitching and comical and saucy that every one sought diminutives for her; nicknames, fond names, little names, and all sorts of words that tried to describe her charm (and couldn't), so there was Poppet and Smiles and Minx and Rogue and Midget and Ladybird and finally Nan and Nannie by degrees, to soberer Nancy.

"Nancy is ten to-day," mused the Admiral. "Bless my soul, how time flies! You were a young Ensign, Carey, and I well remember the letter you wrote me when this little lass came into harbor! Just wait a minute; I believe the scrap of newspaper verse you enclosed has been in my wallet ever since. I always liked it."

"I recall writing to you," said Mr. Carey. "As you had lent me five hundred dollars to be married on, I thought I ought to keep you posted!"

"Oh, father! did you have to borrow money?" cried Kathleen.

"I did, my dear. There's no disgrace in borrowing, if you pay back, and I did. Your Uncle Allan was starting in business, and I had just put my little capital in with his when I met your mother. If you had met your mother wouldn't you have wanted to marry her?"

"Yes!" cried Nancy eagerly. "Fifty of her!" At which everybody laughed.

"And what became of the money you put in Uncle Allan's business?" asked Gilbert with unexpected intelligence.

There was a moment's embarrassment and an exchange of glances between mother and father before he replied, "Oh! that's coming back multiplied six times over, one of these days, -- Allan has a very promising project on hand just now, Admiral."

"Glad to hear it! A delightful fellow, and straight as a die. I only wish he could perform once in a while, instead of promising."

"He will if only he keeps his health, but he's heavily handicapped there, poor chap. Well, what's the verse?"

The Admiral put on his glasses, prettily assisted by Kathleen, who was on his knee and seized the opportunity to give him a French kiss when the spectacles were safely on the bridge of his nose. Whereupon he read: -- 

"There came to port last Sunday night The queerest little craft, Without an inch of rigging on; I looked, and looked, and laughed.

"It seemed so curious that she Should cross the unknown water, And moor herself within my room --  My daughter, O my daughter!

"Yet, by these presents, witness all, She's welcome fifty times, And comes consigned to Hope and Love And common metre rhymes.

"She has no manifest but this; No flag floats o'er the water; She's rather new for British Lloyd's --  My daughter, O my daughter!

"Ring out, wild bells -- and tame ones, too; Ring out the lover's moon, Ring in the little worsted socks, Ring in the bib and spoon."[1]

[Footnote 1: George W. Cable.]

"Oh, Peter, how pretty!" said Mother Carey all in a glow. "You never showed it to me!"

"You were too much occupied with the aforesaid 'queer little craft,' wasn't she, Nan -- I mean Nancy!" and her father pinched her ear and pulled a curly lock.

Nancy was a lovely creature to the eye, and she came by her good looks naturally enough. For three generations her father's family had been known as the handsome Careys, and when Lieutenant Carey chose Margaret Gilbert for his wife, he was lucky enough to win the loveliest girl in her circle.

Thus it was still the handsome Careys in the time of our story, for all the children were well-favored and the general public could never decide whether Nancy or Kathleen was the belle of the family. Kathleen had fair curls, skin like a rose, and delicate features; not a blemish to mar her exquisite prettiness! All colors became her; all hats suited her hair. She was the Carey beauty so long as Nancy remained out of sight, but the moment that young person appeared Kathleen left something to be desired. Nancy piqued; Nancy sparkled; Nancy glowed; Nancy occasionally pouted and not infrequently blazed. Nancy's eyes had to be continually searched for news, both of herself and of the immediate world about her. If you did not keep looking at her every "once in so often" you couldn't keep up with the progress of events; she might flash a dozen telegrams to somebody, about something, while your head was turned away. Kathleen could be safely left unwatched for an hour or so without fear of change; her moods were less variable, her temper evener; her interest in the passing moment less keen, her absorption in the particular subject less intense. Walt Whitman might have been thinking of Nancy when he wrote: -- 

There was a child went forth every day And the first object he looked upon, that object he became, And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of the day Or for many years, or stretching cycles of years.

Kathleen's nature needed to be stirred, Nancy's to be controlled, the impulse coming from within, the only way that counts in the end, though the guiding force may be applied from without.

Nancy was more impulsive than industrious, more generous than wise, more plucky than prudent; she had none too much perseverance and no patience at all.

Gilbert was a fiery youth of twelve, all for adventure. He kindled quickly, but did not burn long, so deeds of daring would be in his line; instantaneous ones, quickly settled, leaving the victor with a swelling chest and a feather in cap; rather an obvious feather suited Gilbert best.

Peter? Oh! Peter, aged four, can be dismissed in very few words as a consummate charmer and heart-breaker. The usual elements that go to the making of a small boy were all there, but mixed with white magic. It is painful to think of the dozens of girl babies in long clothes who must have been feeling premonitory pangs when Peter was four, to think they couldn't all marry him when they grew up!



III

The Common Denominator


Three weeks had gone by since Mother Carey's departure for Fortress Monroe, and the children had mounted from one moral triumph to another. John Bunyan, looking in at the windows, might have exclaimed: -- 

Who would true valor see Let him come hither.

It is easy to go wrong in a wicked world, but there are certain circumstances under which one is pledged to virtue; when, like a knight of the olden time, you wear your motto next your heart and fight for it, -- "Death rather than defeat!" "We are able because we think we are able!" "Follow honor!" and the like. These sentiments look beautifully as class mottoes on summer graduation programmes, but some of them, apparently, disappear from circulation before cold weather sets in.

It is difficult to do right, we repeat, but not when mother is away from us for the first time since we were born; not when she who is the very sun of home is shining elsewhere, and we are groping in the dim light without her, only remembering her last words and our last promises. Not difficult when we think of the eyes the color of the blue velvet bonnet, and the tears falling from them. They are hundreds of miles away, but we see them looking at us a dozen times a day and the last thing at night.

Not difficult when we think of father; gay, gallant father, desperately ill and mother nursing him; father, with the kind smile and the jolly little sparkles of fun in his eyes; father, tall and broad-shouldered, splendid as the gods, in full uniform; father, so brave that if a naval battle ever did come his way, he would demolish the foe in an instant; father, with a warm strong hand clasping ours on high days and holidays, taking us on great expeditions where we see life at its best and taste incredible joys.

The most quarrelsome family, if the house burns down over their heads, will stop disputing until the emergency is over and they get under a new roof. Somehow, in times of great trial, calamity, sorrow, the differences that separate people are forgotten. Isn't it rather like the process in mathematics where we reduce fractions to a common denominator?

It was no time for anything but superior behavior in the Carey household; that was distinctly felt from kitchen to nursery. Ellen the cook was tidier, Joanna the second maid more amiable. Nancy, who was "responsible," rose earlier than the rest and went to bed later, after locking doors and windows that had been left unlocked since the flood. "I am responsible," she said three or four times each day, to herself, and, it is to be feared, to others! Her heavenly patience in dressing Peter every few hours without comment struck the most callous observer as admirable. Peter never remembered that he had any clothes on. He might have been a real stormy petrel, breasting the billows in his birthday suit and expecting his feathers to be dried when and how the Lord pleased. He comported himself in the presence of dust, mud, water, liquid refreshment, and sticky substances, exactly as if clean white sailor suits grew on every bush and could be renewed at pleasure.

Even Gilbert was moved to spontaneous admiration and respect at the sight of Nancy's zeal. "Nobody would know you, Nancy; it is simply wonderful, and I only wish it could last," he said. Even this style of encomium was received sweetly, though there had been moments in her previous history when Nancy would have retorted in a very pointed manner. When she was "responsible," not even had he gone the length of calling Nancy an unspeakable pig, would she have said anything. She had a blissful consciousness that, had she been examined, indications of angelic wings, and not bristles, would have been discovered under her blouse.

Gilbert, by the way, never suspected that the masters in his own school wondered whether he had experienced religion or was working on some sort of boyish wager. He took his two weekly reports home cautiously for fear that they might break on the way, pasted them on large pieces of paper, and framed them in elaborate red, white, and blue stars united by strips of gold paper. How Captain and Mrs. Carey laughed and cried over this characteristic message when it reached them! "Oh! they are darlings," Mother Carey cried. "Of course they are," the Captain murmured feebly. "Why shouldn't they be, considering you?"

"It is really just as easy to do right as wrong, Kathleen," said Nancy when the girls were going to bed one night.

"Ye-es!" assented Kathleen with some reservations in her tone, for she was more judicial and logical than her sister. "But you have to keep your mind on it so, and never relax a single bit! Then it's lots easier for a few weeks than it is for long stretches!"

"That's true," agreed Nancy; "it would be hard to keep it up forever. And you have to love somebody or something like fury every minute or you can't do it at all. How do the people manage that can't love like that, or haven't anybody to love?"

"I don't know." said Kathleen sleepily. "I'm so worn out with being good, that every night I just say my prayers and tumble into bed exhausted. Last night I fell asleep praying, I honestly did!"

"Tell that to the marines!" remarked Nancy incredulously.



IV

The Broken Circle


The three weeks were running into a month now, and virtue still reigned in the Carey household. But things were different. Everybody but Peter saw the difference. Peter dwelt from morn till eve in that Land of Pure Delight which is ignorance of death. The children no longer bounded to meet the postman, but waited till Joanna brought in the mail. Steadily, daily, the letters changed in tone. First they tried to be cheerful; later on they spoke of trusting that the worst was past; then of hoping that father was holding his own. "Oh! if he was holding all his own," sobbed Nancy. "If we were only there with him, helping mother!"

Ellen said to Joanna one morning in the kitchen: "It's my belief the Captain's not going to get well, and I'd like to go to Newburyport to see my cousin and not be in the house when the children's told!" And Joanna said, "Shame on you not to stand by 'em in their hour of trouble!" At which Ellen quailed and confessed herself a coward.

Finally came a day never to be forgotten; a day that swept all the former days clean out of memory, as a great wave engulfs all the little ones in its path; a day when, Uncle Allan being too ill to travel, Cousin Ann, of all people in the universe, -- Cousin Ann came to bring the terrible news that Captain Carey was dead.

Never think that Cousin Ann did not suffer and sympathize and do her rocky best to comfort; she did indeed, but she was thankful that her task was of brief duration. Mrs. Carey knew how it would be, and had planned all so that she herself could arrive not long after the blow had fallen. Peter, by his mother's orders (she had thought of everything) was at a neighbor's house, the centre of all interest, the focus of all gayety. He was too young to see the tears of his elders with any profit; baby plants grow best in sunshine. The others were huddled together in a sad group at the front window, eyes swollen, handkerchiefs rolled into drenched, pathetic little wads.

Cousin Ann came in from the dining room with a tumbler and spoon in her hand. "See here, children!" she said bracingly, "you've been crying for the last twelve hours without stopping, and I don't blame you a mite. If I was the crying kind I'd do the same thing. Now do you think you've got grit enough -- all three of you -- to bear up for your mother's sake, when she first comes in? I've mixed you each a good dose of aromatic spirits of ammonia, and it's splendid for the nerves. Your mother must get a night's sleep somehow, and when she gets back a little of her strength you'll be the greatest comfort she has in the world. The way you're carrying on now you'll be the death of her!"

It was a good idea, and the dose had courage in it. Gilbert took the first sip, Kathleen the second, and Nancy the third, and hardly had the last swallow disappeared down the poor aching throats before a carriage drove up to the gate. Some one got out and handed out Mrs. Carey whose step used to be lighter than Nancy's. A strange gentleman, oh! not a stranger, it was the dear Admiral helping mother up the path. They had been unconsciously expecting the brown muff and blue velvet bonnet, but these had vanished, like father, and all the beautiful things of the past years, and in their place was black raiment that chilled their hearts. But the black figure had flung back the veil that hid her from the longing eyes of the children, and when she raised her face it was full of the old love. She was grief-stricken and she was pale, but she was mother, and the three young things tore open the door and clasped her in their arms, sobbing, choking, whispering all sorts of tender comfort, their childish tears falling like healing dew on her poor heart. The Admiral soothed and quieted them each in turn, all but Nancy. Cousin Ann's medicine was of no avail, and strangling with sobs Nancy fled to the attic until she was strong enough to say "for mother's sake" without a quiver in her voice. Then she crept down, and as she passed her mother's room on tiptoe she looked in and saw that the chair by the window, the chair that had been vacant for a month, was filled, and that the black-clad figure was what was left to them; a strange, sad, quiet mother, who had lost part of herself somewhere, -- the gay part, the cheerful part, the part that made her so piquantly and entrancingly different from other women. Nancy stole in softly and put her young smooth cheek against her mother's, quietly stroking her hair. "There are four of us to love you and take care of you," she said. "It isn't quite so bad as if there was nobody!"

Mrs. Carey clasped her close. "Oh! my Nancy! my first, my oldest, God will help me, I know that, but just now I need somebody close and warm and soft; somebody with arms to hold and breath to speak and lips to kiss! I ought not to sadden you, nor lean on you, you are too young,  -- but I must a little, just at the first. You see, dear, you come next to father!"

"Next to father!" Nancy's life was set to a new tune from that moment. Here was her spur, her creed; the incentive, the inspiration she had lacked. She did not suddenly grow older than her years, but simply, in the twinkling of an eye, came to a realization of herself, her opportunity, her privilege, her duty; the face of life had changed, and Nancy changed with it.

"Do you love me next to mother?" the Admiral had asked coaxingly once when Nancy was eight and on his lap as usual.

"Oh dear no!" said Nancy thoughtfully, shaking her head.

"Why, that's rather a blow to me," the Admiral exclaimed, pinching an ear and pulling a curl. "I flattered myself that when I was on my best behavior I came next to mother."

"It's this way, Addy dear," said Nancy, cuddling up to his waistcoat and giving a sigh of delight that there were so many nice people in the world. "It's just this way. First there's mother, and then all round mother there's a wide, wide space; and then father and you come next the space."

The Admiral smiled; a grave, lovely smile that often crept into his eyes when he held Mother Carey's chickens on his knee. He kissed Nancy on the little white spot behind the ear where the brown hair curled in tiny rings like grape tendrils, soft as silk and delicate as pencil strokes. He said nothing, but his boyish dreams were in the kiss, and certain hopes of manhood that had never been realized. He was thinking that Margaret Gilbert was a fortunate and happy woman to have become Mother Carey; such a mother, too, that all about her was a wide, wide space, and next the space, the rest of the world, nearer or farther according to their merits. He wondered if motherhood ought not to be like that, and he thought if it were it would be a great help to God.



V

How About Julia?


We often speak of a family circle, but there are none too many of them. Parallel lines never meeting, squares, triangles, oblongs, and particularly those oblongs pulled askew, known as rhomboids, these and other geometrical figures abound, but circles are comparatively few. In a true family circle a father and a mother first clasp each other's hands, liking well to be thus clasped; then they stretch out a hand on either side, and these are speedily grasped by children, who hold one another firmly, and complete the ring. One child is better than nothing, a great deal better than nothing; it is at least an effort in the right direction, but the circle that ensues is not, even then, a truly nice shape. You can stand as handsomely as ever you like, but it simply won't "come round." The minute that two, three, four, five, join in, the "roundness" grows, and the merriment too, and the laughter, and the power to do things. (Responsibility and care also, but what is the use of discouraging circles when there are not enough of them anyway?)

The Carey family circle had been round and complete, with love and harmony between all its component parts. In family rhomboids, for instance, mother loves the children and father does not, or father does, but does not love mother, or father and mother love each other and the children do not get their share; it is impossible to enumerate all the little geometrical peculiarities which keep a rhomboid from being a circle, but one person can just "stand out" enough to spoil the shape, or put hands behind back and refuse to join at all. About the ugliest thing in the universe is that non-joining habit! You would think that anybody, however dull, might consider his hands, and guess by the look of them that they must be made to work, and help, and take hold of somebody else's hands! Miserable, useless, flabby paws, those of the non-joiner; that he feeds and dresses himself with, and then hangs to his selfish sides, or puts behind his beastly back!

When Captain Carey went on his long journey into the unknown and uncharted land, the rest of the Careys tried in vain for a few months to be still a family, and did not succeed at all. They clung as closely to one another as ever they could, but there was always a gap in the circle where father had been. Some men, silent, unresponsive, absent-minded and especially absorbed in business, might drop out and not be missed, but Captain Carey was full of vitality, warmth, and high spirits. It is strange so many men think that the possession of a child makes them a father; it does not; but it is a curious and very general misapprehension. Captain Carey was a boy with his boys, and a gallant lover with his girls; to his wife -- oh! we will not even touch upon that ground; she never did, to any one or anything but her own heart! Such an one could never disappear from memory, such a loss could never be made wholly good. The only thing to do was to remember father's pride and justify it, to recall his care for mother and take his place so far as might be; the only thing for all, as the months went on, was to be what mother called the three b's, -- brave, bright, and busy.

To be the last was by far the easiest, for the earliest effort at economy had been the reluctant dismissal of Joanna, the chambermaid. In old-fashioned novels the devoted servant always insisted on remaining without wages, but this story concerns itself with life at a later date. Joanna wept at the thought of leaving, but she never thought of the romantic and illogical expedient of staying on without compensation.

Captain Carey's salary had been five thousand dollars, or rather was to have been, for he had only attained his promotion three months before his death. There would have been an extra five hundred dollars a year when he was at sea, and on the strength of this addition to their former income he intended to increase the amount of his life insurance, but it had not yet been done when the sudden illness seized him, an illness that began so gently and innocently and terminated with such sudden and unexpected fatality.

The life insurance, such as it was, must be put into the bank for emergencies. Mrs. Carey realized that that was the only proper thing to do when there were four children under fifteen to be considered. The pressing question, however, was how to keep it in the bank, and subsist on a captain's pension of thirty dollars a month. There was the ten thousand, hers and the Captain's, in Allan Carey's business, but Allan was seriously ill with nervous prostration, and no money put into his business ever had come out, even in a modified form. The Admiral was at the other end of the world, and even had he been near at hand Mrs. Carey would never have confided the family difficulties to him. She could hardly have allowed him even to tide her over her immediate pressing anxieties, remembering his invalid sister and his many responsibilities. No, the years until Gilbert was able to help, or Nancy old enough to use her talents, or the years before the money invested with Allan would bring dividends, those must be years of self-sacrifice on everybody's part; and more even than that, they must be fruitful years, in which not mere saving and economizing, but earning, would be necessary.

It was only lately that Mrs. Carey had talked over matters with the three eldest children, but the present house was too expensive to be longer possible as a home, and the question of moving was a matter of general concern. Joanna had been, up to the present moment, the only economy, but alas! Joanna was but a drop in the necessary bucket.

On a certain morning in March Mrs. Carey sat in her room with a letter in her lap, the children surrounding her. It was from Mr. Manson, Allan Carey's younger partner; the sort of letter that dazed her, opening up as it did so many questions of expediency, duty, and responsibility. The gist of it was this: that Allan Carey was a broken man in mind and body; that both for the climate and for treatment he was to be sent to a rest cure in the Adirondacks; that sometime or other, in Mr. Manson's opinion, the firm's investments might be profitable if kept long enough, and there was no difficulty in keeping them, for nobody in the universe wanted them at the present moment; that Allan's little daughter Julia had no source of income whatever after her father's monthly bills were paid, and that her only relative outside of the Careys, a certain Miss Ann Chadwick, had refused to admit her into her house. "Mr. Carey only asked Miss Chadwick as a last resort," wrote Mr. Manson, "for his very soul quailed at the thought of letting you, his brother's widow, suffer any more by his losses than was necessary, and he studiously refused to let you know the nature and extent of his need. Miss Chadwick's only response to his request was, that she believed in every tub standing on its own bottom, and if he had harbored the same convictions he would not have been in his present extremity. I am telling you this, my dear Mrs. Carey," the writer went on, "just to get your advice about the child. I well know that your income will not support your own children; what therefore shall we do with Julia? I am a poor young bachelor, with two sisters to support. I shall find a position, of course, and I shall never cease nursing Carey's various affairs and projects during the time of his exile, but I cannot assume an ounce more of financial responsibility."

There had been quite a council over the letter, and parts of it had been read more than once by Mrs. Carey, but the children, though very sympathetic with Uncle Allan and loud in their exclamations of "Poor Julia!" had not suggested any remedy for the situation.

"Well," said Mrs. Carey, folding the letter, "there seems to be but one thing for us to do."

"Do you mean that you are going to have Julia come and live with us, -- be one of the family?" exclaimed Gilbert.

"That is what I want to discuss," she replied. "You three are the family as well as I. -- Come in!" she called, for she heard the swift feet of the youngest petrel ascending the stairs. "Come in! Where is there a sweeter Peter, a fleeter Peter, a neater Peter, than ours, I should like to know, and where a better adviser for the council?"

"Neater, mother! How can you?" inquired Kathleen.

"I meant neater when he is just washed and dressed," retorted Peter's mother. "Are you coming to the family council, sweet Pete?"

Peter climbed on his mother's knee and answered by a vague affirmative nod, his whole mind being on the extraction of a slippery marble from a long-necked bottle.

"Then be quiet, and speak only when we ask your advice," continued Mrs. Carey. "Unless I were obliged to, children, I should be sorry to go against all your wishes. I might be willing to bear my share of a burden, but more is needed than that."

"I think," said Nancy suddenly, aware now of the trend of her mother's secret convictions, "I think Julia is a smug, conceited, vain, affected little pea -- " Here she caught her mother's eye and suddenly she heard inside of her head or heart or conscience a chime of words. "Next to father!" Making a magnificent oratorical leap she finished her sentence with only a second's break, -- "peacock, but if mother thinks Julia is a duty, a duty she is, and we must brace up and do her. Must we love her, mother, or can we just be good and polite to her, giving her the breast and taking the drumstick? She won't ever say, 'Don't let me rob you!' like Cousin Ann, when she takes the breast!"

Kathleen looked distinctly unresigned. She hated drumsticks and all that they stood for in life. She disliked the wall side of the bed, the middle seat in the carriage, the heel of the loaf, the underdone biscuit, the tail part of the fish, the scorched end of the omelet. "It will make more difference to me than anybody," she said gloomily.

"Everything makes more difference to you, Kitty," remarked Gilbert.

"I mean I'm always fourth when the cake plate's passed, -- in everything! Now Julia'll be fourth, and I shall be fifth; it's lucky people can't tumble off the floor!"

"Poor abused Kathleen!" cried Gilbert. "Well, mother, you're always right, but I can't see why you take another one into the family, when we've been saying for a week there isn't even enough for us five to live on. It looks mighty queer to put me in the public school and spend the money you save that way, on Julia!"

Way down deep in her heart Mother Carey felt a pang. There was a little seed of hard self-love in Gilbert that she wanted him to dig up from the soil and get rid of before it sprouted and waxed too strong.

"Julia is a Carey chicken after all, Gilbert," she said.

"But she's Uncle Allan's chicken, and I'm Captain Carey's eldest son."

"That's the very note I should strike if I were you," his mother responded, "only with a little different accent. What would Captain Carey's eldest son like to do for his only cousin, a little girl younger than himself, -- a girl who had a very silly, unwise, unhappy mother for the first five years of her life, and who is now practically fatherless, for a time at least?"

Gilbert wriggled as if in great moral discomfort, as indeed he was. "Well," he said, "I don't want to be selfish, and if the girls say yes, I'll have to fall in; but it isn't logic, all the same, to ask a sixth to share what isn't enough for five."

"I agree with you there, Gilly!" smiled his mother. "The only question before the council is, does logic belong at the top, in the scale of reasons why we do certain things? If we ask Julia to come, she will have to 'fall into line,' as you say, and share the family misfortunes as best she can."

"She's a regular shirk, and always was." This from Kathleen.

"She would never come at all if she guessed her cousins' opinion of her, that is very certain!" remarked Mrs. Carey pointedly.

"Now, mother, look me in the eye and speak the whole truth," asked Nancy. "Do you like Julia Carey?"

Mrs. Carey laughed as she answered, "Frankly then, I do not! But," she continued, "I do not like several of the remarks that have been made at this council, yet I manage to bear them."

"Of course I shan't call Julia smug and conceited to her face," asserted Nancy encouragingly. "I hope that her bosom friend Gladys Ferguson has disappeared from view. The last time Julia visited us, Kitty and I got so tired of Gladys Ferguson's dresses, her French maid, her bedroom furniture, and her travels abroad, that we wrote her name on a piece of paper, put it in a box, and buried it in the back yard the minute Julia left the house. When you write, mother, tell Julia there's a piece of breast for her, but not a mouthful of my drumstick goes to Gladys Ferguson."

"The more the hungrier; better invite Gladys too," suggested Gilbert, "then we can say like that simple little kid in Wordsworth: -- 

"'Sisters and brother, little maid, How many may you be?' 'How many? Seven in all,' she said, And wondering looked at me!"

"Then it goes on thus," laughed Nancy: -- 

"'And who are they? I pray you tell.' She answered, 'Seven are we; Mother with us makes five, and then There's Gladys and Julee!'"

Everybody joined in the laugh then, including Peter, who was especially uproarious, and who had an idea he had made the joke himself, else why did they all kiss him?

"How about Julia? What do you say, Peter?" asked his mother.

"I want her. She played horse once," said Peter. The opinion that the earth revolved around his one small person was natural at the age of four, but the same idea of the universe still existed in Gilbert's mind. A boy of thirteen ought perhaps to have a clearer idea of the relative sizes of world and individual; at least that was the conviction in Mother Carey's mind.



VI

Nancy's Idea


Nancy had a great many ideas, first and last. They were generally unique and interesting at least, though it is to be feared that few of them were practical. However, it was Nancy's idea to build Peter a playhouse in the plot of ground at the back of the Charlestown house, and it was she who was the architect and head carpenter. That plan had brought much happiness to Peter and much comfort to the family. It was Nancy's idea that she, Gilbert, and Kathleen should all be so equally polite to Cousin Ann Chadwick that there should be no favorite to receive an undue share of invitations to the Chadwick house. Nancy had made two visits in succession, both offered in the nature of tributes to her charms and virtues, and she did not wish a third.

"If you two can't be more attractive, then I'll be less, that's all," was her edict. "'Turn and turn about' has got to be the rule in this matter. I'm not going to wear the martyr's crown alone; it will adorn your young brows every now and then or I'll know the reason why!"

It was Nancy's idea to let Joanna go, and divide her work among the various members of the family. It was also Nancy's idea that, there being no strictly masculine bit of martyrdom to give to Gilbert, he should polish the silver for his share. This was an idea that proved so unpopular with Gilbert that it was speedily relinquished. Gilbert was wonderful with tools, so wonderful that Mother Carey feared he would be a carpenter instead of the commander of a great war ship; but there seemed to be no odd jobs to offer him. There came a day when even Peter realized that life was real and life was earnest. When the floor was strewn with playthings his habit had been to stand amid the wreckage and smile, whereupon Joanna would fly and restore everything to its accustomed place. After the passing of Joanna, Mother Carey sat placidly in her chair in the nursery and Peter stood ankle deep among his toys, smiling.

"Now put everything where it belongs, sweet Pete," said mother.

"You do it," smiled Peter.

"I am very busy darning your stockings, Peter."

"I don't like to pick up, Muddy."

"No, it isn't much fun, but it has to be done."

Peter went over to the window and gazed at the landscape. "I dess I'll go play with Ellen," he remarked in honeyed tones.

"That would be nice, after you clear away your toys and blocks."

"I dess I'll play with Ellen first," suggested Peter, starting slowly towards the door.

"No, we always work first and play afterwards!" said mother, going on darning.

Peter felt caught in a net of irresistible and pitiless logic.

"Come and help me, Muddy?" he coaxed, and as she looked up he suddenly let fly all his armory of weapons at once, -- two dimples, tossing back of curls, parted lips, tiny white teeth, sweet voice.

Mother Carey's impulse was to cast herself on the floor and request him simply to smile on her and she would do his lightest bidding, but controlling her secret desires she answered: "I would help if you needed me, but you don't. You're a great big boy now!"

"I'm not a great big boy!" cried Peter, "I'm only a great big little boy!"

"Don't waste time, sweet Pete; go to work!"

"I want Joanna!" roared Peter with the voice of an infant bull.

"So we all do. It's because she had to go that I'm darning stockings."

The net tightened round Peter's defenceless body and he hurled himself against his rocking, horse and dragged it brutally to a corner. Having disposed of most of his strength and temper in this operation, he put away the rest of his goods and chattels more quietly, but with streaming eyes and heaving bosom.

"Splendid!" commented Mother Carey. "Joanna couldn't have done it better, and it won't be half so much work next time." Peter heard the words "next time" distinctly, and knew the grim face of Duty at last, though he was less than five.

The second and far more tragic time was when he was requested to make himself ready for luncheon, -- Kathleen to stand near and help "a little" if really necessary. Now Peter au fond was absolutely clean. French phrases are detestable where there is any English equivalent, but in this case there is none, so I will explain to the youngest reader -- who may speak only one language -- that the base of Peter was always clean. He received one full bath and several partial ones in every twenty-four hours, but su-per-im-posed on this base were evidences of his eternal activities, and indeed of other people's! They were divided into three classes, -- those contracted in the society of Joanna when she took him out-of-doors: such as sand, water, mud, grass stains, paint, lime, putty, or varnish; those derived from visits to his sisters at their occupations: such as ink, paints, lead pencils, paste, glue, and mucilage; those amassed in his stays with Ellen in the kitchen: sugar, molasses, spice, pudding sauce, black currants, raisins, dough, berry stains (assorted, according to season), chocolate, jelly, jam, and preserves; these deposits were not deep, but were simply dabs on the facade of Peter, and through them the eyes and soul of him shone, delicious and radiant. They could be rubbed off with a moist handkerchief if water were handy, and otherwise if it were not, and the person who rubbed always wanted for some mysterious reason to kiss him immediately afterwards, for Peter had the largest kissing acquaintance in Charlestown.

When Peter had scrubbed the parts of him that showed most, and had performed what he considered his whole duty to his hair, he appeared for the first time at the family table in such a guise that if the children had not been warned they would have gone into hysterics, but he gradually grew to be proud of his toilets and careful that they should not occur too often in the same day, since it appeared to be the family opinion that he should make them himself.

There was a tacit feeling, not always expressed, that Nancy, after mother, held the reins of authority, and also that she was a person of infinite resource. The Gloom-Dispeller had been her father's name for her, but he had never thought of her as a Path-Finder, a gallant adventurer into unknown and untried regions, because there had been small opportunity to test her courage or her ingenuity.

Mrs. Carey often found herself leaning on Nancy nowadays; not as a dead weight, but with just the hint of need, just the suggestion of confidence, that youth and strength and buoyancy respond to so gladly. It had been decided that the house should be vacated as soon as a tenant could be found, but the "what next" had not been settled. Julia had confirmed Nancy's worst fears by accepting her aunt's offer of a home, but had requested time to make Gladys Ferguson a short visit at Palm Beach, all expenses being borne by the Parents of Gladys. This estimable lady and gentleman had no other names or titles and were never spoken of as if they had any separate existence. They had lived and loved and married and accumulated vast wealth, and borne Gladys. After that they had sunk into the background and Gladys had taken the stage.

"I'm sure I'm glad she is going to the Fergusons," exclaimed Kathleen. "One month less of her!"

"Yes," Nancy replied, "but she'll be much worse, more spoiled, more vain, more luxurious than before. She'll want a gold chicken breast now. We've just packed away the finger bowls; but out they'll have to come again."

"Let her wash her own finger bowl a few days and she'll clamor for the simple life," said Kathleen shrewdly. "Oh, what a relief if the Fergusons would adopt Julia, just to keep Gladys company!"

"Nobody would ever adopt Julia," returned Nancy. "If she was yours you couldn't help it; you'd just take her 'to the Lord in prayer,' as the Sunday-school hymn says, but you'd never go out and adopt her."

Matters were in this uncertain and unsettled state when Nancy came into her mother's room one evening when the rest of the house was asleep.

"I saw your light, so I knew you were reading, Muddy. I've had such a bright idea I couldn't rest."

"Muddy" is not an attractive name unless you happen to know its true derivation and significance. First there was "mother dear," and as persons under fifteen are always pressed for time and uniformly breathless, this appellation was shortened to "Motherdy," and Peter being unable to struggle with that term, had abbreviated it into "Muddy." "Muddy" in itself is undistinguished and even unpleasant, but when accompanied by a close strangling hug, pats on the cheek, and ardent if somewhat sticky kisses, grows by degrees to possess delightful associations. Mother Carey enjoyed it so much from Peter that she even permitted it to be taken up by the elder children.

"You mustn't have ideas after nine P.M., Nancy!" chided her mother. "Wrap the blue blanket around you and sit down with me near the fire."

"You're not to say I'm romantic or unpractical," insisted Nancy, leaning against her mother's knees and looking up into her face, -- "indeed, you're not to say anything of any importance till I'm all finished. I'm going to tell it in a long story, too, so as to work on your feelings and make you say yes."

"Very well, I'm all ears!"

"Now put on your thinking cap! Do you remember once, years and years ago, before Peter it was, that father took us on a driving trip through some dear little villages in Maine?"

(The Careys never dated their happenings eighteen hundred and anything. It was always: Just before Peter, Immediately after Peter, or A Long Time after Peter, which answered all purposes.)

"I remember."

"It was one of Gilbert's thirsty days, and we stopped at nearly every convenient pump to give him drinks of water, and at noon we came to the loveliest wayside well with a real moss-covered bucket; do you remember?"

"I remember."

"And we all clambered out, and father said it was time for luncheon, and we unpacked the baskets on the greensward near a beautiful tree, and father said, 'Don't spread the table too near the house, dears, or they'll cry when they see our doughnuts!' and Kitty, who had been running about, came up and cried, 'It's an empty house; come and look!'"

"I remember."

"And we all went in the gate and loved every bit of it: the stone steps, the hollyhocks growing under the windows, the yellow paint and the green blinds; and father looked in the windows, and the rooms were large and sunny, and we wanted to drive the horse into the barn and stay there forever!"

"I remember."

"And Gilbert tore his trousers climbing on the gate, and father laid him upside down on your lap and I ran and got your work-bag and you mended the seat of his little trousers. And father looked and looked at the house and said, 'Bless its heart!' and said if he were rich he would buy the dear thing that afternoon and sleep in it that night; and asked you if you didn't wish you'd married the other man, and you said there never was another man, and you asked father if he thought on the whole that he was the poorest man in the world, and father said no, the very richest, and he kissed us all round, do you remember?"

"Do I remember? O Nancy, Nancy! What do you think I am made of that I could ever forget?"

"Don't cry, Muddy darling, don't! It was so beautiful, and we have so many things like that to remember."

"Yes," said Mrs. Carey, "I know it. Part of my tears are grateful ones that none of you can ever recall an unloving word between your father and mother!"

"The idea," said Nancy suddenly and briefly, "is to go and live in that darling house!"

"Nancy! What for?"

"We've got to leave this place, and where could we live on less than in that tiny village? It had a beautiful white-painted academy, don't you remember, so we could go to school there, -- Kathleen and I anyway, if you could get enough money to keep Gilly at Eastover."

"Of course I've thought of the country, but that far-away spot never occurred to me. What was its quaint little name, -- Mizpah or Shiloh or Deborah or something like that?"

"It was Beulah," said Nancy; "and father thought it exactly matched the place!"

"We even named the house," recalled Mother Carey with a tearful smile. "There were vegetables growing behind it, and flowers in front, and your father suggested Garden Fore-and-Aft and I chose Happy Half-Acre, but father thought the fields that stretched back of the vegetable garden might belong to the place, and if so there would be far more than a half-acre of land."

"And do you remember father said he wished we could do something to thank the house for our happy hour, and I thought of the little box of plants we had bought at a wayside nursery?"

"Oh! I do indeed! I hadn't thought of it for years! Father and you planted a tiny crimson rambler at the corner of the piazza at the side."

"Do you suppose it ever 'rambled,' Muddy? Because it would be ever so high now, and full of roses in summer."

"I wonder!" mused Mother Carey. "Oh! it was a sweet, tranquil, restful place! I wonder how we could find out about it? It seems impossible that it should not have been rented or sold before this. Let me see, that was five years ago."

"There was a nice old gentleman farther down the street, quite in the village, somebody who had known father when he was a boy."

"So there was; he had a quaint little law office not much larger than Peter's playhouse. Perhaps we could find him. He was very, very old. He may not be alive, and I cannot remember his name."

"Father called him 'Colonel,' I know that. Oh, how I wish dear Addy was here to help us!"

"If he were he would want to help us too much! We must learn to bear our own burdens. They won't seem so strange and heavy when we are more used to them. Now go to bed, dear. We'll think of Beulah, you and I; and perhaps, as we have been all adrift, waiting for a wind to stir our sails, 'Nancy's idea' will be the thing to start us on our new voyage. Beulah means land of promise; -- that's a good omen!"

"And father found Beulah; and father found the house, and father blessed it and loved it and named it; that makes ever so many more good omens, more than enough to start housekeeping on," Nancy answered, kissing her mother goodnight.



VII

"Old Beasts Into New"


Mother Carey went to sleep that night in greater peace than she had felt for months. It had seemed to her, all these last sad weeks, as though she and her brood had been breasting stormy waters with no harbor in sight. There were friends in plenty here and there, but no kith and kin, and the problems to be settled were graver and more complex than ordinary friendship could untangle, vexed as it always was by its own problems. She had but one keen desire: to go to some quiet place where temptations for spending money would be as few as possible, and there live for three or four years, putting her heart and mind and soul on fitting the children for life. If she could keep strength enough to guide and guard, train and develop them into happy, useful, agreeable human beings, -- masters of their own powers; wise and discreet enough, when years of discretion were reached, to choose right paths, -- that, she conceived, was her chief task in life, and no easy one. "Happy I must contrive that they shall be," she thought, "for unhappiness and discontent are among the foxes that spoil the vines. Stupid they shall not be, while I can think of any force to stir their brains; they have ordinary intelligence, all of them, and they shall learn to use it; dull and sleepy children I can't abide. Fairly good they will be, if they are busy and happy, and clever enough to see the folly of being anything but good! And so, month after month, for many years to come, I must be helping Nancy and Kathleen to be the right sort of women, and wives, and mothers, and Gilbert and Peter the proper kind of men, and husbands, and fathers. Mother Carey's chickens must be able to show the good birds the way home, as the Admiral said, and I should think they ought to be able to set a few bad birds on the right track now and then!"

Well, all this would be a task to frighten and stagger many a person, but it only kindled Mrs. Carey's love and courage to a white heat.

Do you remember where Kingsley's redoubtable Tom the Water Baby swims past Shiny Wall, and reaches at last Peacepool? Peacepool, where the good whales lie, waiting till Mother Carey shall send for them "to make them out of old beasts into new"?

Tom swims up to the nearest whale and asks the way to Mother Carey.

"There she is in the middle," says the whale, though Tom sees nothing but a glittering white peak like an iceberg. "That's Mother Carey," spouts the whale, "as you will find if you get to her. There she sits making old beasts into new all the year round."

"How does she do that?" asks Tom.

"That's her concern, not mine!" the whale remarks discreetly.

And when Tom came nearer to the white glittering peak it took the form of something like a lovely woman sitting on a white marble throne. And from the foot of the throne, you remember, there swam away, out and out into the sea, millions of new-born creatures of more shapes and colors than man ever dreamed. And they were Mother Carey's children whom she makes all day long.

Tom expected, -- I am still telling you what happened to the famous water baby, -- Tom expected (like some grown people who ought to know better) that he would find Mother Carey snipping, piecing, fitting, stitching, cobbling, basting, filing, planing, hammering, turning, polishing, moulding, measuring, chiselling, clipping, and so forth, as men do when they go to work to make anything. But instead of that she sat quite still with her chin upon her hand, looking down into the sea with two great blue eyes as blue as the sea itself. (As blue as our own mother's blue velvet bonnet, Kitty would have said.)

Was Beulah the right place, wondered Mrs. Carey as she dropped asleep. And all night long she heard in dreams the voice of that shining little river that ran under the bridge near Beulah village; and all night long she walked in fields of buttercups and daisies, and saw the June breeze blow the tall grasses. She entered the yellow painted house and put the children to bed in the different rooms, and the instant she saw them sleeping there it became home, and her heart put out little roots that were like tendrils; but they grew so fast that by morning they held the yellow house fast and refused to let it go.

She looked from its windows onto the gardens "fore and aft," and they seemed, like the rest of little Beulah village, full of sweet promise. In the back were all sorts of good things to eat growing in profusion, but modestly out of sight; and in front, where passers-by could see their beauty and sniff their fragrance, old-fashioned posies bloomed and rioted and tossed gay, perfumed heads in the sunshine.

She awoke refreshed and strong and brave, not the same woman who took Nancy's idea to bed with her; for this woman's heart and hope had somehow flown from the brick house in Charlestown and had built itself a new nest in Beulah's green trees, the elms and willows that overhung the shining river.

An idea of her own ran out and met Nancy's half way. Instead of going herself to spy out the land of Beulah, why not send Gilbert? It was a short, inexpensive railway journey, with no change of cars. Gilbert was nearly fourteen, and thus far seemed to have no notion of life as a difficult enterprise. No mother who respects her boy, or respects herself, can ask him flatly, "Do you intend to grow up with the idea of taking care of me; of having an eye to your sisters; or do you consider that, since I brought you into the world, I must provide both for myself and you until you are a man, -- or forever and a day after, if you feel inclined to shirk your part in the affair?"

Gilbert talked of his college course as confidently as he had before his father's death. It was Nancy who as the eldest seemed the head of the family, but Gilbert, only a year or so her junior, ought to grow into the head, somehow or other. The way to begin would be to give him a few delightful responsibilities, such as would appeal to his pride and sense of importance, and gradually to mingle with them certain duties of headship neither so simple nor so agreeable. Beulah would be a delightful beginning. Nancy the Pathfinder would have packed a bag and gone to Beulah on an hour's notice; found the real-estate dealer, in case there was such a metropolitan article in the village; looked up her father's old friend the Colonel with the forgotten surname; discovered the owner of the charming house, rented it, and brought back the key in triumph! But Nancy was a girl rich in courage and enterprise, while Gilbert's manliness and leadership and discretion and consideration for others needed a vigorous, decisive, continued push.

If Nancy's idea was good, Mother Carey's idea matched it! To see Gilbert, valise in hand, eight dollars in pocket, leaving Charlestown on a Friday noon after school, was equal to watching Columbus depart for an unknown land. Thrilling is the only word that will properly describe it, and the group that followed his departure from the upper windows used it freely and generously. He had gone gayly downstairs and Nancy flung after him a small packet in an envelope, just as he reached the door.

"There's a photograph of your mother and sisters!" she called. "In case the owner refuses to rent the house to you, just show him the rest of the family! And don't forget to say that the rent is exorbitant, whatever it is!"

They watched him go jauntily down the street, Mother Carey with special pride in her eyes. He had on his second best suit, and it looked well on his straight slim figure. He had a gallant air, had Gilbert, and one could not truly say it was surface gallantry either; it simply did not, at present, go very deep. "No one could call him anything but a fine boy," thought the mother, "and surely the outside is a key to what is within! -- His firm chin, his erect head, his bright eye, his quick tread, his air of alert self-reliance, -- surely here is enough, for any mother to build on!"



VIII

The Knight Of Beulah Castle


Nancy's flushed face was glued to the window-pane until Gilbert turned the corner. He looked back, took off his cap, threw a kiss to them, and was out of sight!

"Oh! how I wish I could have gone!" cried Nancy. "I hope he won't forget what he went for! I hope he won't take 'No' for an answer. Oh! why wasn't I a boy!"

Mrs. Carey laughed as she turned from the window.

"It will be a great adventure for the man of the house, Nancy, so never mind. What would the Pathfinder have done if she had gone, instead of her brother?"

"I? Oh! Millions of things!" said Nancy, pacing the sitting-room floor, her head bent a little, her hands behind her back. "I should be going to the new railway station in Boston now, and presently I should be at the little grated window asking for a return ticket to Greentown station. 'Four ten,' the man would say, and I would fling my whole eight dollars in front of the wicket to show him what manner of person I was.

"Then I would pick up the naught-from-naught-is-naught, one-from-ten-is-nine, five-from-eight-is-three, -- three dollars and ninety cents or thereabouts and turn away.

"'Parlor car seat, Miss?' the young man would say, -- a warm, worried young man in a seersucker coat, and I would answer, 'No thank you; I always go in the common car to study human nature.' That's what the Admiral says, but of course the ticket man couldn't know that the Admiral is an intimate friend of mine, and would think I said it myself.

"Then I would go down the platform and take the common car for Greentown. Soon we would be off and I would ask the conductor if Greentown was the station where one could change and drive to Beulah, darling little Beulah, shiny-rivered Beulah; not breathing a word about the yellow house for fear he would jump off the train and rent it first. Then he would say he never heard of Beulah. I would look pityingly at him, but make no reply because it would be no use, and anyway I know Greentown is the changing place, because I've asked three men before; but Cousin Ann always likes to make conductors acknowledge they don't know as much as she does.

"Then I present a few peanuts or peppermints to a small boy, and hold an infant for a tired mother, because this is what good children do in the Sunday-school books, but I do not mingle much with the passengers because my brow is furrowed with thought and I am travelling on important business."

You can well imagine that by this time Mother Carey has taken out her darning, and Kathleen her oversewing, to which she pays little attention because she so adores Nancy's tales. Peter has sat like a small statue ever since his quick ear caught the sound of a story. His eyes follow Nancy as she walks up and down improvising, and the only interruption she ever receives from her audience is Kathleen's or Mother Carey's occasional laugh at some especially ridiculous sentence.

"The hours fly by like minutes," continues Nancy, stopping by the side window and twirling the curtain tassel absently. "I scan the surrounding country to see if anything compares with Beulah, and nothing does. No such river, no such trees, no such well, no such old oaken bucket, and above all no such Yellow House. All the other houses I see are but as huts compared with the Yellow House of Beulah. Soon the car door opens; a brakeman looks in and calls in a rich baritone voice, 'Greentown! Greentown! Do-not-leave-any-passles in the car!' And if you know beforehand what he is going to say you can understand him quite nicely, so I take up my bag and go down the aisle with dignity. 'Step lively, Miss!' cries the brakeman, but I do not heed him; it is not likely that a person renting country houses will move save with majesty. Alighting, I inquire if there is any conveyance for Beulah, and there is, a wagon and a white horse. I ask the driver boldly to drive me to the Colonel's office. He does not ask which Colonel, or what Colonel, he simply says, 'Colonel Foster, I s'pose,' and I say, 'Certainly.' We arrive at the office and when I introduce myself as Captain Carey's daughter I receive a glad welcome. The Colonel rings a bell and an aged beldame approaches, making a deep curtsy and offering me a beaker of milk, a crusty loaf, a few venison pasties, and a cold goose stuffed with humming birds. When I have reduced these to nothingness I ask if the yellow house on the outskirts of the village is still vacant, and the Colonel replies that it is, at which unexpected but hoped-for answer I fall into a deep swoon. When I awake the aged Colonel is bending over me, his long white goat's beard tickling my chin."

(Mother Carey stops her darning now and Kathleen makes no pretence of sewing; the story is fast approaching its climax, -- everybody feels that, including Peter, who hopes that he will be in it, in some guise or other, before it ends.)

"'Art thou married, lady?' the aged one asks courteously, 'and if not, wilt thou be mine?'"

"I tremble, because he does not seem to notice that he is eighty or ninety and I but fifteen, yet I fear if I reject him too scornfully and speedily the Yellow House will never be mine. 'Grant me a little time in which to fit myself for this great honor,' I say modestly, and a mighty good idea, too, that I got out of a book the other day; when suddenly, as I gaze upward, my suitor's white hair turns to brown, his beard drops off, his wrinkles disappear, and he stands before me a young Knight, in full armor. 'Wilt go to the yellow castle with me, sweet lady?' he asks. 'Wilt I!' I cry in ecstasy, and we leap on the back of a charger hitched to the Colonel's horseblock. We dash down the avenue of elms and maples that line the village street, and we are at our journey's end before the Knight has had time to explain to me that he was changed into the guise of an old man by an evil sorcerer some years before, and could never return to his own person until some one appeared who wished to live in the yellow house, which is Beulah Castle.

"We approach the well-known spot and the little picket gate, and the Knight lifts me from the charger's back. 'Here are house and lands, and all are yours, sweet lady, if you have a younger brother. There is treasure hidden in the ground behind the castle, and no one ever finds such things save younger brothers.'

"'I have a younger brother,' I cry, 'and his name is Peter!'"

At this point in Nancy's chronicle Peter is nearly beside himself with excitement. He has been sitting on his hassock, his hands outspread upon his fat knees, his lips parted, his eyes shining. Somewhere, sometime, in Nancy's stories there is always a Peter. He lives for that moment!

Nancy, stifling her laughter, goes on rapidly:

"And so the Knight summons Younger Brother Peter to come, and he flies in a great air ship from Charlestown to Beulah. And when he arrives the Knight asks him to dig for the buried treasure."

(Peter here turns up his sleeves to his dimpled elbows and seizes an imaginary implement.)

"Peter goes to the back of the castle, and there is a beautiful garden filled with corn and beans and peas and lettuce and potatoes and beets and onions and turnips and carrots and parsnips and tomatoes and cabbages. He takes his magic spade and it leads him to the cabbages. He digs and digs, and in a moment the spade strikes metal!

"'He has found the gold!' cries the Knight, and Peter speedily lifts from the ground pots and pots of ducats and florins, and gulden and doubloons."

(Peter nods his head at the mention of each precious coin and then claps his hands, and hugs himself with joy, and rocks himself to and fro on the hassock, in his ecstasy at being the little god in the machine.)

"Then down the village street there is the sound of hurrying horses' feet, and in a twinkling a gayly painted chariot comes into view, and in it are sitting the Queen Mother and the Crown Prince and Princess of the House of Carey. They alight; Peter meets them at the gate, a pot of gold in each hand. They enter the castle and put their umbrellas in one corner of the front hall and their rubbers in the other one, behind the door. Lady Nancibel trips up the steps after them and, turning, says graciously to her Knight, 'Would you just as soon marry somebody else? I am very much attached to my family, and they will need me dreadfully while they are getting settled.'

"'I did not recall the fact that I had asked you to be mine,' courteously answers the youth.

"'You did,' she responds, very much embarrassed, as she supposed of course he would remember his offer made when he was an old man with a goat's beard; 'but gladly will I forget all, if you will relinquish my hand.'

"'As you please!' answers the Knight generously. 'I can deny you nothing when I remember you have brought me back my youth. Prithee, is the other lady bespoke, she of the golden hair?'

"'Many have asked, but I have chosen none,' answers the Crown Princess Kitty modestly, as is her wont.

"'Then you will do nicely,' says the Knight, 'since all I wish is to be son-in-law to the Queen Mother!'

"'Right you are, my hearty!' cries Prince Gilbert de Carey, 'and as we much do need a hand at the silver-polishing I will gladly give my sister in marriage!'

"So they all went into Beulah Castle and locked the door behind them, and there they lived in great happiness and comfort all the days of their lives, and there they died when it came their time, and they were all buried by the shores of the shining river of Beulah!"

"Oh! it is perfectly splendid!" cried Kathleen. "About the best one you ever told! But do change the end a bit, Nancy dear! It's dreadful for him to marry Kitty when he chose Nancibel first. I'd like him awfully, but I don't want to take him that way!"

"Well, how would this do?" and Nancy pondered a moment before going on: "'Right you are, my hearty!' cries Prince Gilbert de Carey, 'and as we do need a hand at the silver-polishing I will gladly give my sister in marriage.'

"'Hold!' cries the Queen Mother. 'All is not as it should be in this coil! How can you tell,' she says, turning to the knightly stranger, 'that memory will not awake one day, and you recall the adoration you felt when you first beheld the Lady Nancibel in a deep swoon?'

"The Young Knight's eyes took on a far-away look and he put his hand to his forehead.

"'It comes back to me now!' he sighed. 'I did love the Lady Nancibel passionately, and I cannot think how it slipped my mind!'

"'I release you willingly!' exclaimed the Crown Princess Kitty haughtily, 'for a million suitors await my nod, and thou wert never really mine!'

"'But the other lady rejects me also!' responds the luckless youth, the tears flowing from his eagle eyes onto his crimson mantle.

"'Wilt delay the nuptials until I am eighteen and the castle is set in order?' asks the Lady Nancibel relentingly.

"'Since it must be, I do pledge thee my vow to wait,' says the Knight. 'And I do beg the fair one with the golden locks to consider the claims of my brother, not my equal perhaps, but still a gallant youth.'

"'I will enter him on my waiting list as number Three Hundred and Seventeen,' responds the Crown Princess Kitty, than whom no violet could be more shy. ''Tis all he can expect and more than I should promise.'

"So they all lived in the yellow castle in great happiness forever after, and were buried by the shores of the shining river of Beulah! -- Does that suit you better?"

"Simply lovely!" cried Kitty, "and the bit about my modesty is too funny for words! -- Oh, if some of it would only happen! But I am afraid Gilbert will not stir up any fairy stories and set them going."

"Some of it will happen!" exclaimed Peter. "I shall dig every single day till I find the gold-pots."

"You are a pot of gold yourself, filled full and running over!"

"Now, Nancy, run and write down your fairy tale while you remember it!" said Mother Carey.

"It is as good an exercise as any other, and you still tell a story far better than you write it!"

Nancy did this sort of improvising every now and then, and had done it from earliest childhood; and sometimes, of late, Mother Carey looked at her eldest chicken and wondered if after all she had hatched in her a bird of brighter plumage or rarer song than the rest, or a young eagle whose strong wings would bear her to a higher flight!



IX

Gilbert's Embassy


The new station had just been built in Boston, and it seemed a great enterprise to Gilbert to be threading his way through the enormous spaces, getting his information by his own wits and not asking questions like a stupid schoolboy. Like all children of naval officers, the Careys had travelled ever since their birth; still, this was Gilbert's first journey alone, and nobody was ever more conscious of the situation, nor more anxious to carry it off effectively.

He entered the car, opened his bag, took out his travelling cap and his copy of "Ben Hur," then threw the bag in a lordly way into the brass rack above the seat. He opened his book, but immediately became interested in a young couple just in front of him. They were carefully dressed, even to details of hats and gloves, and they had an unmistakable air of wedding journey about them that interested the curious boy.

Presently the conductor came in. Pausing in front of the groom he said, "Tickets, please"; then: "You're on the wrong train!" "Wrong train? Of course I'm not on the wrong train! You must be mistaken! The ticket agent told me to take this train."

"Can't help that, sir, this train don't go to Lawrence."

"It's very curious. I asked the brakeman, and two porters. Ain't this the 3.05?"

"This is the 3.05."

"Where does it go, then?"

"Goes to Lowell. Lowell the first stop."

"But I don't want to go to Lowell!"

"What's the matter with Lowell? It's a good place all right!"

"But I have an appointment in Lawrence at four o'clock."

"I'm dretful sorry, but you'll have to keep it in Lowell, I guess! -- Tickets, please!" this to a pretty girl on the opposite side from Gilbert, a pink and white, unsophisticated maiden, very much interested in the woes of the bride and groom and entirely sympathetic with the groom's helpless wrath.

"On the wrong train, Miss!" said the conductor.

"On the wrong train?" She spoke in a tone of anguish, getting up and catching her valise frantically. "It can't be the wrong train! Isn't it the White Mountain train?"

"Yes, Miss, but it don't go to North Conway; it goes to Fabyan's."

"But my father put me on this train and everybody said it was the White Mountain train!"

"So it is, Miss, but if you wanted to stop at North Conway you'd ought to have taken the 3.55, platform 8."

"Put me off, then, please, and let me wait for the 3.55."

"Can't do it, Miss; this is an express train; only stops at Lowell, where this gentleman is going!"

(Here the conductor gave a sportive wink at the bridegroom who had an appointment in Lawrence.)

The pretty girl burst into a flood of tears and turned her face despairingly to the window, while the bride talked to the groom excitedly about what they ought to have done and what they would have done had she been consulted.

Gilbert could hardly conceal his enjoyment of the situation, and indeed everybody within hearing -- that is, anybody who chanced to be on the right train -- looked at the bride and groom and the pretty girl, and tittered audibly.

"Why don't people make inquiries?" thought Gilbert superciliously. "Perhaps they have never been anywhere before, but even that's no excuse."

He handed his ticket to the conductor with a broad smile, saying in an undertone, "What kind of passengers are we carrying this afternoon?"

"The usual kind, I guess! -- You're on the wrong train, sonny!"

Gilbert almost leaped into the air, and committed himself by making a motion to reach down his valise.

"I, on the wrong train?" he asked haughtily. "That can't be so; the ticket agent told me the 3.05 was the only fast train to Greentown!"

"Mebbe he thought you said Greenville; this train goes to Greenville, if that'll do you! Folks ain't used to the new station yet, and the ticket agents are all bran' new too, -- guess you got hold of a tenderfoot!"

"But Greenville will not 'do' for me," exclaimed Gilbert. "I want to go to Greentown."

"Well, get off at Lowell, the first stop, -- you'll know when you come to it because this gentleman that wanted to go to Lawrence will get off there, and this young lady that was intendin' to go to North Conway. There'll be four of you; jest a nice party."

Gilbert choked with wrath as he saw the mirth of the other passengers.

"What train shall I be able to take to Greentown," he managed to call after the conductor.

"Don't know, sonny! Ask the ticket agent in the Lowell deepot; he's an old hand and he'll know!"

Gilbert's pride was terribly wounded, but his spirits rose a little later when he found that he would only have to wait twenty minutes in the Lowell station before a slow train for Greentown would pick him up, and that he should still reach his destination before bedtime, and need never disclose his stupidity.

After all, this proved to be his only error, for everything moved smoothly from that moment, and he was as prudent and successful an ambassador as Mother Carey could have chosen. He found the Colonel, whose name was not Foster, by the way, but Wheeler; and the Colonel would not allow him to go to the Mansion House, Beulah's one small hotel, but insisted that he should be his guest. That evening he heard from the Colonel the history of the yellow house, and the next morning the Colonel drove him to the store of the man who had charge of it during the owner's absence in Europe, after which Gilbert was conducted in due form to the premises for a critical examination.

The Yellow House, as Garden Fore-and-Aft seemed destined to be chiefly called, was indeed the only house of that color for ten miles square. It had belonged to the various branches of a certain family of Hamiltons for fifty years or more, but in course of time, when it fell into the hands of the Lemuel Hamiltons, it had no sort of relation to their mode of existence. One summer, a year or two before the Careys had seen it, the sons and daughters had come on from Boston and begged their father to let them put it in such order that they could take house parties of young people there for the week end. Mr. Hamilton indulgently allowed them a certain amount to be expended as they wished, and with the help of a local carpenter, they succeeded in doing several things to their own complete satisfaction, though it could not be said that they added to the value of the property. The house they regarded merely as a camping-out place, and after they had painted some bedroom floors, set up some cots, bought a kitchen stove and some pine tables and chairs, they regarded that part of the difficulty as solved; expending the rest of the money in turning the dilapidated barn into a place where they could hold high revels of various innocent sorts. The two freshman sons, two boarding-school daughters, and a married sister barely old enough to chaperon her own baby, brought parties of gay young friends with them several weeks in succession. These excursions were a great delight to the villagers, who thus enjoyed all the pleasures and excitements of a circus with none of its attendant expenses. They were of short duration, however, for Lemuel Hamilton was appointed consul to a foreign port and took his wife and daughters with him. The married sister died, and in course of time one of the sons went to China to learn tea-planting and the other established himself on a ranch in Texas. Thus the Lemuel Hamiltons were scattered far and wide, and as the Yellow House in Beulah had small value as real estate and had never played any part in their lives, it was almost forgotten as the busy years went by.

"Mr. Hamilton told me four years ago, when I went up to Boston to meet him, that if I could get any rent from respectable parties I might let the house, though he wouldn't lay out a cent on repairs in order to get a tenant. But, land! there ain't no call for houses in Beulah, nor hain't been for twenty years," so Bill Harmon, the storekeeper, told Gilbert. "The house has got a tight roof and good underpinnin', and if your folks feel like payin' out a little money for paint 'n' paper you can fix it up neat's a pin. The Hamilton boys jest raised Cain out in the barn, so 't you can't keep no critters there."

"We couldn't have a horse or a cow anyway," said Gilbert.

"Well, it's lucky you can't. I could 'a' rented the house twice over if there'd been any barn room; but them confounded young scalawags ripped out the horse and cow stalls, cleared away the pig pen, and laid a floor they could dance on. The barn chamber 's full o' their stuff, so 't no hay can go in; altogether there ain't any nameable kind of a fool-trick them young varmints didn't play on these premises. When a farmer's lookin' for a home for his family and stock 't ain't no use to show him a dance hall. The only dancin' a Maine farmer ever does is dancin' round to git his livin' out o' the earth; -- that keeps his feet flyin', fast enough."

"Well," said Gilbert, "I think if you can put the rent cheap enough so that we could make the necessary repairs, I think my mother would consider it."

"Would you want it for more 'n this summer?" asked Mr. Harmon.

"Oh! yes, we want to live here!"

"Want to live here!" exclaimed the astonished Harmon. "Well, it's been a long time sence we heard anybody say that, eh, Colonel?

"Well now, sonny" (Gilbert did wish that respect for budding manhood could be stretched a little further in this locality), "I tell you what, I ain't goin' to stick no fancy price on these premises -- "

"It wouldn't be any use," said Gilbert boldly. "My father has died within a year; there are four of us beside my mother, and there's a cousin, too, who is dependent on us. We have nothing but a small pension and the interest on five thousand dollars life insurance. Mother says we must go away from all our friends, live cheaply, and do our own work until Nancy, Kitty, and I grow old enough to earn something."

Colonel Wheeler and Mr. Harmon both liked Gilbert Carey at sight, and as he stood there uttering his boyish confidences with great friendliness and complete candor, both men would have been glad to meet him halfway.

"Well, Harmon, it seems to me we shall get some good neighbors if we can make terms with Mrs. Carey," said the Colonel. "If you'll fix a reasonable figure I'll undertake to write to Hamilton and interest him in the affair."

"All right. Now, Colonel, I'd like to make a proposition right on the spot, before you, and you can advise sonny, here. You see Lem has got his taxes to pay, -- they're small, of course, but they're an expense, -- and he'd ought to carry a little insurance on his buildings, tho' he ain't had any up to now. On the other hand, if he can get a tenant that'll put on a few shingles and clapboards now and then, or a coat o' paint 'n' a roll o' wall paper, his premises won't go to rack 'n' ruin same's they're in danger o' doin' at the present time. Now, sonny, would your mother feel like keepin' up things a little mite if we should say sixty dollars a year rent, payable monthly or quarterly as is convenient?"

Gilbert's head swam and his eyes beheld such myriads of stars that he felt it must be night instead of day. The rent of the Charlestown house was seven hundred dollars a year, and the last words of his mother had been to the effect that two hundred was the limit he must offer for the yellow house, as she did not see clearly at the moment how they could afford even that sum.

"What would be your advice, Colonel?" stammered the boy.

"I think sixty dollars is not exorbitant," the Colonel answered calmly (he had seen Beulah real estate fall a peg a year for twenty successive years), "though naturally you cannot pay that sum and make any extravagant repairs."

"Then I will take the house," Gilbert remarked largely. "My mother left the matter of rent to my judgment, and we will pay promptly in advance. Shall I sign any papers?"

"Land o' Goshen! the marks your little fist would make on a paper wouldn't cut much of a figure in a court o' law!" chuckled old Harmon. "You jest let the Colonel fix up matters with your ma."

"Can I walk back, Colonel?" asked Gilbert, trying to preserve some dignity under the storekeeper's attacks. "I'd like to take some measurements and make some sketches of the rooms for my mother."

"All right," the Colonel responded. "Your train doesn't go till two o'clock. I'll give you a bite of lunch and take you to the station."


If Mother Carey had watched Gilbert during the next half-hour she would have been gratified, for every moment of the time he grew more and more into the likeness of the head of a family. He looked at the cellar, at the shed, at the closets and cupboards all over the house, and at the fireplaces. He "paced off" all the rooms and set down their proportions in his note-book; he even decided as to who should occupy each room, and for what purposes they should be used, his judgment in every case being thought ridiculous by the feminine portion of his family when they looked at his plans. Then he locked the doors carefully with a fine sense of ownership and strolled away with many a backward look and thought at the yellow house.

At the station he sent a telegram to his mother. Nancy had secretly given him thirty-five cents when he left home. "I am hoarding for the Admiral's Christmas present," she whispered, "but it's no use, I cannot endure the suspense about the house a moment longer than is necessary. Just telegraph us yes or no, and we shall get the news four hours before your train arrives. One can die several times in four hours, and I'm going to commit one last extravagance, -- at the Admiral's expense!"

At three o'clock on Saturday afternoon a telegraph boy came through the gate and rang the front door bell.

"You go, Kitty, I haven't the courage!" said Nancy, sitting down on the sofa heavily. A moment later the two girls and Peter (who for once didn't count) gazed at their mother breathlessly as she opened the envelope. Her face lighted as she read aloud: -- 


"Victory perches on my banners. Have accomplished all I went for. GILBERT."

"Hurrah!" cried both girls. "The yellow house is the House of Carey forevermore."

"Will Peter go too?" asked the youngest Carey eagerly, his nose quivering as it always did in excitement, when it became an animated question point.

"I should think he would," exclaimed Kitty, clasping him in her arms. "What would the yellow house be without Peter?"

"I wish Gilbert wouldn't talk about his banners," said Nancy critically, as she looked at the telegram over her mother's shoulder. "They're not his banners at all, they're ours, -- Carey banners; that's what they are!"

Mother Carey had wished the same thing, but hoped that Nancy had not noticed the Gilbertian flaw in the telegram.



X

The Careys' Flitting


The Charlestown house was now put immediately into the hands of several agents, for Mrs. Carey's lease had still four years to run and she was naturally anxious to escape from this financial responsibility as soon as possible. As a matter of fact only three days elapsed before she obtained a tenant, and the agent had easily secured an advance of a hundred dollars a year to the good, as Captain Carey had obtained a very favorable figure when he took the house.

It was the beginning of April, and letters from Colonel Wheeler had already asked instructions about having the vegetable garden ploughed. It was finally decided that the girls should leave their spring term of school unfinished, and that the family should move to Beulah during Gilbert's Easter vacation.

Mother Carey gave due reflection to the interrupted studies, but concluded that for two girls like Nancy and Kathleen the making of a new home would be more instructive and inspiring, and more fruitful in its results, than weeks of book learning.

Youth delights in change, in the prospect of new scenes and fresh adventures, and as it is never troubled by any doubts as to the wisdom of its plans, the Carey children were full of vigor and energy just now. Charlestown, the old house, the daily life, all had grown sad and dreary to them since father had gone. Everything spoke of him. Even mother longed for something to lift her thought out of the past and give it wings, so that it might fly into the future and find some hope and comfort there. There was a continual bustle from morning till night, and a spirit of merriment that had long been absent.

The Scotch have a much prettier word than we for all this, and what we term moving they call "flitting." The word is not only prettier, but in this instance more appropriate. It was such a buoyant, youthful affair, this Carey flitting. Light forms darted up and down the stairs and past the windows, appearing now at the back, now at the front of the house, with a picture, or a postage stamp, or a dish, or a penwiper, or a pillow, or a basket, or a spool. The chorus of "Where shall we put this, Muddy?" "Where will this go?" "May we throw this away?" would have distracted a less patient parent. When Gilbert returned from school at four, the air was filled with sounds of hammering and sawing and filing, screwing and unscrewing, and it was joy unspeakable to be obliged (or at least almost obliged) to call in clarion tones to one another, across the din and fanfare, and to compel answers in a high key. Peter took a constant succession of articles to the shed, where packing was going on, but his chief treasures were deposited in a basket at the front gate, with the idea that they would be transported as his personal baggage. The pile grew and grew: a woolly lamb, two Noah's arks, bottles and marbles innumerable, a bag of pebbles, a broken steam engine, two china nest-eggs, an orange, a banana and some walnuts, a fishing line, a trowel, a ball of string. These give an idea of the quality of Peter's effects, but not of the quantity.

Ellen the cook labored loyally, for it was her last week's work with the family. She would be left behind, like Charlestown and all the old life, when Mother Carey and the stormy petrels flitted across unknown waters from one haven to another. Joanna having earlier proved utterly unromantic in her attitude, Nancy went further with Ellen and gave her an English novel called, "The Merriweathers," in which an old family servant had not only followed her employers from castle to hovel, remaining there without Wages for years, but had insisted on lending all her savings to the Mistress of the Manor. Ellen the cook had loved "The Merriweathers," saying it was about the best book that ever she had read, and Miss Nancy would like to know, always being so interested, that she (Ellen) had found a place near Joanna in Salem, where she was offered five dollars a month more than she had received with the Careys. Nancy congratulated her warmly and then, tearing "The Merriweathers" to shreds, she put them in the kitchen stove in Ellen's temporary absence. "If ever I write a book," she ejaculated, as she "stoked" the fire with Gwendolen and Reginald Merriweather, with the Mistress of the Manor, and especially with the romantic family servitor, "if ever I write a book," she repeated, with emphatic gestures, "it won't have any fibs in it; -- and I suppose it will be dull," she reflected, as she remembered how she had wept when the Merriweathers' Bridget brought her savings of a hundred pounds to her mistress in a handkerchief.

During these preparations for the flitting Nancy had a fresh idea every minute or two, and gained immense prestige in the family.

Inspired by her eldest daughter Mrs. Carey sold her grand piano, getting an old-fashioned square one and a hundred and fifty dollars in exchange. It had been a wedding present from a good old uncle, who, if he had been still alive, would have been glad to serve his niece now that she was in difficulties.

Nancy, her sleeves rolled up, her curly hair flecked with dust and cobwebs, flew down from the attic into Kathleen's room just after supper. "I have an idea!" she said in a loud whisper.

"You mustn't have too many or we shan't take any interest in them," Kitty answered provokingly.

"This is for your ears alone, Kitty!"

"Oh! that's different. Tell me quickly."

"It's an idea to get rid of the Curse of the House of Carey!"

"It can't be done, Nancy; you know it can't! Even if you could think out a way, mother couldn't be made to agree."

"She must never know. I would not think of mixing up a good lovely woman like mother in such an affair!"

This was said so mysteriously that Kathleen almost suspected that bloodshed was included in Nancy's plan. It must be explained that when young Ensign Carey and Margaret Gilbert had been married, Cousin Ann Chadwick had presented them with four tall black and white marble mantel ornaments shaped like funeral urns; and then, feeling that she had not yet shown her approval of the match sufficiently, she purchased a large group of clay statuary entitled You Dirty Boy.

The Careys had moved often, like all naval families, but even when their other goods and chattels were stored, Cousin Ann generously managed to defray the expense of sending on to them the mantel ornaments and the Dirty Boy. "I know what your home is to you," she used to say to them, "and how you must miss your ornaments. If I have chanced to give you things as unwieldy as they are handsome, I ought to see that you have them around you without trouble or expense, and I will!"

So for sixteen years, save for a brief respite when the family was in the Philippines, their existence was blighted by these hated objects. Once when they had given an especially beautiful party for the Admiral, Captain Carey had carried the whole lot to the attic, but Cousin Ann arrived unexpectedly in the middle of the afternoon, and Nancy, with the aid of Gilbert and Joanna, had brought them down the back way and put them in the dining room.

"You've taken the ornaments out of the parlor, I see," Cousin Ann said at the dinner table. "It's rather nice for a change, and after all, perhaps you spend as much time in this room as in any, and entertain as much company here!"

Cousin Ann always had been, always would be, a frequent visitor, for she was devoted to the family in her own peculiar way; what therefore could Nancy be proposing to do with the Carey Curse?

"Listen, my good girl," Nancy now said to Kathleen, after she had closed the door. "Thou dost know that the china-packer comes early to-morrow morn, and that e'en now the barrels and boxes and excelsior are bestrewing the dining room?"

"Yes."

"Then you and I, who have been brought up under the shadow of those funeral urns, and have seen that tidy mother scrubbing the ears of that unwilling boy ever since we were born, -- you and I, or thou and I, perhaps I should say, will do a little private packing before the true packer arriveth."

"Still do I not see the point, wench!" said the puzzled Kathleen, trying to model her conversation on Nancy's, though she was never thoroughly successful.

"Don't call me 'wench,' because I am the mistress and you my tiring woman, but when you Watch, and assist me, at the packing, a great light will break upon you," Nancy answered "In the removal of cherished articles from Charlestown to Beulah, certain tragedies will occur, certain accidents will happen, although Cousin Ann knows that the Carey family is a well regulated one. But if there are accidents, and there will be, my good girl, then the authors of them will be forever unknown to all but thou and I. Wouldst prefer to pack this midnight or at cock crow, for packing is our task!"

"I simply hate cock crow, and you know it," said Kathleen testily. "Why not now? Ellen and Gilbert are out and mother is rocking Peter to sleep."

"Very well; come on; and step softly. It won't take long, because I have planned all in secret, well and thoroughly. Don't puff and blow like that! Mother will hear you!"

"I'm excited," whispered Kathleen as they stole down the back stairs and went into the parlor for the funeral urns, which they carried silently to the dining room. These safely deposited, they took You Dirty Boy from its abominable pedestal of Mexican onyx (also Cousin Ann's gift) and staggered under its heavyweight, their natural strength being considerably sapped by suppressed laughter.

Nancy chose an especially large and stout barrel. They put a little (very little) excelsior in the bottom, then a pair of dumb-bells, then a funeral urn, then a little hay, and another funeral urn, crosswise. The spaces between were carelessly filled in with Indian clubs. On these they painfully dropped You Dirty Boy, and on top of him the other pair of funeral urns, more dumbbells, and another Indian club. They had packed the barrel in the corner where it stood, so they simply laid the cover on top and threw a piece of sacking carelessly over it. The whole performance had been punctuated with such hysterical laughter from Kathleen that she was too weak to be of any real use, -- she simply aided and abetted the chief conspirator. The night was not as other nights. The girls kept waking up to laugh a little, then they went to sleep, and waked again, and laughed again, and so on. Nancy composed several letters to her Cousin Ann dated from Beulah and explaining the sad accident that had occurred. As she concocted these documents between her naps she could never remember in her whole life any such night of mirth and minstrelsy, and not one pang of conscience interfered, to cloud the present joy nor dim that anticipation which is even greater.

Nancy was downstairs early next morning and managed to be the one to greet the china-packers. "We filled one barrel last evening," she explained to them. "Will you please head that up before you begin work?" which one of the men obligingly did.

"We'll mark all this stuff and take it down to the station this afternoon," said the head packer to Mrs. Carey.

"Be careful with it, won't you?" she begged. "We are very fond of our glass and china, our clocks and all our little treasures."

"You won't have any breakage so long as you deal with James Perkins & Co.!" said the packer.

Nancy went back into the room for a moment to speak with the skilful, virtuous J.P. & Co. "There's no need to use any care with that corner barrel," she said carelessly. "It has nothing of value in it!"

James Perkins went home in the middle of the afternoon and left his son to finish the work, and the son tagged and labelled and painted with all his might. The Dirty Boy barrel in the corner, being separated from the others, looked to him especially important, so he gave particular attention to that; pasted on it one label marked "Fragile," one "This Side Up," two "Glass with Care," and finding several "Perishables" in his pocket tied on a few of those, and removed the entire lot of boxes, crates, and barrels to the freight depot.

The man who put the articles in the car was much interested in the Dirty Boy barrel. "You'd ought to have walked to Greentown and carried that one in your arms," he jeered. "What is the precious thing, anyway?"

"Don't you mind what it is," responded young Perkins. "Jest you keep everybody 'n' everything from teching it! Does this lot o' stuff have to be shifted 'tween here and Greentown?"

"No; not unless we git kind o' dull and turn it upside down jest for fun."

"I guess you're dull consid'able often, by the way things look when you git through carryin' 'em, on this line," said Perkins, who had no opinion of the freight department of the A.&B. The answer, though not proper to record in this place, was worthy of Perkins's opponent, who had a standing grudge against the entire race of expressmen and carters who brought him boxes and barrels to handle. It always seemed to him that if they were all out of the country or dead he would have no work to do.



XI

The Service On The Threshold


From this point on, the flitting went easily and smoothly enough, and the transportation of the Carey family itself to Greentown, on a mild budding day in April, was nothing compared to the heavy labor that had preceded it. All the goods and chattels had been despatched a week before, so that they would be on the spot well in advance, and the actual flitting took place on a Friday, so that Gilbert would have every hour of his vacation to assist in the settling process. He had accepted an invitation to visit a school friend at Easter, saying to his mother magisterially: "I didn't suppose you'd want me round the house when you were getting things to rights; men are always in the way; so I told Fred Bascom I'd go home with him."

"Home with Fred! Our only man! Sole prop of the House of Carey!" exclaimed his mother with consummate tact. "Why, Gilly dear, I shall want your advice every hour! And who will know about the planting, -- for we are only 'women folks'; and who will do all the hammering and carpenter work? You are so wonderful with tools that you'll be worth all the rest of us put together!"

"Oh, well, if you need me so much as that I'll go along, of course," said Gilbert, "but Fred said his mother and sisters always did this kind of thing by themselves."

"'By themselves,' in Fred's family," remarked Mrs. Carey, "means a butler, footman, and plenty of money for help of every sort. And though no wonder you're fond of Fred, who is so jolly and such good company, you must have noticed how selfish he is!"

"Now, mother, you've never seen Fred Bascom more than half a dozen times!"

"No; and I don't remember at all what I saw in him the last five of them, for I found out everything needful the first time he came to visit us!" returned Mrs. Carey quietly. "Still, he's a likable, agreeable sort of boy."

"And no doubt he'll succeed in destroying the pig in him before he grows up," said Nancy, passing through the room. "I thought it gobbled and snuffled a good deal when we last met!"

Colonel Wheeler was at Greentown station when the family arrived, and drove Mrs. Carey and Peter to the Yellow House himself, while the rest followed in the depot carryall, with a trail of trunks and packages following on behind in an express wagon. It was a very early season, the roads were free from mud, the trees were budding, and the young grass showed green on all the sunny slopes. When the Careys had first seen their future home they had entered the village from the west, the Yellow House being the last one on the elm-shaded street, and quite on the outskirts of Beulah itself. Now they crossed the river below the station and drove through East Beulah, over a road unknown to any of them but Gilbert, who was the hero and instructor of the party. Soon the well-remembered house came into view, and as the two vehicles had kept one behind the other there was a general cheer.

It was more beautiful even than they had remembered it; and more commodious, and more delightfully situated. The barn door was open, showing crates of furniture, and the piazza was piled high with boxes.

Bill Harmon stood in the front doorway, smiling. He hoped for trade, and he was a good sort anyway.

"I'd about given you up to-night," he called as he came to the gate. "Your train's half an hour late. I got tired o' waitin', so I made free to open up some o' your things for you to start housekeepin' with. I guess there won't be no supper here for you to-night."

"We've got it with us," said Nancy joyously, making acquaintance in an instant.

"You are forehanded, ain't you! That's right! -- jump, you little pint o' cider!" Bill said, holding out his arms to Peter. Peter, carrying many small things too valuable to trust to others, jumped, as suggested, and gave his new friend an unexpected shower of bumps from hard substances concealed about his person.

"Land o' Goshen, you're loaded, hain't you?" he inquired jocosely as he set Peter down on the ground.

The dazzling smile with which Peter greeted this supposed tribute converted Bill Harmon at once into a victim and slave. Little did he know, as he carelessly stood there at the wagon wheel, that he was destined to bestow upon that small boy offerings from his stock for years to come.

He and Colonel Wheeler were speedily lifting things from the carryall, while the Careys walked up the pathway together, thrilling with the excitement of the moment. Nancy breathed hard, flushed, and caught her mother's hand.

"O Motherdy!" she said under her breath; "it's all happening just as we dreamed it, and now that it's really here it's like -- it's like -- a dedication, -- somehow. Gilbert, don't, dear! Let mother step over the sill first and call us into the Yellow House! I'll lock the door again and give the key to her."

Mother Carey, her heart in her throat, felt anew the solemn nature of the undertaking. It broke over her in waves, fresher, stronger, now that the actual moment had arrived, than it ever had done in prospect. She took the last step upward, and standing in the doorway, trembling, said softly as she turned the key, "Come home, children! Nancy! Gilbert! Kathleen! Peter-bird!" They flocked in, all their laughter hushed by the new tone in her voice. Nancy's and Kitty's arms encircled their mother's waist. Gilbert with sudden instinct took off his hat, and Peter, looking at his elder brother wonderingly, did the same. There was a moment of silence; the kind of golden silence that is full to the brim of thoughts and prayers and memories and hopes and desires, -- so full of all these and other beautiful, quiet things that it makes speech seem poor and shabby; then Mother Carey turned, and the Yellow House was blessed. Colonel Wheeler and Bill Harmon at the gate never even suspected that there had been a little service on the threshold, when they came up the pathway to see if there was anything more needed.

"I set up all the bedsteads and got the mattresses on 'em," said Bill Harmon, "thinkin' the sandman would come early to-night."

"I never heard of anything so kind and neighborly!" cried Mrs. Carey gratefully. "I thought we should have to go somewhere else to sleep. Is it you who keeps the village store?"

"That's me!" said Bill.

"Well, if you'll be good enough to come back once more to-night with a little of everything, we'll be very much obliged. We have an oil stove, tea and coffee, tinned meats, bread and fruit; what we need most is butter, eggs, milk, and flour. Gilbert, open the box of eatables, please; and, Nancy, unlock the trunk that has the bed linen in it. We little thought we should find such friends here, did we?"

"I got your extension table into the dining-room," said Bill, "and tried my best to find your dishes, but I didn't make out, up to the time you got here. Mebbe you marked 'em someway so't you know which to unpack first? I was only findin' things that wan't no present use, as I guess you'll say when you see 'em on the dining table."

They all followed him as he threw open the door, Nancy well in the front, as I fear was generally the case. There, on the centre of the table stood You Dirty Boy rearing his crested head in triumph, and round him like the gate posts of a mausoleum stood the four black and white marble funeral urns. Perfect and entire, without a flaw, they stood there, confronting Nancy.

"It is like them to be the first to greet us!" exclaimed Mrs. Carey, with an attempt at a smile, but there was not a sound from Kathleen or Nancy. They stood rooted to the floor, gazing at the Curse of the House of Carey as if their eyes must deceive them.

"You look as though you didn't expect to see them, girls!" said their mother, "but when did they ever fail us? -- Do you know, I have a courage at this moment that I never felt before? -- Beulah is so far from Buffalo that Cousin Ann cannot visit us often, and never without warning. I should not like to offend her or hurt her feelings, but I think we'll keep You Dirty Boy and the mantel ornaments in the attic for the present, or the barn chamber. What do you say?"

Colonel Wheeler and Mr. Harmon had departed, so a shout of agreement went up from the young Careys. Nancy approached You Dirty Boy with a bloodthirsty glare in her eye.

"Come along, you evil, uncanny thing!" she said. "Take hold of his other end, Gilly, and start for the barn; that's farthest away; but it's no use; he's just like that bloodstain on Lady Macbeth's hand, -- he will not out! Kathleen, open the linen trunk while we're gone. We can't set the table till these curses are removed. When you've got the linen out, take a marble urn in each hand and trail them along to where we are. You can track us by a line of my tears!"

They found the stairs to the barn chamber, and lifted You Dirty Boy up step by step with slow, painful effort. Kathleen ran out and put two vases on the lowest step and ran back to the house for the other pair. Gilbert and Nancy stood at the top of the stairs with You Dirty Boy between them, settling where he could be easiest reached if he had to be brought down for any occasion, -- an unwelcome occasion that was certain to occur sometime in the coming years.

Suddenly they heard their names called in a tragic whisper! "Gilbert! Nancy! Quick! Cousin Ann's at the front gate!"

There was a crash! No human being, however self-contained, could have withstood the shock of that surprise; coming as it did so swiftly, so unexpectedly, and with such awful inappropriateness. Gilbert and Nancy let go of You Dirty Boy simultaneously, and he fell to the floor in two large fragments, the break occurring so happily that the mother and the washcloth were on one half, and the boy on the other, -- a situation long desired by the boy, to whom the parting was most welcome!

"She got off at the wrong station," panted Kathleen at the foot of the stairs, "and had to be driven five miles, or she would have got here as she planned, an hour before we did. She's come to help us settle, and says she was afraid mother would overdo. Did you drop anything? Hurry down, and I'll leave the vases here, in among the furniture; or shall I take back two of them to show that they were our first thought? -- And oh! I forgot. She's brought Julia! Two more to feed, and not enough beds!"

Nancy and Gilbert confronted each other.

"Hide the body in the corner, Gilly," said Nancy; "and say, Gilly -- "

"Yes, what?"

"You see he's in two pieces?"

"Yes."

"What do you say to making him four, or more?"

"I say you go downstairs ahead of me and into the house, and I follow you a moment later! Close the barn door carefully behind you! -- Am I understood?"

"You are, Gilly! understood, and gloried in, and reverenced. My spirit will be with you when you do it, Gilly dear, though I myself will be greeting Cousin Ann and Julia!"



XII

Cousin Ann


Mother Carey, not wishing to make any larger number of persons uncomfortable than necessary, had asked Julia not to come to them until after the house in Beulah had been put to rights; but the Fergusons went abroad rather unexpectedly, and Mr. Ferguson tore Julia from the arms of Gladys and put her on the train with very little formality. Her meeting Cousin Ann on the way was merely one of those unpleasant coincidences with which life is filled, although it is hardly possible, usually, for two such disagreeable persons to be on the same small spot at the same precise moment.

On the third morning after the Careys' arrival, however, matters assumed a more hopeful attitude, for Cousin Ann became discontented with Beulah. The weather had turned cold, and the fireplaces, so long unused, were uniformly smoky. Cousin Ann's stomach, always delicate, turned from tinned meats, eggs three times a day, and soda biscuits made by Bill Harmon's wife; likewise did it turn from nuts, apples, oranges, and bananas, on which the children thrived; so she went to the so-called hotel for her meals. Her remarks to the landlady after two dinners and one supper were of a character not to be endured by any outspoken, free-born New England woman.

"I keep a hotel, and I'll give you your meals for twenty-five cents apiece so long as you eat what's set before you and hold your tongue," was the irate Mrs. Buck's ultimatum. "I'll feed you," she continued passionately, "because it's my business to put up and take in anything that's respectable; but I won't take none o' your sass!"

Well, Cousin Ann's temper was up, too, by this time, and she declined on her part to take any of the landlady's "sass"; so they parted, rather to Mrs. Carey's embarrassment, as she did not wish to make enemies at the outset. That night Cousin Ann, still smarting under the memory of Mrs. Buck's snapping eyes, high color, and unbridled tongue, complained after supper that her bedstead rocked whenever she moved, and asked Gilbert if he could readjust it in some way, so that it should be as stationary as beds usually are in a normal state.

He took his tool basket and went upstairs obediently, spending fifteen or twenty minutes with the much-criticised article of furniture, which he suspected of rocking merely because it couldn't bear Cousin Ann. This idea so delighted Nancy that she was obliged to retire from Gilbert's proximity, lest the family should observe her mirth and Gilbert's and impute undue importance to it.

"I've done everything to the bedstead I can think of," Gilbert said, on coming downstairs. "You can see how it works to-night, Cousin Ann!"

As a matter of fact it did work, instead of remaining in perfect quiet as a well-bred bedstead should. When the family was sound asleep at midnight a loud crash was heard, and Cousin Ann, throwing open the door of her room, speedily informed everybody in the house that her bed had come down with her, giving her nerves a shock from which they probably would never recover.

"Gilbert is far too young for the responsibilities you put upon him, Margaret," Cousin Ann exclaimed, drawing her wrapper more closely over her tall spare figure; "and if he was as old as Methuselah he would still be careless, for he was born so! All this talk about his being skilful with tools has only swollen his vanity. A boy of his age should be able to make a bedstead stay together."

The whole family, including the crestfallen Gilbert, proposed various plans of relief, all except Nancy, who did not wish to meet Gilbert's glance for fear that she should have to suspect him of a new crime. Having embarked on a career of villainy under her direct instigation, he might go on of his own accord, indefinitely. She did not believe him guilty, but she preferred not to look into the matter more closely.

Mother Carey's eyes searched Gilbert's, but found there no confirmation of her fears.

"You needn't look at me like that, mother," said the boy. "I wouldn't be so mean as to rig up an accident for Cousin Ann, though I'd like her to have a little one every night, just for the fun of it."

Cousin Ann refused to let Gilbert try again on the bedstead, and refused part of Mrs. Carey's bed, preferring to sleep on two hair mattresses laid on her bedroom floor. "They may not be comfortable," she said tersely, "but at least they will not endanger my life."

The next morning's post brought business letters, and Cousin Ann feared she would have to leave Beulah, although there was work for a fortnight to come, right there, and Margaret had not strength enough to get through it alone.

She thought the chimneys were full of soot, and didn't believe the kitchen stove would ever draw; she was sure that there were dead toads and frogs in the well; the house was inconvenient and always would be till water was brought into the kitchen sink; Julia seemed to have no leaning towards housework and had an appetite that she could only describe as a crime, inasmuch as the wherewithal to satisfy it had to be purchased by others; the climate was damp because of the river, and there was no proper market within eight miles; Kathleen was too delicate to live in such a place, and the move from Charlestown was an utter and absolute and entire mistake from A to Z.

Then she packed her small trunk and Gilbert ran to the village on glad and winged feet to get some one to take his depressing relative to the noon train to Boston. As for Nancy, she stood in front of the parlor fireplace, and when she heard the hoot of the engine in the distance she removed the four mortuary vases from the mantelpiece and took them to the attic, while Gilbert from the upper hall was chanting a favorite old rhyme: -- 

"She called us names till she was tired, She called us names till we perspired, She called us names we never could spell, She called us names we never may tell.

"She called us names that made us laugh, She called us names for a day and a half, She called us names till her memory failed, But finally out of our sight she sailed."

"It must have been written about Cousin Ann in the first place," said Nancy, joining Kathleen in the kitchen. "Well, she's gone at last!

"Now every prospect pleases, And only Julia's vile,"

she paraphrased from the old hymn, into Kathleen's private ear.

"You oughtn't to say such things, Nancy," rebuked Kathleen. "Mother wouldn't like it."

"I know it," confessed Nancy remorsefully. "I have been wicked since the moment I tried to get rid of You Dirty Boy. I don't know what's the matter with me. My blood seems to be too red, and it courses wildly through my veins, as the books say. I am going to turn over a new leaf, now that Cousin Ann's gone and our only cross is Julia!"

Oh! but it is rather dreadful to think how one person can spoil the world! If only you could have seen the Yellow House after Cousin Ana went! If only you could have heard the hotel landlady exclaim as she drove past: "Well! Good riddance to bad rubbish!" The weather grew warmer outside almost at once, and Bill Harmon's son planted the garden. The fireplaces ceased to smoke and the kitchen stove drew. Colonel Wheeler suggested a new chain pump instead of the old wooden one, after which the water took a turn for the better, and before the month was ended the Yellow House began to look like home, notwithstanding Julia.

As for Beulah village, after its sleep of months under deep snow-drifts it had waked into the adorable beauty of an early New England summer. It had no snow-capped mountains in the distance; no amethyst foothills to enchain the eye; no wonderful canyons and splendid rocky passes to make the tourist marvel; no length of yellow sea sands nor plash of ocean surf; no trade, no amusements, no summer visitors; -- it was just a quiet, little, sunny, verdant, leafy piece of heart's content, that's what Beulah was, and Julia couldn't spoil it; indeed, the odds were, that it would sweeten Julia! That was what Mother Carey hoped when her heart had an hour's leisure to drift beyond Shiny Wall into Peacepool and consider the needs of her five children. It was generally at twilight, when she was getting Peter to sleep, that she was busiest making "old beasts into new."

"People fancy that I make things, my little dear," says Mother Carey to Tom the Water Baby, "but I sit here and make them make themselves!"

There was once a fairy, so the tale goes, who was so clever that she found out how to make butterflies, and she was so proud that she flew straight off to Peacepool to boast to Mother Carey of her skill.

But Mother Carey laughed.

"Know, silly child," she said, "that any one can make things if he will take time and trouble enough, but it is not every one who can make things make themselves."

"Make things make themselves!" Mother Carey used to think in the twilight. "I suppose that is what mothers are for!"

Nancy was making herself busily these days, and the offending Julia was directly responsible for such self-control and gains in general virtue as poor impetuous Nancy achieved. Kathleen was growing stronger and steadier and less self-conscious. Gilbert was doing better at school, and his letters showed more consideration and thought for the family than they had done heretofore. Even the Peter-bird was a little sweeter and more self-helpful just now, thought Mother Carey fondly, as she rocked him to sleep. He was worn out with following Natty Harmon at the plough, and succumbed quickly to the music of her good-night song and the comfort of her sheltering arms. Mother Carey had arms to carry, arms to enfold, arms to comfort and caress. She also had a fine, handsome, strong hand admirable for spanking, but she had so many invisible methods of discipline at her command that she never needed a visible spanker for Peter. "Spanking is all very well in its poor way," she used to say, "but a woman who has to fall back on it very often is sadly lacking in ingenuity."

As she lifted Peter into his crib Nancy came softly in at the door with a slip of paper in her hand.

She drew her mother out to the window over the front door. "Listen," she said. "Do you hear the frogs?"

"I've been listening to them for the last half-hour," her mother said. "Isn't everything sweet to-night, with the soft air and the elms all feathered out, and the new moon!"

"Was it ever so green before?" Nancy wondered, leaning over the window-sill by her mother's side. "Were the trees ever so lace-y? Was any river ever so clear, or any moon so yellow? I am so sorry for the city people tonight! Sometimes I think it can't be so beautiful here as it looks, mother. Sometimes I wonder if part of the beauty isn't inside of us!" said Nancy.

"Part of all beauty is in the eyes that look at, it," her mother answered.

"And I've been reading Mrs. Harmon's new reference Bible," Nancy continued, "and here is what it says about Beulah."

She held the paper to the waning light and read: "Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken, neither shall thy land any more be termed Desolate ... but it shall be called Beulah, for the Lord delighteth in thee.

"I think father would be comforted if he could see us all in the Yellow House at Beulah!" Nancy went on softly as the two leaned out of the window together. "He was so loving, so careful of us, so afraid that anything should trouble us, that for months I couldn't think of him, even in heaven, as anything but worried. But now it seems just as if we were over the hardest time and could learn to live here in Beulah; and so he must be comforted if he can see us or think about us at all; -- don't you feel like that, mother?"

Yes, her mother agreed gently, and her heart was grateful and full of hope. She had lost the father of her children and the dear companion of her life, and that loss could never be made good. Still her mind acknowledged the riches she possessed in her children, so she confessed herself neither desolate nor forsaken, but something in a humble human way that the Lord could take delight in.



XIII

The Pink Of Perfection


That was the only trouble with Allan Carey's little daughter Julia, aged thirteen; she was, and always had been, the pink of perfection. As a baby she had always been exemplary, eating heartily and sleeping soundly. When she felt a pin in her flannel petticoat she deemed it discourteous to cry, because she knew that her nurse had at least tried to dress her properly. When awake, her mental machinery moved slowly and without any jerks. As to her moral machinery, the angels must have set it going at birth and planned it in such a way that it could neither stop nor go wrong. It was well meant, of course, but probably the angels who had the matter in charge were new, young, inexperienced angels, with vague ideas of human nature and inexact knowledge of God's intentions; because a child that has no capability of doing the wrong thing will hardly be able to manage a right one; not one of the big sort, anyway.

At four or five years old Julia was always spoken of as "such a good little girl." Many a time had Nancy in early youth stamped her foot and cried: "Don't talk about Julia! I will not hear about Julia!" for she was always held up as a pattern of excellence. Truth to tell she bored her own mother terribly; but that is not strange, for by a curious freak of nature, Mrs. Allan Carey was as flighty and capricious and irresponsible and gay and naughty as Julia was steady, limited, narrow, conventional, and dull; but the flighty mother passed out of the Carey family life, and Julia, from the age of five onward, fell into the charge of a pious, unimaginative governess, instead of being turned out to pasture with a lot of frolicsome young human creatures; so at thirteen she had apparently settled -- hard, solid, and firm -- into a mould. She had smooth fair hair, pale blue eyes, thin lips, and a somewhat too plump shape for her years. She was always tidy and wore her clothes well, laying enormous stress upon their material and style, this trait in her character having been added under the fostering influence of the wealthy and fashionable Gladys Ferguson. At thirteen, when Julia joined the flock of Carey chickens, she had the air of belonging to quite another order of beings. They had been through a discipline seldom suffered by "only children." They had had to divide apples and toys, take turns at reading books, and learn generally to trot in double harness. If Nancy had a new dress at Christmas, Kathleen had a new hat in the spring. Gilbert heard the cry of "Low bridge!" very often after Kathleen appeared on the scene, and Kathleen's ears, too, grew well accustomed to the same phrase after Peter was born.

"Julia never did a naughty thing in her life, nor spoke a wrong word," said her father once, proudly.

"Never mind, she's only ten, and there's hope for her yet," Captain Carey had replied cheerfully; though if he had known her a little later, in her first Beulah days, he might not have been so sanguine. She seemed to have no instinct of adapting herself to the family life, standing just a little aloof and in an attitude of silent criticism. She was a trig, smug prig, Nancy said, delighting in her accidental muster of three short, hard, descriptive words. She hadn't a bit of humor, no fun, no gayety, no generous enthusiasms that carried her too far for safety or propriety. She brought with her to Beulah sheaves of school certificates, and when she showed them to Gilbert with their hundred per cent deportment and ninety-eight and seven-eighths per cent scholarship every month for years, he went out behind the barn and kicked its foundations savagely for several minutes. She was a sort of continual Sunday child, with an air of church and cold dinner and sermon-reading and hymn-singing and early bed. Nobody could fear, as for some impulsive, reckless little creature, that she would come to a bad end. Nancy said no one could imagine her as coming to anything, not even an end!

"You never let mother hear you say these things, Nancy," Kathleen remarked once, "but really and truly it's just as bad to say them at all, when you know she wouldn't approve."

"My present object is to be as good as gold in mother's eyes, but there I stop!" retorted Nancy cheerfully. "Pretty soon I shall get virtuous enough to go a step further and endeavor to please the angels, -- not Julia's cast-iron angels, but the other angels, who understand and are patient, because they remember our frames and know that being dust we are likely to be dusty once in a while. Julia wasn't made of dust. She was made of -- let me see -- of skim milk and baked custard (the watery kind) and rice flour and gelatine, with a very little piece of overripe banana, -- not enough to flavor, just enough to sicken. Stir this up with weak barley water without putting In a trace of salt, sugar, spice, or pepper, set it in a cool oven, take it out before it is done, and you will get Julia."

Nancy was triumphant over this recipe for making Julias, only regretting that she could never show it to her mother, who, if critical, was always most appreciative. She did send it in a letter to the Admiral, off in China, and he, being "none too good for human nature's daily food," enjoyed it hugely and never scolded her at all.

Julia's only conversation at this time was on matters concerning Gladys Ferguson and the Ferguson family. When you are washing dishes in the sink of the Yellow House in Beulah it is very irritating to hear of Gladys Ferguson's mother-of-pearl opera glasses, her French maid, her breakfast on a tray in bed, her diamond ring, her photograph in the Sunday "Times," her travels abroad, her proficiency in French and German.

"Don't trot Gladys into the kitchen, for goodness' sake, Julia!" grumbled Nancy on a warm day. "I don't want her diamond ring in my dishwater. Wait till Sunday, when we go to the hotel for dinner in our best clothes, if you must talk about her. You don't wipe the tumblers dry, nor put them in the proper place, when your mind is full of Gladys!"

"All right!" said Julia gently. "Only I hope I shall always be able to wipe dishes and keep my mind on better things at the same time. That's what Miss Tewksbury told me when she knew I had got to give up my home luxuries for a long time. 'Don't let poverty drag you down, Julia,' she said: 'keep your high thoughts and don't let them get soiled with the grime of daily living.'"

It is only just to say that Nancy was not absolutely destitute of self-control and politeness, because at this moment she had a really vicious desire to wash Julia's supercilious face and neat nose with the dishcloth, fresh from the frying pan. She knew that she could not grasp those irritating "high thoughts" and apply the grime of daily living to them concretely and actually, but Julia's face was within her reach, and Nancy's fingers tingled with desire. No trace of this savage impulse appeared in her behavior, however; she rinsed the dishpan, turned it upside down in the sink, and gave the wiping towels to Julia, asking her to wring them out in hot water and hang them on the barberry bushes, according to Mrs. Carey's instructions.

"It doesn't seem as if I could!" whimpered Julia. "I have always been so sensitive, and dish towels are so disgusting! They do smell, Nancy!"

"They do," said Nancy sternly, "but they will smell worse if they are not washed! I give you the dish-wiping and take the washing, just to save your hands, but you must turn and turn about with Kathleen and me with some of the ugly, hateful things. If you were company of course we couldn't let you, but you are a member of the family. Our principal concern must be to keep mother's 'high thoughts' from grime; ours must just take their chance!"

Oh! how Julia disliked Nancy at this epoch in their common history; and how cordially and vigorously the dislike was returned! Many an unhappy moment did Mother Carey have over the feud, mostly deep and silent, that went on between these two; and Gilbert's attitude was not much more hopeful. He had found a timetable or syllabus for the day's doings, over Julia's washstand. It had been framed under Miss Tewksbury's guidance, who knew Julia's unpunctuality and lack of system, and read as follows: -- 

Syllabus

Rise at 6.45. Bathe and dress. Devotional Exercises 7.15. Breakfast 7.45. Household tasks till 9. Exercise out of doors 9 to 10. Study 10 to 12. Preparations for dinner 12 to 1. Recreation 2 to 4. Study 4 to 5. Preparation for supper 5 to 6. Wholesome reading, walking, or conversation 7 to 8. Devotional exercises 9. Bed 9.30.

There was nothing wrong about this; indeed, it was excellently conceived; still it appeared to Gilbert as excessively funny, and with Nancy's help he wrote another syllabus and tacked it over Julia's bureau.

Time Card

On waking I can Pray for Gilly and Nan; Eat breakfast at seven. Or ten or eleven, Nor think when it's noon That luncheon's too soon. From twelve until one I can munch on a bun. At one or at two My dinner'll be due. At three, say, or four, I'll eat a bit more. When the clock's striking five Some mild exercise, Very brief, would be wise, Lest I lack appetite For my supper at night. Don't go to bed late, Eat a light lunch at eight, Nor forget to say prayers For my cousins downstairs. Then with conscience like mine I'll be sleeping at nine.

Mrs. Carey had a sense of humor, and when the weeping Julia brought the two documents to her for consideration she had great difficulty in adjusting the matter gravely and with due sympathy for her niece.

"The F-f-f-fergusons never mentioned my appetite," Julia wailed. "They were always trying to g-g-get me to eat!"

"Gilbert and Nancy are a little too fond of fun, and a little too prone to chaffing," said Mrs. Carey. "They forget that you are not used to it, but I will try to make them more considerate. And don't forget, my dear, that in a large family like ours we must learn to 'live and let live.'"



XIV

Ways And Means


It was late June, and Gilbert had returned from school, so the work of making the Yellow House attractive and convenient was to move forward at once. Up to now, the unpacking and distribution of the furniture, with the daily housework and cooking, had been all that Mrs. Carey and the girls could manage.

A village Jack-of-all-trades, Mr. Ossian Popham, generally and familiarly called "Osh" Popham, had been called in to whitewash existing closets and put hooks in them; also, with Bill Harmon's consent, to make new ones here and there in handy corners. Dozens of shelves in odd spaces helped much in the tidy stowing away of household articles, bed-clothing, and stores. In the midst of this delightful and cheery setting-to-rights a letter arrived from Cousin Ann. The family was all sitting together in Mrs. Carey's room, the announced intention being to hold an important meeting of the Ways and Means Committee, the Careys being strong on ways and uniformly short on means.

The arrival of the letters by the hand of Bill Harmon's boy occurred before the meeting was called to order.

"May I read Cousin Ann's aloud?" asked Nancy, who had her private reasons for making the offer.

"Certainly," said Mrs. Carey unsuspectingly, as she took up the inevitable stocking. "I almost wish you had all been storks instead of chickens; then you would always have held up one foot, and perhaps that stocking, at least, wouldn't have had holes in it!"

"Poor Muddy! I'm learning to darn," cried Kathleen, kissing her.

LONGHAMPTON, NEW JERSEY, June 27th.

MY DEAR MARGARET [so Nancy read], -- The climate of this seaside place suits me so badly that I have concluded to spend the rest of the summer with you, lightening those household tasks which will fall so heavily on your shoulders.

[Groans from the whole family greeted this opening passage, and Gilbert cast himself, face down, on his mother's lounge.]

It is always foggy here when it does not rain, and the cooking is very bad. The manager of the hotel is uncivil and the office clerks very rude, so that Beulah, unfortunate place of residence as I consider it, will be much preferable.

I hope you are getting on well with the work on the house, although I regard your treating it as if it were your own, as the height of extravagance. You will never get back a penny you spend on it, and probably when you get it in good order Mr. Hamilton will come back from Europe and live in it himself, or take it away from you and sell it to some one else.

Gilbert will be home by now, but I should not allow him to touch the woodwork, as he is too careless and unreliable.

["She'll never forget that the bed came down with her!" exclaimed Gilbert, his voice muffled by the sofa cushions.]

Remember me to Julia. I hope she enjoys her food better than when I was with you. Children must eat if they would grow.

[Mother Carey pricked up her ears at this point, and Gilbert raised himself on one elbow, but Nancy went on gravely.]

Tell Kathleen to keep out of the sun, or wear a hat, as her complexion is not at all what it used to be. Without color and with freckles she will be an unusually plain child.

[Kathleen flushed angrily and laid down her work.]

Give my love to darling Nancy. What a treasure you have in your eldest, Margaret! I hope you are properly grateful for her. Such talent, such beauty, such grace, such discretion -- 

But here the family rose en masse and descended on the reader of the spurious letter just as she had turned the first page. In the amiable scuffle that ensued, a blue slip fell from Cousin Ann's envelope and Gilbert handed it to his mother with the letter.

Mrs. Carey, wiping the tears of merriment that came to her eyes in spite of her, so exactly had Nancy caught Cousin Ann's epistolary style, read the real communication, which ran as follows: -- 

DEAR MARGARET, -- I have had you much in mind since I left you, always with great anxiety lest your strength should fail under the unexpected strain you put upon it. I had intended to give each of you a check for thirty-five dollars at Christmas to spend as you liked, but I must say I have not entire confidence in your judgment. You will be likelier far to decorate the walls of the house than to bring water into the kitchen sink. I therefore enclose you three hundred dollars and beg that you will have the well piped at once, and if there is any way to carry the water to the bedroom floor, do it, and let me send the extra amount involved. You will naturally have the well cleaned out anyway, but I should prefer never to know what you found in it. My only other large gift to you in the past was one of ornaments, sent, you remember, at the time of your wedding!

["We remember!" groaned the children in chorus.]

I do not regret this, though my view of life, of its sorrows and perplexities, has changed somewhat, and I am more practical than I used to be. The general opinion is that in giving for a present an object of permanent beauty, your friends think of you whenever they look upon it.

["That's so!" remarked Gilbert to Nancy.]

This is true, no doubt, but there are other ways of making yourself remembered, and I am willing that you should think kindly of Cousin Ann whenever you use the new pump.

The second improvement I wish made with the money is the instalment of a large furnace-like stove in the cellar, which will send up a little heat, at least, into the hall and lower rooms in winter. You will probably have to get the owner's consent, and I should certainly ask for a five years' lease before expending any considerable amount of money on the premises.

If there is any money left, I should suggest new sills to the back doors and those in the shed. I noticed that the present ones are very rotten, and I dare say by this time you have processions of red and black ants coming into your house. It seemed to me that I never saw so much insect life as in Beulah. Moths, caterpillars, brown-tails, slugs, spiders, June bugs, horseflies, and mosquitoes were among the pests I specially noted. The Mr. Popham who drove me to the station said that snakes also abounded in the tall grass, but I should not lay any stress on his remarks, as I never saw such manners in my life in any Christian civilized community. He asked me my age, and when I naturally made no reply, he inquired after a few minutes' silence whether I was unmarried from choice or necessity. When I refused to carry on any conversation with him he sang jovial songs so audibly that persons going along the street smiled and waved their hands to him. I tell you this because you appear to have false ideas of the people in Beulah, most of whom seemed to me either eccentric or absolutely insane.

Hoping that you can endure your life there when the water smells better and you do not have to carry it from the well, I am

Yours affectionately,

Ann Chadwich.


"Children!" said Mrs. Carey, folding the letter and slipping the check into the envelope for safety, "your Cousin Ann is really a very good woman."

"I wish her bed hadn't come down with her," said Gilbert. "We could never have afforded to get that water into the house, or had the little furnace, and I suppose, though no one of us ever thought of it, that you would have had a hard time doing the work in the winter in a cold house, and it would have been dreadful going to the pump."

"Dreadful for you too, Gilly," replied Kathleen pointedly.

"I shall be at school, where I can't help," said Gilbert.

Mrs. Carey made no remark, as she intended the fact that there was no money for Gilbert's tuition at Eastover to sink gradually into his mind, so that he might make the painful discovery himself. His fees had fortunately been paid in advance up to the end of the summer term, so the strain on their resources had not been felt up to now.

Nancy had disappeared from the room and now stood in the doorway.

"I wish to remark that, having said a good many disagreeable things about Cousin Ann, and regretting them very much, I have placed the four black and white marble ornaments on my bedroom mantelpiece, there to be a perpetual reminder of my sins. You Dirty Boy is in a hundred pieces in the barn chamber, but if Cousin Ann ever comes to visit us again, I'll be the one to confess that Gilly and I were the cause of the accident."

"Now take your pencil, Nancy, and see where we are in point of income, at the present moment," her mother suggested, with an approving smile. "Put down the pension of thirty dollars a month."

"Down. -- Three hundred and sixty dollars."

"Now the hundred dollars over and above the rent of the Charlestown house."

"Down; but it lasts only four years."

"We may all be dead by that time." (This cheerfully from Gilbert.)

"Then the interest on our insurance money. Four per cent on five thousand dollars is two hundred; I have multiplied it twenty times."

"Down. -- Two hundred."

"Of course if anything serious happens, or any great need comes, we have the five thousand to draw upon," interpolated Gilbert.

"I will draw upon that to save one of us in illness or to bury one of us," said Mrs. Carey with determination, "but I will never live out of it myself, nor permit you to. We are five, -- six, while Julia is with us," she added hastily, -- "and six persons will surely have rainy days coming to them. What if I should die and leave you?"

"Don't, mother!" they cried in chorus, so passionately that Mrs. Carey changed the subject quickly. "How much a year does it make, Nancy?"

"Three hundred and sixty plus one hundred plus two hundred equals six hundred and sixty," read Nancy. "And I call it a splendid big lump of money!"

"Oh, my dear," sighed her mother with a shake of the head, "if you knew the difficulty your father and I have had to take care of ourselves and of you on five and six times that sum! We may have been a little extravagant sometimes following him about, -- he was always so anxious to have us with him, -- but that has been our only luxury."

"We saved enough out of exchanging the grand piano to pay all the expenses down here, and all our railway fares, and everything so far, in the way of boards and nails and Osh Popham's labor," recalled Gilbert.

"Yes, and we are still eating the grand piano at the end of two months, but it's about gone, isn't it, Muddy?" Nancy asked.

"About gone, but it has been a great help, and our dear little old-fashioned square is just as much of a comfort. -- Of course there's the tapestry and the Van Twiller landscape Uncle gave me; they may yet be sold."

"Somebody'll buy the tapestry, but the Van Twiller'll go hard," and Gilbert winked at Nancy.

"A picture that looks just the same upside down as the right way about won't find many buyers," was Nancy's idea.

"Still it is a Van Twiller, and has a certain authentic value for all time!"

"The landscapes Van Twiller painted in the dark, or when he had his blinders on, can't be worth very much," insisted Gilbert. "You remember the Admiral thought it was partridges nesting in the underbrush at twilight, and then we found Joanna had cleaned the dining room and hung the thing upside down. When it was hung the other end up neither father nor the Admiral could tell what it was; they'd lost the partridges and couldn't find anything else!"

"We shall get something for it because it is a Van Twiller," said Mrs. Carey hopefully; "and the tapestry is lovely. -- Now we have been doing all our own work to save money enough to make the house beautiful; yet, as Cousin Ann says, it does not belong to us and may be taken away at any moment after the year is up. We have never even seen our landlord, though Mr. Harmon has written to him. Are we foolish? What do you think, Julia?"



XV

Belonging To Beulah


The Person without a Fault had been quietly working at her embroidery, raising her head now and then to look at some extraordinary Carey, when he or she made some unusually silly or fantastic remark.

"I'm not so old as Gilbert and Nancy, and I'm only a niece," she said modestly, "so I ought not to have an opinion. But I should get a maid-of-all-work at once, so that we shouldn't all be drudges as we are now; then I should not spend a single cent on the house, but just live here in hiding, as it were, till better times come and till we are old enough to go into society. You could scrimp and save for Nancy's coming out, and then for Kathleen's. Father would certainly be well long before then, and Kathleen and I could debut together!"

"Who wants to 'debut' together or any other way," sniffed Nancy scornfully. "I'm coming out right here in Beulah; indeed I'm not sure but I'm out already! Mr. Bill Harmon has asked me to come to the church sociable and Mr. Popham has invited me to the Red Men's picnic at Greentown. Beulah's good for something better than a place to hide in! We'll have to save every penny at first, of course, but in three or four years Gilly and I ought to be earning something."

"The trouble is, I can't earn anything in college," objected Gilbert, "though I'd like to."

"That will be the only way a college course can come to you now, Gilbert," his mother said quietly. "You know nothing of the expenses involved. They would have taxed our resources to the utmost if father had lived, and we had had our more than five thousand a year! You and I together must think out your problem this summer."

Gilbert looked blank and walked to the window with his hands in his pockets.

"I should lose all my friends, and it's hard for a fellow to make his way in the world if he has nothing to recommend him but his graduation from some God-forsaken little hole like Beulah Academy."

Nancy looked as if she could scalp her brother when he alluded to her beloved village in these terms, but her mother's warning look stopped any comment.

Julia took up arms for her cousin. "We ought to go without everything for the sake of sending Gilbert to college," she said. "Gladys Ferguson doesn't know a single boy who isn't going to Harvard or Yale."

"If a boy of good family and good breeding cannot make friends by his own personality and his own qualities of mind and character, I should think he would better go without them," said Gilbert's mother casually.

"Don't you believe in a college education, mother?" inquired Gilbert in an astonished tone.

"Certainly! Why else should we have made sacrifices to send you? To begin with, it is much simpler and easier to be educated in college. You have a thousand helps and encouragements that other fellows have to get as they may. The paths are all made straight for the students. A stupid boy, or one with small industry or little originality, must have something drummed into him in four years, with all the splendid teaching energy that the colleges employ. It requires a very high grade of mental and moral power to do without such helps, and it may be that you are not strong enough to succeed without them; -- I do not know your possibilities yet, Gilbert, and neither do you know them yourself!"

Gilbert looked rather nonplussed. "Pretty stiff, I call it!" he grumbled, "to say that if you've got brains enough you can do without college."

"It is true, nevertheless. If you have brains enough, and will enough, and heart enough, you can stay here in Beulah and make the universe search you out, and drag you into the open, where men have need of you!" (Mrs. Carey's eyes shone and her cheeks glowed.) "What we all want as a family is to keep well and strong and good, in body and mind and soul; to conquer our weaknesses, to train our gifts, to harness our powers to some wished-for end, and then pull, with all our might. Can't my girls be fine women, fit for New York or Washington, London or Paris, because their young days were passed in Beulah? Can't my boys be anything that their brains and courage fit them for, whether they make their own associations or have them made for them? Father would never have flung the burden on your shoulders, Gilbert, but he is no longer here. You can't have the help of Yale or Harvard or Bowdoin to make a man of you, my son, -- you will have to fight your own battles and win your own spurs."

"Oh! mother, but you're splendid!" cried Nancy, the quick tears in her eyes. "Brace up, old Gilly, and show what the Careys can do without 'advantages.' Brace up, Kitty and Julia! We three will make Beulah Academy ring next year!"

"And I don't want you to look upon Beulah as a place of hiding while adversity lasts," said Mother Carey. "We must make it home; as beautiful and complete as we can afford. One real home always makes others, I am sure of that! We will ask Mr. Harmon to write Mr. Hamilton and see if he will promise to leave us undisturbed. We cannot be happy, or prosperous, or useful, or successful, unless we can contrive to make the Yellow House a home. The river is our river; the village is our village; the people are our neighbors; Beulah belongs to us and we belong to Beulah, don't we, Peter?"

Mother Carey always turned to Peter with some nonsensical appeal when her heart was full and her voice a trifle unsteady. You could bury your head in Peter's little white sailor jacket just under his chin, at which he would dimple and gurgle and chuckle and wriggle, and when you withdrew your flushed face and presented it to the public gaze all the tears would have been wiped off on Peter.

So on this occasion did Mrs. Carey repeat, as she set Peter down, "Don't we belong to Beulah, dear?"

"Yes, we does," he lisped, "and I'm going to work myself, pretty soon bimebye just after a while, when I'm a little more grown up, and then I'll buy the Yellow House quick."

"So you shall, precious!" cried Kathleen.

"I was measured on Muddy this morning, wasn't I, Muddy, and I was half way to her belt; and in Charlestown I was only a little farder up than her knees. All the time I'm growing up she's ungrowing down! She's smallering and I'm biggering."

"Are you afraid your mother'll be too small, sweet Pete?" asked Mrs. Carey.

"No!" this very stoutly. "Danny Harmon's mother's more'n up to the mantelpiece and I'd hate to have my mother so far away!" said Peter as he embraced Mrs. Carey's knees.

Julia had said little during this long conversation, though her mind was fairly bristling with objections and negatives and different points of view, but she was always more or less awed by her Aunt Margaret, and never dared defy her opinion. She had a real admiration for her aunt's beauty and dignity and radiant presence, though it is to be feared she cared less for the qualities of character that made her personality so luminous with charm for everybody. She saw people look at her, listen to her, follow her with their eyes, comment on her appearance, her elegance, and her distinction, and all this impressed her deeply. As to Cousin Ann's present her most prominent feeling was that it would have been much better if that lady had followed her original plan of sending individual thirty-five-dollar checks. In that event she, Julia, was quite certain that hers never would have gone into a water-pipe or a door-sill.

"Oh, Kathleen!" sighed Nancy as the two went into the kitchen together. "Isn't mother the most interesting 'scolder' you ever listened to? I love to hear her do it, especially when somebody else is getting it. When it's I, I grow smaller and smaller, curling myself up like a little worm. Then when she has finished I squirm to the door and wriggle out. Other mothers say: 'If you don't, I shall tell your father!' 'Do as I tell you, and ask no questions.' 'I never heard of such behavior in my life!' 'Haven't you any sense of propriety?' 'If this happens again I shall have to do something desperate.' 'Leave the room at once,' and so on; but mother sets you to thinking."

"Mother doesn't really scold," Kathleen objected.

"No, but she shows you how wrong you are, just the same. Did you notice how Julia withered when mother said we were not to look upon Beulah as a place of hiding?"

"She didn't stay withered long," Kathleen remarked.

"And she said just the right thing to dear old Gilly, for Fred Bascom is filling his head with foolish notions. He needs father to set him right."

"We all need father," sighed Kitty tearfully, "but somehow mother grows a little more splendid every day. I believe she's trying to fill father's place and be herself too!"



XVI

The Post Bag


Letter from Mr. William Harmon, storekeeper at Beulah Corner, to Hon. Lemuel Hamilton, American Consul at Breslau, Germany.

Beulah, June 27th.

Dear Lem: The folks up to your house want to lay out money on it and don't dass for fear you'll turn em out and pocket their improvements. If you haint got any better use for the propety I advise you to hold on to this bunch of tennants as they are O.K. wash goods, all wool, and a yard wide. I woodent like Mrs. Harmon to know how I feel about the lady, who is hansome as a picture and the children are a first class crop and no mistake. They will not lay out much at first as they are short of cash but if ever good luck comes along they will fit up the house like a pallis and your granchildren will reep the proffit. I'll look out for your interest and see they don't do nothing outlandish. They'd have hard work to beat that fool-job your boys did on the old barn, fixin it up so't nobody could keep critters in it, so no more from your old school frend

Bill Harmon.

P.S. We've been having a spell of turrible hot wether in Beulah. How is it with you? I never framed it up jest what kind of a job an American Counsul's was; but I guess he aint never het up with overwork! There was a piece in a Portland paper about a Counsul somewhere being fired because he set in his shirt-sleeves durin office hours. I says to Col. Wheeler if Uncle Sam could keep em all in their shirtsleeves, hustlin for dear life, it wood be all the better for him and us!

Bill.

Letter from Miss Nancy Carey to the Hon. Lemuel Hamilton.

BEULAH, June 27th.

DEAR MR. HAMILTON, -- I am Nancy, the oldest of the Carey children, who live in your house. When father was alive, he took us on a driving trip, and we stopped and had luncheon under your big maple and fell in love with your empty house. Father (he was a Captain in the Navy and there was never anybody like him in the world!) -- Father leaned over the gate and said if he was only rich he would drive the horse into the barn and buy the place that very day; and mother said it would be a beautiful spot to bring up a family. We children had wriggled under the fence, and were climbing the apple trees by that time, and we wanted to be brought up there that very minute. We all of us look back to that day as the happiest one that we can remember. Mother laughs when I talk of looking back, because I am not sixteen yet, but I think, although we did not know it, God knew that father was going to die and we were going to live in that very spot afterwards. Father asked us what we could do for the place that had been so hospitable to us, and I remembered a box of plants in the carryall, that we had bought at a wayside nursery, for the flower beds in Charlestown. "Plant something!" I said, and father thought it was a good idea and took a little crimson rambler rose bush from the box. Each of us helped make the place for it by taking a turn with the luncheon knives and spoons; then I planted the rose and father took off his hat and said, "Three cheers for the Yellow House!" and mother added, "God bless it, and the children who come to live in it!" -- There is surely something strange in that, don't you think so? Then when father died last year we had to find a cheap and quiet place to live, and I remembered the Yellow House in Beulah and told mother my idea. She does not say "Bosh!" like some mothers, but if our ideas sound like anything she tries them; so she sent Gilbert to see if the house was still vacant, and when we found it was, we took it. The rent is sixty dollars a year, as I suppose Bill Harmon told you when he sent you mother's check for fifteen dollars for the first quarter. We think it is very reasonable, and do not wonder you don't like to spend anything on repairs or improvements for us, as you have to pay taxes and insurance. We hope you will have a good deal over for your own use out of our rent, as we shouldn't like to feel under obligation. If we had a million we'd spend it all on the Yellow House, because we are fond of it in the way you are fond of a person; it's not only that we want to paint it and paper it, but we would like to pat it and squeeze it. If you can't live in it yourself, even in the summer, perhaps you will be glad to know we love it so much and want to take good care of it always. What troubles us is the fear that you will take it away or sell it to somebody before Gilbert and I are grown up and have earned money enough to buy it. It was Cousin Ann that put the idea into our heads, but everybody says it is quite likely and sensible. Cousin Ann has made us a splendid present of enough money to bring the water from the well into the kitchen sink and to put a large stove like a furnace into the cellar. We would cut two registers behind the doors in the dining-room and sitting-room floors, and two little round holes in the ceilings to let the heat up into two bedrooms, if you are willing to let us do it. [Mother says that Cousin Ann is a good and generous person. It is true, and it makes us very unhappy that we cannot really love her on account of her being so fault-finding; but you, being an American Consul and travelling all over the world, must have seen somebody like her.]

Mr. Harmon is writing to you, but I thought he wouldn't know so much about us as I do. We have father's pension; that is three hundred and sixty dollars a year; and one hundred dollars a year from the Charlestown house, but that only lasts for four years; and two hundred dollars a year from the interest on father's insurance. That makes six hundred and sixty dollars, which is a great deal if you haven't been used to three thousand, but does not seem to be enough for a family of six. There is the insurance money itself, too, but mother says nothing but a very dreadful need must make us touch that. You see there are four of us children, which with mother makes five, and now there is Julia, which makes six. She is Uncle Allan's only child. Uncle Allan has nervous prostration and all of mother's money. We are not poor at all, just now, on account of having exchanged the grand piano for an old-fashioned square and eating up the extra money. It is great fun, and whenever we have anything very good for supper Kathleen says, "Here goes a piano leg!" and Gilbert says, "Let's have an octave of white notes for Sunday supper, mother!" I send you a little photograph of the family taken together on your side piazza (we call it our piazza, and I hope you don't mind). I am the tallest girl, with the curly hair. Julia is sitting down in front, hemming. She said we should look so idle if somebody didn't do something, but she never really hems; and Kathleen is leaning over mother's shoulder. We all wanted to lean over mother's shoulder, but Kitty got there first. The big boy is Gilbert. He can't go to college now, as father intended, and he is very sad and depressed; but mother says he has a splendid chance to show what father's son can do without any help but his own industry and pluck. Please look carefully at the lady sitting in the chair, for it is our mother. It is only a snap shot, but you can see how beautiful she is. Her hair is very long, and the wave in it is natural. The little boy is Peter. He is the loveliest and the dearest of all of us. The second picture is of me tying up the crimson rambler. I thought you would like to see what a wonderful rose it is. I was standing in a chair, training the long branches and tacking them against the house, when a gentleman drove by with a camera in his wagon. He stopped and took the picture and sent us one, explaining that every one admired it. I happened to be wearing my yellow muslin, and I am sending you the one the gentleman colored, because it is the beautiful crimson of the rose against the yellow house that makes people admire it so. If you come to America please don't forget Beulah, because if you once saw mother you could never bear to disturb her, seeing how brave she is, living without father. Admiral Southwick, who is in China, calls us Mother Carey's chickens. They are stormy petrels, and are supposed to go out over the seas and show good birds the way home. We haven't done anything splendid yet, but we mean to when the chance comes. I haven't told anybody that I am writing this, but I wanted you to know everything about us, as you are our landlord. We could be so happy if Cousin Ann wouldn't always say we are spending money on another person's house and such a silly performance never came to any good.

I enclose you a little picture cut from the wall paper we want to put on the front hall, hoping you will like it. The old paper is hanging in shreds and some of the plaster is loose, but Mr. Popham will make it all right. Mother says she feels as if he had pasted laughter and good nature on all the walls as he papered them. When you open the front door (and we hope you will, sometime, and walk right in!) how lovely it will be to look into yellow hayfields! And isn't the boatful of people coming to the haymaking, nice, with the bright shirts of the men and the women's scarlet aprons? Don't you love the white horse in the haycart, and the jolly party picnicking under the tree? Mother says just think of buying so much joy and color for twenty cents a double roll; and we children think we shall never get tired of sitting on the stairs in cold weather and making believe it is haying time. Gilbert says we are putting another grand piano leg on the walls, but we are not, for we are doing all our own cooking and dishwashing and saving the money that a cook would cost, to do lovely things for the Yellow House. Thank you, dearest Mr. Hamilton, for letting us live in it. We are very proud of the circular steps and very proud of your being an American consul.

Yours affectionately,

Nancy Carey.

P.S. It is June, and Beulah is so beautiful you feel like eating it with sugar and cream! We do hope that you and your children are living in as sweet a place, so that you will not miss this one so much. We know you have five, older than we are, but if there are any the right size for me to send my love to, please do it. Mother would wish to be remembered to Mrs. Hamilton, but she will never know I am writing to you. It is my first business letter.

N.C.



XVII

Jack Of All Trades


Mr. Ossian (otherwise "Osh") Popham was covering the hall of the Yellow House with the hayfield paper. Bill Harmon's father had left considerable stock of one sort and another in the great unfinished attic over the store, and though much of it was worthless, and all of it was out of date, it seemed probable that it would eventually be sold to the Careys, who had the most unlimited ingenuity in making bricks without straw, when it came to house decoration. They had always moved from post to pillar and Dan to Beersheba, and had always, inside of a week, had the prettiest and most delightful habitation in the naval colony where they found themselves. Beulah itself, as well as all the surrounding country, had looked upon the golden hayfield paper and scorned it as ugly and countrified; never suspecting that, in its day, it had been made in France and cost a dollar and a half a roll. It had been imported for a governor's house, and only half of it used, so for thirty years the other half had waited for the Careys. There always are Careys and their like, and plenty of them, in every generation, so old things, if they are good, need never be discouraged.

Mr. Popham never worked at his bricklaying or carpentering or cabinet making or papering by the hour, but "by the job"; and a kind Providence, intent on the welfare of the community, must have guided him in this choice of business methods, for he talked so much more than he worked, that unless householders were well-to-do, the rights of employer and employee could never have been adjusted. If they were rich no one of them would have stopped Ossian's conversation for a second. In the first place it was even better than his work, which was always good, and in the second place he would never consent to go to any one, unless he could talk as much as he liked. The Careys loved him, all but Julia, who pronounced him "common" and said Miss Tewksbury told her never to listen to anyone who said "I done it" or "I seen it." To this Nancy replied (her mother being in the garden, and she herself not yet started on a line of conduct arranged to please the angels) that Miss Tewksbury and Julia ought to have a little corner of heaven finished off for themselves; and Julia made a rude, distinct, hideous "face" at Nancy. I have always dated the beginning of Julia's final transformation from this critical moment, when the old Adam in her began to work. It was good for Nancy too, who would have trodden on Julia so long as she was an irritating but patient, well-behaved worm; but who would have to use a little care if the worm showed signs of turning.

"Your tongue is like a bread knife, Nancy Carey!" Julia exclaimed passionately, after twisting her nose and mouth into terrifying and dreadful shapes. "If it wasn't that Miss Tewksbury told me ladies never were telltales, I could soon make trouble between you and your blessed mother."

"No, you couldn't," said Nancy curtly, "for I'd reform sooner than let you do that! -- Perhaps I did say too much, Julia, only I can't bear to have you make game of Mr. Popham when he's so funny and nice. Think of his living with nagging Mrs. Popham and his stupid daughter and son in that tiny house, and being happy as a king."

"If there wasn't something wrong with him he wouldn't be happy there," insisted Julia.

Mr. Popham himself accounted for his contentment without insulting his intelligence. "The way I look at it," he said, "this world's all the world we'll git till we git to the next one; an' we might's well smile on it, 's frown! You git your piece o' life an' you make what you can of it; -- that's the idee! Now the other day I got some nice soft wood that was prime for whittlin'; jest the right color an' grain an' all, an' I started in to make a little statue o' the Duke o' Wellington. Well, when I got to shapin' him out, I found my piece o' wood wouldn't be long enough to give him his height; so I says, 'Well, I don't care, I'll cut the Duke right down and make Napoleon Bonaparte.' I'd 'a' been all right if I'd cal'lated better, but I cut my block off too short, and I couldn't make Napoleon nohow; so I says, 'Well, Isaac Watts was an awful short man, so I guess I'll make him!' But this time my wood split right in two. Some men would 'a' been discouraged, but I wasn't, not a mite; I jest said, 'I never did fancy Ike Watts, an' there's one thing this blamed chip will make, an' that's a button for the barn door!'"

Osh not only whittled and papered and painted, but did anything whatsoever that needed to be done on the premises. If the pump refused to draw water, or the sink drain was stopped, or the gutters needed cleaning, or the grass had to be mowed, he was the man ordained by Providence and his own versatility to do the work. While he was papering the front hall the entire Carey family lived on the stairs between meals, fearful lest they should lose any incident, any anecdote, any story, any reminiscence that might fall from his lips. Mrs. Carey took her mending basket and sat in the doorway, within ear shot, while Peter had all the scraps of paper and a small pasting board on the steps, where he conducted his private enterprises.

Osh would cut his length of paper, lay it flat on the board, and apply the wide brush up and down neatly while he began his story. Sometimes if the tale were long and interesting the paste would dry, but in that case he went over the surface again. At the precise moment of hanging, the flow of his eloquence stopped abruptly and his hearers had to wait until the piece was finished before they learned what finally became of Lyddy Brown after she drove her husband ou' doors, or of Bill Harmon's bull terrier, who set an entire community quarreling among themselves. His racy accounts of Mrs. Popham's pessimism, which had grown prodigiously from living in the house with his optimism; his anecdotes of Lallie Joy Popham, who was given to moods, having inherited portions of her father's incurable hopefulness, and fragments of her mother's ineradicable gloom, -- these were of a character that made the finishing of the hall a matter of profound unimportance.

"I ain't one to hurry," he would say genially; "that's the reason I won't work by the hour or by the day. We've got one 'hurrier' in the family, and that's enough for Lallie Joy 'n' me! Mis' Popham does everything right on the dot, an' Lallie Joy 'n' me git turrible sick o' seein' that dot, 'n' hevin' our 'tention drawed to it if we don't see it. Mis' Bill Harmon's another 'hurrier,' -- well, you jest ask Bill, that's all! She an' Mis' Popham hev been at it for fifteen years, but the village ain't ready to give out the blue ribbon yet. Last week my wife went over to Harmon's and Mis' Harmon said she was goin' to make some molasses candy that mornin'. Well, my wife hurried home, put on her molasses, made her candy, cooled it and worked it, and took some over to treat Mis' Harmon, who was jest gittin' her kittle out from under the sink!"

The Careys laughed heartily at this evidence of Mrs. Popham's celerity, while Osh, as pleased as possible, gave one dab with his paste brush and went on: -- 

"Maria's blood was up one while, 'cause Mis' Bill Harmon always contrives to git her wash out the earliest of a Monday morning. Yesterday Maria got up 'bout daybreak (I allers tell her if she was real forehanded she'd eat her breakfast overnight), and by half past five she hed her clothes in the boiler. Jest as she was lookin' out the kitchen winder for signs o' Mis' Bill Harmon, she seen her start for her side door with a big basket. Maria was so mad then that she vowed she wouldn't be beat, so she dug for the bedroom and slat some clean sheets and piller cases out of a bureau drawer, run into the yard, and I'm blamed if she didn't get 'em over the line afore Mis' Harmon found her clothespins!"

Good old Osh! He hadn't had such an audience for years, for Beulah knew all its own stories thoroughly, and although it valued them highly it did not care to hear them too often; but the Careys were absolutely fresh material, and such good, appreciative listeners! Mrs. Carey looked so handsome when she wiped the tears of enjoyment from her eyes that Osh told Bill Harmon if 't wa'n't agin the law you would want to kiss her every time she laughed.

Well, the hall papering was, luckily, to be paid for, not by the hour, but by an incredibly small price per roll, and everybody was pleased. Nancy, Kathleen, and Julia sat on the stairs preparing a whiteweed and buttercup border for the spare bedroom according to a plan of Mother Carey's. It was an affair of time, as it involved the delicate cutting out of daisy garlands from a wider bordering filled with flowers of other colors, and proved a fascinating occupation.

Gilbert hovered on the outskirts of the hall, doing odd jobs of one sort and another and learning bits of every trade at which Mr. Popham was expert.

"If we hadn't been in such a sweat to git settled," remarked Osh with a clip of his big shears, "I really'd ought to have plastered this front entry all over! 'T wa'n't callin' for paper half's loud as 't was for plaster. Old Parson Bradley hed been a farmer afore he turned minister, and one Sunday mornin' his parish was thornin' him to pray for rain, so he says: 'Thou knowest, O Lord! it's manure this land wants, 'n' not water, but in Thy mercy send rain plenteously upon us.'"

"Mr. Popham," said Gilbert, who had been patiently awaiting his opportunity, "the pieces of paper are cut for those narrow places each side of the front door. Can't I paste those on while you talk to us?"

"'Course you can, handy as you be with tools! There ain't no trick to it. Most anybody can be a paperer. As Parson Bradley said when he was talkin' to a Sunday-school during a presidential campaign: 'One of you boys perhaps can be a George Washington and another may rise to be a Thomas Jefferson; any of you, the Lord knows, can be a James K. Polk!'"

"I don't know much about Polk," said Gilbert.

"P'raps nobody did very much, but the parson hated him like p'ison. See here, Peter, I ain't made o' paste! You've used up 'bout a quart a'ready! What are you doin' out there anyway? I've heerd o' paintin' the town, -- I guess you're paperin' it, ain't you?"

Peter was too busy and too eager for paste to reply, the facts of the case being that while Mr. Popham held the family spellbound by his conversation, he himself was papering the outside of the house with scraps of assorted paper as high up as his short arms could reach.

"There's another thing you can do, Gilbert," continued Mr. Popham. "I've mixed a pail o' that green paint same as your mother wanted, an' I've brought you a tip-top brush. The settin' room has a good nice floor; matched boards, no hummocks nor hollers, -- all as flat's one of my wife's pancakes, -- an' not a knot hole in it anywheres. You jest put your first coat on, brushin' lengthways o' the boards, and let it dry good. Don't let your folks go stepping on it, neither. The minute a floor's painted women folks are crazy to git int' the room. They want their black alpacky that's in the closet, an' the lookin' glass that's on the mantelpiece, or the feather duster that's hangin' on the winder, an' will you jest pass out the broom that's behind the door? The next mornin' you'll find lots o' little spots where they've tiptoed in to see if the paint's dry an' how it's goin' to look. Where I work, they most allers say it's the cat, -- well! that answer may deceive some folks, but 't wouldn't me. -- Don't slop your paint, Gilbert; work quick an' neat an' even; then paintin' ain't no trick 't all. Any fool, the Lord knows, can pick up that trade! -- Now I guess it's about noon time, an' I'll have to be diggin' for home. Maria sets down an' looks at the clock from half past eleven on. She'll git a meal o' cold pork 'n' greens, cold string beans, gingerbread, 'n' custard pie on t' the table; then she'll stan' in the front door an' holler: 'Hurry up, Ossian! it's struck twelve more 'n two minutes ago, 'n' everything 's gittin' overdone!'"

So saying he took off his overalls, seized his hat, and with a parting salute was off down the road, singing his favorite song. I can give you the words and the time, but alas! I cannot print Osh Popham's dauntless spirit and serene content, nor his cheery voice as he travelled with tolerable swiftness to meet his waiting Maria.

Here comes a maid-en full of woe. Hi-dum-di-dum did-dy-i-o! Here comes a maid-en full of woe. Hi der-ry O! Here comes a maid-en full of woe, As full of woe as she can go! Hi dum did-dy i O! Hi der-ry O!



XVIII

The House Of Lords


The Carey children had only found it by accident. All their errands took them down the main street to the village; to the Popham's cottage at the foot of a little lane turning towards the river, or on to the post-office and Bill Harmon's store, or to Colonel Wheeler's house and then to the railway station. One afternoon Nancy and Kathleen had walked up the road in search of pastures new, and had spied down in a distant hollow a gloomy grey house almost surrounded by cedars. A grove of poplars to the left of it only made the prospect more depressing, and if it had not been for a great sheet of water near by, floating with cow lilies and pond lilies, the whole aspect of the place would have been unspeakably dreary.

Nancy asked Mr. Popham who lived in the grey house behind the cedars, and when he told them a certain Mr. Henry Lord, his two children and housekeeper, they fell into the habit of speaking of the place as the House of Lords.

"You won't never see nothin' of 'em," said Mr. Popham. "Henry Lord ain't never darkened the village for years, I guess, and the young ones ain't never been to school so far; they have a teacher out from Portland Tuesdays and Fridays, and the rest o' the week they study up for him. Henry's 'bout as much of a hermit's if he lived in a hut on a mounting, an' he's bringing up the children so they'll be jest as odd's he is."

"Is the mother dead?" Mrs. Carey asked.

"Yes, dead these four years, an' a good job for her, too. It's an awful queer world! Not that I could make a better one! I allers say, when folks grumble, 'Now if you was given the materials, could you turn out a better world than this is? And when it come to that, what if you hed to furnish your own materials, same as the Lord did! I guess you'd be put to it!' -- Well, as I say, it's an awful queer world; they clap all the burglars into jail, and the murderers and the wife-beaters (I've allers thought a gentle reproof would be enough punishment for a wife-beater, 'cause he probably has a lot o' provocation that nobody knows), and the firebugs (can't think o' the right name -- something like cendenaries), an' the breakers o' the peace, an' what not; an' yet the law has nothin' to say to a man like Hen Lord! He's been a college professor, but I went to school with him, darn his picter, an' I'll call him Hen whenever I git a chance, though he does declare he's a doctor."

"Doctor of what?" asked Mrs. Carey.

"Blamed if I know! I wouldn't trust him to doctor a sick cat."

"People don't have to be doctors of medicine," interrupted Gilbert. "Grandfather was Alexander Carey, LL.D., -- Doctor of Laws, that is."

Mr. Popham laid down his brush. "I swan to man!" he ejaculated. "If you don't work hard you can't keep up with the times! Doctor of Laws! Well, all I can say is they need doctorin', an' I'm glad they've got round to 'em; only Hen Lord ain't the man to do 'em any good."

"What has he done to make him so unpopular?" queried Mrs. Carey.

"Done? He ain't done a thing he'd oughter sence he was born. He keeps the thou shalt not commandments first rate, Hen Lord does! He neglected his wife and froze her blood and frightened her to death, poor little shadder! He give up his position and shut the family up in that tomb of a house so 't he could study his books. My boy knows his boy, an' I tell you the life he leads them children is enough to make your flesh creep. When I git roun' to it I cal'late to set the house on fire some night. Mebbe I'd be lucky enough to ketch Hen too, an' if so, nobody in the village'd wear mournin'! So fur, I can't get Maria's consent to be a cendenary. She says she can't spare me long enough to go to jail; she needs me to work durin' the summer, an' in the winter time she'd hev nobody to jaw, if I was in the lockup." This information was delivered in the intervals of covering the guest chamber walls with a delightful white moire paper which Osh always alluded to as the "white maria," whether in memory of his wife's Christian name or because his French accent was not up to the mark, no one could say.

Mr. Popham exaggerated nothing, but on the contrary left much unsaid in his narrative of the family at the House of Lords. Henry Lord, with the degree of Ph.D. to his credit, had been Professor of Zoology at a New England college, but had resigned his post in order to write a series of scientific text books. Always irritable, cold, indifferent, he had grown rapidly more so as years went on. Had his pale, timid wife been a rosy, plucky tyrant, things might have gone otherwise, but the only memories the two children possessed were of bitter words and reproaches on their father's side, and of tears and sad looks on their mother's part. Then the poor little shadow of a woman dropped wearily into her grave, and a certain elderly Mrs. Bangs, with grey hair and firm chin, came to keep house and do the work.

A lonelier creature than Olive Lord at sixteen could hardly be imagined. She was a tiny thing for her years, with a little white oval face and peaked chin, pronounced eyebrows, beautifully arched, and a mass of tangled, untidy dark hair. Her only interests in life were her younger brother Cyril, delicate and timid, and in continual terror of his father, -- and a passion for drawing and sketching that was fairly devouring in its intensity. When she was ten she "drew" the cat and the dog, the hens and chickens, and colored the sketches with the paints her mother provided. Whatever appealed to her sense of beauty was straightway transferred to paper or canvas. Then for the three years before her mother's death there had been surreptitious lessons from a Portland teacher, paid for out of Mr. Lord's house allowance; for one of his chief faults was an incredible parsimony, amounting almost to miserliness.

"Something terrible will happen to Olive if she isn't taught to use her talent," Mrs. Lord pleaded to her husband. "She is wild to know how to do things. She makes effort after effort, trembling with eagerness, and when she fails to reproduce what she sees, she works herself into a frenzy of grief and disappointment."

"You'd better give her lessons in self-control," Mr. Lord answered. "They are cheaper than instruction in drawing, and much more practical."

So Olive lived and struggled and grew; and luckily her talent was such a passion that no circumstances could crush or extinguish it. She worked, discovering laws and making rules for herself, since she had no helpers. When she could not make a rabbit or a bird look "real" on paper, she searched in her father's books for pictures of its bones. "If I could only know what it is like inside, Cyril," she said, "perhaps its outside wouldn't look so flat! O! Cyril, there must be some better way of doing; I just draw the outline of an animal and then I put hairs or feathers on it. They have no bodies. They couldn't run nor move; they're just pasteboard."

"Why don't you do flowers and houses, Olive?" inquired Cyril solicitously. "And people paint fruit, and dead fish on platters, and pitchers of lemonade with ice in, -- why don't you try things like those?"

"I suppose they're easier," Olive returned with a sigh, "but who could bear to do them when there are living, breathing, moving things; things that puzzle you by looking different every minute? No, I'll keep on trying, and when you get a little older we'll run away together and live and learn things by ourselves, in some place where father can never find us!"

"He wouldn't search, so don't worry," replied Cyril quietly, and the two looked at each other and knew that it was so.

There, in the cedar hollow, then, lived Olive Lord, an angry, resentful, little creature weighed down by a fierce sense of injury. Her gloomy young heart was visited by frequent storms and she looked as unlovable as she was unloved. But Nancy Carey, never shy, and as eager to give herself as people always are who are born and bred in joy and love, Nancy hopped out of Mother Carey's warm nest one day, and fixing her bright eyes and sunny, hopeful glance on the lonely, frowning little neighbor, stretched out her hand in friendship. Olive's mournful black eyes met Nancy's sparkling brown ones. Her hand, so marvellously full of skill, had never held another's, and she was desperately self-conscious; but magnetism flowed from Nancy as electric currents from a battery. She drew Olive to her by some unknown force and held her fast, not realizing at the moment that she was getting as much as she gave.

The first interview, purely a casual one, took place on the edge of the lily pond where Olive was sketching frogs, and where Nancy went for cat-o'-nine-tails. It proved to be a long and intimate talk, and when Mrs. Carey looked out of her bedroom window just before supper she saw, at the pasture bars, the two girls with their arms round each other and their cheeks close together. Nancy's curly chestnut crop shone in the sun, and Olive's thick black plaits looked blacker by contrast. Suddenly she flung her arms round Nancy's neck, and with a sob darted under the bars and across the fields without a backward glance.

A few moments later Nancy entered her mother's room, her arms filled with treasures from the woods and fields. "Oh, Motherdy!" she cried, laying down her flowers and taking off her hat. "I've found such a friend; a real understanding friend; and it's the girl from the House of Lords. She's wonderful! More wonderful than anybody we've ever seen anywhere, and she draws better than the teacher in Charlestown! She's older than I am, but so tiny and sad and shy that she seems like a child. Oh, mother, there's always so much spare room in your heart, -- for you took in Julia and yet we never felt the difference, -- won't you make a place for Olive? There never was anybody needed you so much as she does, -- never."

Have you ever lifted a stone and seen the pale, yellow, stunted shoots of grass under it? And have you gone next day and next, and watched the little blades shoot upward, spread themselves with delight, grow green and wax strong; and finally, warm with the sun, cool with the dew, vigorous with the flow of sap in their veins, seen them wave their green tips in the breeze? That was what happened to Olive Lord when she and Cyril were drawn into a different family circle, and ran in and out of the Yellow House with the busy, eager group of Mother Carey's chickens.



XIX

Old And New


The Yellow House had not always belonged to the Hamiltons, but had been built by a governor of the state when he retired from public office. He lived only a few years, and it then passed into the hands of Lemuel Hamilton's grandfather, who had done little or nothing in the way of remodelling the buildings.

Governor Weatherby had harbored no extraordinary ambition regarding architectural excellence, for he was not a rich man; he had simply built a large, comfortable Colonial house. He desired no gardens, no luxurious stables, no fountains nor grottoes, no bathroom (for it was only the year 1810), while the old oaken bucket left nothing to be desired as a means of dispensing water to the household. He had one weakness, however, and that was a wish to make the front of the house as impressive as possible. The window over the front door was as beautiful a window as any in the county, and the doorway itself was celebrated throughout the state. It had a wonderful fan light and side lights, green blind doors outside of the white painted one with its massive brass knocker, and still more unique and impressive, it had for its approach, semi-circular stone steps instead of the usual oblong ones. The large blocks of granite had been cut so that each of the four steps should be smaller than the one below it; and when, after months of gossip and suspense, they were finally laid in place, their straight edges towards the house and their expensive curved sides to the road, a procession of curious persons in wagons, carryalls, buggies, and gigs wound their way past the premises. The governor's "circ'lar steps" brought many pilgrims down the main street of Beulah first and last, and the original Hamiltons had been very proud of them. Pride (of such simple things as stone steps) had died out of the Hamilton stock in the course of years, and the house had been so long vacant that no one but Lemuel, the Consul, remembered any of its charming features; but Ossian Popham, when he pried up and straightened the ancient landmarks, had much to say of the wonderful steps.

"There's so much goin' on now-a-days," he complained, as he puffed and pried and strained, and rested in between, "that young ones won't amount to nothin', fust thing you know. My boy Digby says to me this mornin', when I asked him if he was goin' to the County Fair 'No, Pop, I ain't goin',' he says, 'it's the same old fair every year.' Land sakes! when I was a boy, 'bout once a month, in warm weather, I used to ask father if I could walk to the other end o' the village and look at the governor's circ'lar steps; that used to be the liveliest entertainment parents could think up for their young ones, an' it was a heap livelier than two sermons of a Sunday, each of 'em an hour and fifteen minutes long."

Digby, a lad of eighteen and master of only one trade instead of a dozen, like his father, had been deputed to paper Mother Carey's bedroom while she moved for a few days into the newly fitted guest room, which was almost too beautiful to sleep in, with its white satiny walls, its yellow and green garlands hanging from the ceiling, its yellow floor, and its old white chamber set repainted by the faithful and clever Popham.

The chintz parlor, once Governor Weatherby's study, was finished too, and the whole family looked in at the doors a dozen times a day with admiring exclamations. It had six doors, opening into two entries, one small bedroom, one sitting room, one cellar, and one china closet; a passion for entrances and exits having been the whim of that generation. If the truth were known, Nancy had once lighted her candle and slipped downstairs at midnight to sit on the parlor sofa and feast her eyes on the room's loveliness. Gilbert had painted the white matting the color of a ripe cherry. Mrs. Popham had washed and ironed and fluted the old white ruffled muslin curtains from the Charlestown home, and they adorned the four windows. It was the north room, on the left as you entered the house, and would be closed during the cold winter months, so it was fitted entirely for summer use and comfort. The old-fashioned square piano looked in its element placed across one corner, with the four tall silver candlesticks and snuffer tray on the shining mahogany. All the shabbiest furniture, and the Carey furniture was mostly shabby, was covered with a cheap, gay chintz, and crimson Jacqueminot roses clambered all over the wall paper, so that the room was a cool bower of beauty.

On the other side of the hall were the double parlors of the governor's time, made into a great living room. Here was Gilbert's green painted floor, smooth and glossy, with braided rugs bought from neighbors in East Beulah; here all the old-fashioned Gilbert furniture that the Careys had kept during their many wanderings; here all the quaint chairs that Mr. Bill Harmon could pick up at a small price; here were two noble fireplaces, one with a crane and iron pot filled with flowers, the other filled sometimes with sprays of green asparagus and sometimes with fragrant hemlock boughs. The paper was one in which green rushes and cat-o'-nine-tails grew on a fawn-colored ground, and anything that the Careys did not possess for the family sitting room Ossian Popham went straight home and made in his barn. He could make a barrel-chair or an hour-glass table, a box lounge and the mattress to put on top of it, or a low table for games and puzzles, or a window seat. He could polish the piano and then sit down to it and play "Those Tassels on Her Boots" or "Marching through Georgia" with great skill. He could paint bunches of gold grapes and leaves on the old-fashioned high-backed rocker, and, as soon as it was dry, could sit down in it and entertain the whole family without charging them a penny.

The housewarming could not be until the later autumn, Mrs. Carey had decided, for although most of the living rooms could be finished, Cousin Ann's expensive improvements were not to be set in motion until Bill Harmon heard from Mr. Hamilton that his tenants were not to be disturbed for at least three years.

The house, which was daily growing into a home, was full of the busy hum of labor from top to bottom and from morning till night, and there was hardly a moment when Mother Carey and the girls were not transporting articles of furniture through the rooms, and up and down the staircases, to see how they would look somewhere else. This, indeed, had been the diversion of their simple life for many years, and was just as delightful, in their opinion, as buying new things. Any Carey, from mother down to Peter, would spring from his chair at any moment and assist any other Carey to move a sofa, a bureau, a piano, a kitchen stove, if necessary, with the view of determining if it would add a new zest to life in a different position.

Not a word has been said thus far about the Yellow House barn, the barn that the "fool Hamilton boys" (according to Bill Harmon's theories) had converted from a place of practical usefulness and possible gain, into something that would "make a cat laugh"; but it really needs a chapter to itself. You remember that Dr. Holmes says of certain majestic and dignified trees that they ought to have a Christian name, like other folks? The barn, in the same way, deserves more distinction than a paragraph, but at this moment it was being used as a storeroom and was merely awaiting its splendid destiny, quite unconscious of the future. The Hamilton boys were no doubt as extravagant and thriftless as they were insane, but the Careys sympathized with their extravagance and thriftlessness and insanity so heartily, in this particular, that they could hardly conceal their real feelings from Bill Harmon. Nothing could so have accorded with their secret desires as the "fool changes" made by the "crazy Hamilton boys"; light-hearted, irresponsible, and frivolous changes that could never have been compassed by the Careys' slender income. They had no money to purchase horse or cow or pig, and no man in the family to take care of them if purchased; so the removal of stalls and all the necessary appurtenances for the care of cattle was no source of grief or loss to them. A good floor had been laid over the old one and stained to a dark color; the ceiling, with its heavy hand-hewn beams, was almost as fine as some old oak counterpart in an English hall. Not a new board met the eye; -- old weathered lumber everywhere, even to the quaint settle-shaped benches that lined the room. There was a place like an old-fashioned "tie-up" for musicians to play for a country dance, or for tableaux and charades; in fine, there would be, with the addition of Carey ideas here and there, provision for frolics and diversions of any sort. You no sooner opened the door and peeped in, though few of the Beulah villagers had ever been invited to do so by the gay young Hamiltons, than your tongue spontaneously exclaimed: "What a place for good times!"

"I shall 'come out' here," Nancy announced, as the three girls stood in the centre of the floor, surrounded by bedsteads, tables, bureaus, and stoves. "Julia, you can 'debut' where you like, but I shall 'come out' here next summer!"

"You'll be only seventeen; you can't come out!" objected Julia conventionally.

"Not in a drawing room, perhaps, but perfectly well in a barn. Even you and Kitty, youthful as you will still be, can attend my coming out party, in a barn!"

"It doesn't seem proper to think of giving entertainments when everybody knows our circumstances, -- how poor we are!" Julia said rebukingly.

"We are talking of next summer, my child! Who can say how rich we shall be next summer? A party could be given in this barn with mother to play the piano and Mr. Popham the fiddle. The refreshments would be incredibly weak lemonade, and I think we might 'solicit' the cake, as they do for church sociables!"

Julia's pride was wounded beyond concealment at this humorously intended suggestion of Nancy's.

"Of course if Aunt Margaret approves, I have nothing to say," she remarked, "but I myself would never come to any private party where refreshments were 'solicited.' The very idea is horrible."

"I'm 'coming out' in the barn next summer, Muddy!" Nancy called to her mother, who just then entered the door. "If we are poorer than ever, we can take up a collection to defray the expenses; Julia and Kitty would look so attractive going about with tambourines! I want to do what I can quickly, because I see plainly I shall have to marry young in order to help the family. The heroine always does that in books; she makes a worldly marriage with a rich nobleman, in order that her sister Kitty and her cousin Julia may have a good education."

"I don't know where you get your ideas, Nancy," said her mother, smiling at her nonsense. "You certainly never read half a dozen novels in your life!"

"No, but Joanna used to read them by the hundred and tell me the stories; and I've heard father read aloud to you; and the older girls and the younger teachers used to discuss them at school; -- oh! I know a lot about life, -- as it is in books, -- and I'm just waiting to see if any of it really happens!"

"Digby Popham is the only rich nobleman in sight for you, Nancy!" Kitty said teasingly.

"Or freckled Cyril Lord," interpolated Julia.

"He looks like an unbaked pie!" This from Kitty.

Nancy flushed. "He's shy and unhappy and pale, and no wonder; but he's as nice and interesting as he can be."

"I can't see it," Julia said, "but he never looks at anybody, or talks to anybody but you, so it's well you like him; though you like all boys, for that matter!"

"The boys return the compliment!" asserted Kitty mischievously, "while poor you and I sit in corners!"

"Come, come, dears," and Mrs. Carey joined in the conversation as she picked up a pillow before returning to the house. "It's a little early for you to be talking about rich noblemen, isn't it?"

Nancy followed her out of the door, saying as she thoughtfully chewed a straw, "Muddy, I do believe that when you're getting on to sixteen the rich nobleman or the fairy prince or the wonderful youngest son does cross your mind now and then!"



XX

The Painted Chamber


Matters were in this state of forwardness when Nancy and Kathleen looked out of the window one morning and saw Lallie Joy Popham coming down the street. She "lugged" butter and milk regularly to the Careys (lugging is her own word for the act), and helped them in many ways, for she was fairly good at any kind of housework not demanding brains. Nobody could say why some of Ossian Popham's gifts of mind and conversation had not descended to his children, but though the son was not really stupid at practical work, Lallie Joy was in a perpetual state of coma.

Nancy, as has been intimated before, had a kind of tendency to reform things that appeared to her lacking in any way, and she had early seized upon the stolid Lallie Joy as a worthy object.

"There she comes!" said Nancy. "She carries two quarts of milk in one hand and two pounds of butter in the other, exactly as if she was bending under the weight of a load of hay. I'll run down into the kitchen and capture her for a half hour at five cents. She can peel the potatoes first, and while they're boiling she can slice apples for sauce."

"Have her chop the hash, do!" coaxed Julia for that was her special work. "The knife is dull beyond words."

"Why don't you get Mr. Popham to sharpen it? It's a poor workman that complains of his tools; Columbus discovered America in an open boat," quoted Nancy, with an irritating air of wisdom.

"That may be so," Julia retorted, "but Columbus would never have discovered America with that chopping-knife, I'm sure of that. -- Is Lallie Joy about our age?"

"I don't know. She must have been at least forty when she was born, and that would make her fifty-five now. What do you suppose would wake her up? If I could only get her to stand straight, or hold her head up, or let her hair down, or close her mouth! I believe I'll stay in the kitchen and appeal to her better feelings a little this morning; I can seed the raisins for the bread pudding."

Nancy sat in the Shaker rocker by the sink window with the yellow bowl in her lap. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes were bright, her lips were red, her hair was goldy-brown, her fingers flew, and a high-necked gingham apron was as becoming to her as it is to all nice girls. She was thoroughly awake, was Nancy, and there could not have been a greater contrast than that between her and the comatose Lallie Joy, who sat on a wooden chair with her feet on the side rounds. She had taken off her Turkey red sunbonnet and hung it on the chair-back, where its color violently assaulted her flaming locks. She sat wrong; she held the potato pan wrong, and the potatoes and the knife wrong. There seemed to be no sort of connection between her mind and her body. As she peeled potatoes and Nancy seeded raisins, the conversation was something like this.

"How did you chance to bring the butter to-day instead of to-morrow, Lallie Joy?"

"Had to dress me up to go to the store and get a new hat."

"What colored trimming did you get?"

"Same as old."

"Don't they keep anything but magenta?"

"Yes, blue."

"Why didn't you try blue for a change?"

"Dunno; didn't want any change, I guess."

"Do you like magenta against your hair?"

"Never thought o' my hair; jest thought o' my hat."

"Well, you see, Lallie Joy, you can't change your hair, but you needn't wear magenta hats nor red sunbonnets. Your hair is handsome enough, if you'd only brush it right."

"I guess I know all 'bout my hair and how red 't is. The boys ask me if Pop painted it."

"Why do you strain it back so tight?"

"Keep it out o' my eyes."

"Nonsense; you needn't drag it out by the roots. Why do you tie the braids with strings?"

"'Cause they hold, an' I hain't got no ribbons."

"Why don't you buy some with the money you earn here?"

"Savin' up for the Fourth."

"Well, I have yards of old Christmas ribbons that I'll give you if you'll use them."

"All right."

"What do you scrub your face with, that makes those shiny knobs stick right out on your forehead and cheek bones?"

"Sink soap."

"Well, you shouldn't; haven't you any other?"

"It's upstairs."

"Aren't your legs in good working order?"

Uncomprehending silence on Lallie Joy's part and then Nancy returned to the onslaught.

"Don't you like to look at pretty things?"

"Dunno but I do, an' dunno as I do."

"Don't you love the rooms your father has finished here?"

"Kind of."

"Not any more than that?"

"Pop thinks some of 'em's queer, an' so does Bill Harmon."

Long silence, Nancy being utterly daunted.

"How did you come by your name, Lallie Joy?"

"Lallie's out of a book named Lallie Rook, an' I was born on the Joy steamboat line going to Boston."

"Oh, I thought Joy was Joy!"

"Joy Line's the only joy I ever heard of!"

There is no knowing how long this depressing conversation would have continued if the two girls had not heard loud calls from Gilbert upstairs. Lallie Joy evinced no surprise, and went on peeling potatoes; she might have been a sister of the famous Casabianca, and she certainly could have been trusted not to flee from any burning deck, whatever the provocation.

"Come and see what we've found, Digby and I!" Gilbert cried. "Come, girls; come, mother! We were stripping off the paper because Mr. Popham said there'd been so many layers on the walls it would be a good time to get to the bottom of it and have it all fresh and clean. So just now, as I was working over the mantel piece and Digby on the long wall, look in and see what we uncovered!"

Mrs. Carey had come from the nursery, Kitty and Julia from the garden, and Osh Popham from the shed, and they all gazed with joy and surprise at the quaint landscapes that had been painted in water colors before the day of wall paper had come.

Mr. Popham quickly took one of his tools and began on another side of the room. They worked slowly and carefully, and in an hour or two the pictures stood revealed, a little faded in color but beautifully drawn, with almost nothing of any moment missing from the scenes.

"Je-roosh-y! ain't they handsome!" exclaimed Osh, standing in the middle of the room with the family surrounding him in various attitudes of ecstasy. "But they're too faced out to leave's they be, ain't they, Mis' Carey? You'll have to cover 'em up with new paper, won't you, or shall you let me put a coat of varnish on 'em?"

Mrs. Carey shuddered internally. "No, Mr. Popham, we mustn't have any 'shine' on the landscapes. Yes, they are dreadfully dim and faded, but I simply cannot have them covered up!"

"It would be wicked to hide them!" said Nancy. "Oh, Muddy, is it our duty to write to Mr. Hamilton and tell him about them? He would certainly take the house away from us if he could see how beautiful we have made it, and now here is another lovely thing to tempt him. Could anybody give up this painted chamber if it belonged to him?"

"Well, you see," said Mr. Popham assuringly, "if you want to use this painted chamber much, you've got to live in Beulah; an' Lem Hamilton ain't goin' to stop consullin' at the age o' fifty, to come here an' rust out with the rest of us; -- no, siree! Nor Mis' Lem Hamilton wouldn't stop over night in this village if you give her the town drinkin' trough for a premium!"

"Is she fashionable?" asked Julia.

"You bet she is! She's tall an' slim an' so chuck full of airs she'd blow away if you give her a puff o' the bellers! The only time she come here she stayed just twenty-four hours, but she nearly died, we was all so 'vulgar.' She wore a white dress ruffled up to the waist, and a white Alpine hat, an' she looked exactly like the picture of Pike's Peak in my stereopticon. Mis' Popham overheard her say Beulah was full o' savages if not cannibals. 'Well,' I says to Maria, 'no matter where she goes, nobody'll ever want to eat her alive!' -- Look at that meetin' house over the mantel shelf, an' that grassy Common an' elm trees! 'T wa'n't no house painter done these walls!"

"And look at this space between the two front windows," cried Kathleen. "See the hens and chickens and the Plymouth Rock rooster!"

"And the white calf lying down under the maple; he's about the prettiest thing in the room," said Gilbert.

"We must just let it be and think it out," said Mother Carey. "Don't put any new paper on, now; there's plenty to do downstairs."

"I don't know 's I should particularly like to lay abed in this room," said Osh, his eyes roving about the chamber judicially. "I shouldn't hev no comfort ondressin' here, nohow; not with this mess o' live stock lookin' at me every minute, whatever I happened to be takin' off. I s'pose that rooster'd be right on to his job at sun-up! Well, he couldn't git ahead of Mis' Popham, that's one thing; so 't I shouldn't be any worse off 'n I be now! I don't get any too much good sleep as 't is! Mis' Popham makes me go to bed long afore I'm ready, so 't she can git the house shut up in good season; then 'bout 's soon's I've settled down an' bed one short nap she says, 'It's time you was up, Ossian!"'

"Mother! I have an idea!" cried Nancy suddenly, as Mr. Popham took his leave and the family went out into the hall. "Do you know who could make the walls look as they used to? My dear Olive Lord!"

"She's only sixteen!" objected Mrs. Carey.

"But she's a natural born genius! You wait and see the things she does!"

"Perhaps I could take her into town and get some suggestions or some instruction, with the proper materials," said Mrs. Carey, "and I suppose she could experiment on some small space behind the door, first?"

"Nothing that Olive does would ever be put behind anybody's door," Nancy answered decisively. "I'm not old enough to know anything about painting, of course (except that good landscapes ought not to be reversible like our Van Twiller), but there's something about Olive's pictures that makes you want to touch them and love them!"

So began the happiest, most wonderful, most fruitful autumn of Olive Lord's life, when she spent morning after morning in the painted chamber, refreshing its faded tints. Whoever had done the original work had done it lovingly and well, and Olive learned many a lesson while she was following the lines of the quaint houses, like those on old china, renewing the green of the feathery elms, or retracing and coloring the curious sampler trees that stood straight and stiff like sentinels in the corners of the room.



XXI

A Family Rhomboid


The Honorable Lemuel Hamilton sat in the private office of the American Consulate in Breslau, Germany, one warm day in July. The post had been brought in half an hour before, and he had two open letters on the desk in front of him. It was only ten o'clock of a bright morning, but he looked tired and worn. He was about fifty, with slightly grey hair and smoothly shaven face. He must have been merry at one time in his life, for there were many nice little laughing-wrinkles around his eyes, but somehow these seemed to have faded out, as if they had not been used for years, and the corners of his mouth turned down to increase the look of weariness and discontent.

A smile had crept over his face at his old friend Bill Harmon's spelling and penmanship, for a missive of that kind seldom came to the American Consulate. When the second letter postmarked Beulah first struck his eye, he could not imagine why he should have another correspondent in the quaintly named little village. He had read Nancy's letter twice now, and still he sat smoking and dreaming with an occasional glance at the girlish handwriting, or a twinkle of the eye at the re-reading of some particular passage. His own girls were not ready writers, and their mother generally sent their messages for them. Nancy and Kitty did not yet write nearly as well as they talked, but they contrived to express something of their own individuality in their communications, which were free and fluent, though childlike and crude.

"What a nice girl this Nancy Carey must be!" thought the American Consul. "This is such a jolly, confidential, gossipy, winsome little letter! Her first 'business letter' she calls it! Alas! when she learns how, a few years later, there will be no charming little confidences; no details of family income and expenditures; no tell-tale glimpses of 'mother' and 'Julia.' I believe I should know the whole family even without this photograph! -- The lady sitting in the chair, to whom the photographer's snapshot has not done justice, is worthy of Nancy's praise, -- and Bill Harmon's. What a pretty, piquant, curly head Nancy has! What a gay, vivacious, alert, spirited expression. The boy is handsome and gentlemanly, but he'll have to wake up, or Nancy will be the man of the family. The girl sitting down is less attractive. She's Uncle Allan's daughter, and" (consulting the letter) "Uncle Allan has nervous prostration and all of mother's money." Here Mr. Hamilton gave vent to audible laughter for the third time in a quarter of an hour. "Nancy doesn't realize with what perfection her somewhat imperfect English states the case," he thought. "I know Uncle Allan like a book, from his resemblance to certain other unfortunate gentlemen who have nervous prostration in combination with other people's money. Let's see! I know Nancy; friendly little Nancy, about fifteen or sixteen, I should judge; I know Uncle Allan's 'Julia,' who hems in photographs, but not otherwise; I know Gilbert, who is depressed at having to make his own way; the small boy, who 'is the nicest of us all'; Kitty, who beat all the others in getting to mother's shoulder; and the mother herself, who is beautiful, and doesn't say 'Bosh' to her children's ideas, and refuses to touch the insurance money, and wants Gilbert to show what 'father's son' can do without anybody's help, and who revels in the color and joy of a yellow wall paper at twenty cents a roll! Bless their simple hearts! They mustn't pay any rent while they are bringing water into the kitchen and making expensive improvements! And what Hamilton could be persuaded to live in the yellow house? To think of any one's wanting to settle down in that little deserted spot, Beulah, where the only sound that ever strikes one's ear is Osh Popham's laugh or the tinkle of a cow bell! Oh! if my own girls would write me letters like this, letting me see how their minds are growing, how they are taking hold of life, above all what is in their hearts! Well, little Miss Nancy Carey! honest, outspoken, confidential, clever little Nancy, who calls me her 'dearest Mr. Hamilton' and thanks me for letting her live in my yellow house, you shall never be disturbed, and if you and Gilbert ever earn enough money to buy it, it shall go to you cheap! There's not one of my brood that would live in it -- except Tom, perhaps -- for after spending three hundred dollars, they even got tired of dancing in the barn on Saturday nights; so if it can fall into the hands of some one who will bring a blessing on it, good old Granny Hamilton will rest peacefully in her grave!"

We have discoursed in another place of family circles, but it cannot be truthfully said that at any moment the Lemuel Hamiltons had ever assumed that symmetrical and harmonious shape. Still, during the first eight or ten years of their married life, when the children were young, they had at least appeared to the casual eye as, say, a rectangular parallelogram. A little later the cares and jolts of life wrenched the right angles a trifle "out of plumb," and a rhomboid was the result. Mrs. Hamilton had money of her own, but wished Lemuel to amass enough fame and position to match it. She liked a diplomatic life if her husband could be an ambassador, but she thought him strangely slow in achieving this dignity. No pleasure or pride in her husband's ability to serve his country, even in a modest position, ever crossed her mind. She had no desire to spend her valuable time in various poky Continental towns, and she had many excuses for not doing so; the proper education of her children being the chief among them. Luckily for her, good and desirable schools were generally at an easy distance from the jewellers' shops and the dressmakers' and milliners' establishments her soul loved, so while Mr. Hamilton did his daily task in Antwerp, Mrs. Hamilton resided mostly in Brussels or Paris; when he was in Zittau, in Saxony, she was in Dresden. If he were appointed to some business city she remained with him several months each year, and spent the others in a more artistic and fashionable locality. The situation was growing difficult because the children were gradually getting beyond school age, although there still remained to her the sacred duty of settling them properly in life. Agnes, her mother's favorite, was still at school, and was devoted to foreign languages, foreign manners, and foreign modes of life. Edith had grown restless and developed an uncomfortable fondness for her native land, so that she spent most of her time with her mother's relatives in New York, or in visiting school friends here or there. The boys had gone far away; Jack, the elder, to Texas, where he had lost what money his father and mother had put into his first business venture; Thomas, the younger, to China, where he was woefully lonely, but doing well in business. A really good diplomatic appointment in a large and important city would have enabled Mr. Hamilton to collect some of his scattered sons and daughters and provide them with the background for which his wife had yearned without ceasing (and very audibly) for years. But Mr. Hamilton did not get the coveted appointment, and Mrs. Hamilton did not specially care for Mr. Hamilton when he failed in securing the things she wanted. This was the time when the laughing-wrinkles began to fade away from Mr. Hamilton's eyes, just for lack of daily use; and it was then that the corners of his mouth began to turn down; and his shoulders to stoop, and his eye to grow less keen and brave, and his step less vigorous. It may be a commonplace remark, but it is not at these precise moments in life that tired, depressed men in modest positions are wafted by Uncle Sam to great and desirable heights; but to Mrs. Hamilton it appeared that her husband was simply indolent, unambitious, and unlucky; not at all that he needed to be believed in, or loved, or comforted, or helped, or braced! It might have startled her, and hurt her wifely pride, if she had seen her lonely husband drinking in little Nancy Carey's letter as if it were dew to a thirsty spirit; to see him set the photograph of the Carey group on his desk and look at it from time to time affectionately, as if he had found some new friends. It was the contentment, the hope, the unity, the pluck, the mutual love, the confidence, the ambition, of the group that touched his imagination and made his heart run out to them. "Airs from the Eden of youth awoke and stirred in his soul" as he took his pen to answer Nancy's first business communication.

Having completed his letter he lighted another cigar, and leaning back in his revolving chair clasped his hands behind his head and fell into a reverie. The various diplomatic posts that might be opened to him crossed his mind in procession. If A or B or C were possible, his wife would be content, and their combined incomes might be sufficient to bring the children together, if not quite under one roof, then to points not so far separated from each other but that a speaking acquaintance might be developed. Tom was the farthest away, and he was the dearest; the only Hamilton of the lot; the only one who loved his father.

Mr. Hamilton leaned forward abstractedly, and fumbling through one drawer of his desk after another succeeded in bringing out a photograph of Tom, taken at seventeen or eighteen. Then by a little extra search he found his wife in her presentation dress at a foreign court. There was no comfort or companionship in that, it was too furbelowed to be anybody's wife, -- but underneath it in the same frame was one taken just after their marriage. That was too full of memories to hold much joy, but it stirred his heart, and made it beat a little; enough at any rate to show it was not dead. In the letter case in his vest pocket was an almost forgotten picture of the girls when they were children. This with the others he stood in a row in front of him, reminding himself that he did not know the subjects much more intimately than the photographers who had made their likenesses. He glanced from one family to the other and back again, several times. The Careys were handsomer, there was no doubt of that; but there was a deeper difference that eluded him. The Hamiltons were far more stylishly dressed, but they all looked a little conscious and a little discontented. That was it; the Careys were happier! There were six of them, living in the forgotten Hamilton house in a half-deserted village, on five or six hundred dollars a year, and doing their own housework, and they were happier than his own brood, spending forty or fifty times that sum. Well, they were grown up, his sons and daughters, and the only change in their lives now would come from wise or unwise marriages. No poverty-stricken sons-in-law would ever come into the family, with Mrs. Hamilton standing at the bars, he was sure of that! As for the boys, they might choose their mates in Texas or China; they might even have chosen them now, for aught he knew, though Jack was only twenty-six and Tom twenty-two. He must write to them oftener, all of them, no matter how busy and anxious he might be; especially to Tom, who was so far away.

He drew a sheet of paper towards him, and having filled it, another, and yet another. Having folded and slipped it into an envelope and addressed it to Thomas Hamilton, Esq., Hong Kong, China, he was about to seal it when he stopped a moment. "I'll enclose the little Carey girl's letter," he thought. "Tom's the only one who cares a penny for the old house, and I've told him I have rented it. He's a generous boy, and he won't grudge a few dollars lost to a good cause. Besides, these Careys will increase the value of the property every year they live in it, and without them the buildings would gradually have fallen into ruins." He added a postscript to his letter, saying: "I've sent you little Miss Nancy's letter, the photograph of her tying up the rambler rose, and the family group; so that you can see exactly what influenced me to write her (and Bill Harmon) that they should be undisturbed in their tenancy, and that their repairs and improvements should be taken in lieu of rent." This done and the letters stamped, he put the photographs of his wife and children here and there on his desk and left the office.

Oh! it is quite certain that Mother Carey's own chickens go out over the seas and show good birds the way home; and it is quite true, as she said, "One real home always makes another, I am sure of that!" It can even send a vision of a home across fields and forests and lakes and oceans from Beulah village to Breslau, Germany, and on to Hong Kong, China.



XXII

Cradle Gifts


Mrs. Henry Lord sent out a good many invitations to the fairies for Cyril's birthday party, but Mr. Lord was at his critical point in the first volume of his text book, and forgot that he had a son. Where both parents are not interested in these little affairs, something is sure to be forgotten. Cyril's mother was weak and ill at the time, and the upshot of it was that the anger of The Fairy Who Wasn't Invited was visited on the baby Cyril in his cradle. In the revengeful spirit of that fairy who is omitted from these functions, she sent a threat instead of a blessing, and decreed that Cyril should walk in fear all the days of his life. Of course, being a fairy, she knew very well that, if Cyril, or anybody very much interested in Cyril, went to declare that there was no power whatever behind her curse, she would not be able to gratify her spite; but she knew also, being a fairy, that if Cyril got into the habit of believing himself a coward, he would end by being one, so she stood a good chance of winning, after all.

Cyril, when he came into the world, had come with only half a welcome. No mother and father ever met over his cradle and looked at him together, wondering if it were "well with the child." When he was old enough to have his red-gold hair curled, and a sash tied around his baby waist, he was sometimes taken downstairs, but he always fled to his mother's or his nurse's knee when his father approached. How many times he and his little sister Olive had hidden under the stairs when father had called mother down to the study to scold her about the grocer's bill! And there was a nightmare of a memory concerning a certain birthday of father's, when mother had determined to be gay. It was just before supper. Cyril, clad in his first brief trousers, was to knock at the study door with a little purple nosegay in his hand, to show his father that the lilac had bloomed. Olive, in crimson cashmere, was to stand near, and when the door opened, present him with her own picture of the cat and her new kittens; while mother, looking so pretty, with her own gift all ready in her hand, was palpitating on the staircase to see how the plans would work. Nothing could have been worse, however, in the way of a small domestic tragedy, than the event itself when it finally came off.

Cyril knocked. "What do you want?" came from within, in tones that breathed vexation at being interrupted.

"Knock again!" whispered Mrs. Lord. "Father doesn't remember that it's his birthday, and he doesn't know that it's you knocking."

Cyril knocked again timidly, but at the first sound of his father's irritable voice as he rose hurriedly from his desk, the boy turned and fled through the kitchen to the shed.

Olive held the fort, picture in hand.

"It's your birthday, father," she said. "There's a cake for supper, and here's my present." There was no love in the child's voice. Her heart, filled with passionate sympathy for Cyril, had lost all zest for its task, and she handed her gift to her father with tightly closed lips and heaving breast.

"All right; I'm much obliged, but I wish you would not knock at this door when I am writing, -- I've told you that before. Tell your mother I can't come to supper to-night, but to send me a tray, please!"

As he closed the door Olive saw him lay the picture on a table, never looking at it as he crossed the room to one of the great book-cases that lined the walls.

Mrs. Lord had by this time disappeared forlornly from the upper hall. Olive, aged ten, talked up the stairs in a state of mind ferocious in its anger. Entering her mother's room she tore the crimson ribbon from her hair and began to unbutton her dress. "I hate him! I hate him!" she cried, stamping her foot. "I will never knock at his door again! I'd like to take Cyril and run away! I'll get the birthday cake and fling it into the pond; nothing shall stop me!". Then, seeing her mother's white face, she wailed, as she flung herself on the bed: "Oh, mother, mother, -- why did you ever let him come to live with us? Did we have to have him for a father? Couldn't you help it, mother?"

Mrs. Lord grew paler, put her hand to her heart, wavered, caught herself, wavered again, and fell into the great chair by the window. Her eyes closed, and Olive, frightened by the apparent effect of her words, ran down the back stairs and summoned the cook. When she returned, panting and breathless, her mother was sitting quite quietly by the window, looking out at the cedars.

"It was only a sudden pain, dear! I am all well again. Nothing is really the matter, Bridget. Mr. Lord will not be down to supper; spread a tray for him, please."

"I'd like to spread a tray for him at the bottom of the Red Sea; that's where he belongs!" muttered Bridget, as she descended to the kitchen to comfort Cyril.

"Was it my fault, mother?" asked Olive, bending over her anxiously.

Her mother drew the child's head down and leaned her own against it feebly. "No, dear," she sighed. "It's nobody's fault, unless it's mine!"

"Is the pain gone?"

"Quite gone, dear."

Nevertheless the pain was to prove the final wrench to a heart that had been on the verge of breaking for many a year, and it was not long before Olive and Cyril were motherless.

Mr. Lord did not have the slightest objection to the growing intimacy between his children and the new family in the Yellow House, so long as he was not disturbed by it, and so long as it cost him nothing. They had strict orders not to play with certain of their village acquaintances, Mr. Lord believing himself to be an aristocrat; the fact being that he was almost destitute of human sympathy, and to make a neighbor of him you would have had to begin with his grandfather and work for three generations. He had seen Nancy and Gilbert at the gates of his place, and he had passed Mrs. Carey in one of his infrequent walks to the post-office. She was not a person to pass without mental comment, and Mr. Lord instantly felt himself in the presence of an equal, an unusual fact in his experience; he would not have known a superior if he had met one ever so often!

"A very fine, unusual woman," he thought. "She accounts for that handsome, manly boy. I wish he could knock some spirit into Cyril!"

The process of "knocking spirit" into a boy would seem to be inconsistent with educational logic, but by very different methods, Gilbert had certainly given Cyril a trifling belief in himself, and Mother Carey was gradually winning him to some sort of self-expression by the warmth of her frequent welcomes and the delightful faculty she possessed of making him feel at ease.

"Come, come!" said the petrels to the molly-mocks in "Water Babies." "This young gentleman is going to Shiny Wall. He is a plucky one to have gone so far. Give the little chap a cast over the ice-pack for Mother Carey's sake."

Gilbert was delighted, in a new place, to find a boy friend of his own age, and Cyril's speedy attachment gratified his pride. Gilbert was doing well these summer months. The unceasing activity, the authority given him by his mother and sisters, his growing proficiency in all kinds of skilled labor, as he "puttered" about with Osh Popham or Bill Harmon in house and barn and garden, all this pleased his enterprising nature. Only one anxiety troubled his mother; his unresigned and mutinous attitude about exchanging popular and fashionable Eastover for Beulah Academy, which seat of learning he regarded with unutterable scorn. He knew that there was apparently no money to pay Eastover fees, but he was still child enough to feel that it could be found, somewhere, if properly searched for. He even considered the education of Captain Carey's eldest son an emergency vital enough to make it proper to dip into the precious five thousand dollars which was yielding them a part of their slender annual income. Once, when Gilbert was a little boy, he had put his shoulder out of joint, and to save time his mother took him at once to the doctor's. He was suffering, but still strong enough to walk. They had to climb a hilly street, the child moaning with pain, his mother soothing and encouraging him as they went on. Suddenly he whimpered: "Oh! if this had only happened to Ellen or Joanna or Addy or Nancy, I could have borne it so much better!"

There was a good deal of that small boy left in Gilbert still, and he endured best the economies that fell on the feminine members of the family. It was the very end of August, and although school opened the first Monday in September, Mrs. Carey was not certain whether Gilbert would walk into the old-fashioned, white painted academy with the despised Beulah "hayseeds," or whether he would make a scene, and authority would have to be used.

"I declare, Gilly!" exclaimed Mother Carey one night, after an argument on the subject; "one would imagine the only course in life open to a boy was to prepare at Eastover and go to college afterwards! Yet you may take a list of the most famous men in America, and I dare say you will find half of them came from schools like Beulah Academy or infinitely poorer ones. I don't mean the millionaires alone. I mean the merchants and engineers and surgeons and poets and authors and statesmen. Go ahead and try to stamp your school in some way, Gilly! -- don't sit down feebly and wait for it to stamp you!"

This was all very well as an exhibition of spirit on Mother Carey's part, but it had been a very hard week. Gilbert was sulky; Peter had had a touch of tonsillitis; Nancy was faltering at the dishwashing and wishing she were a boy; Julia was a perfect barnacle; Kathleen had an aching tooth, and there being no dentist in the village, Was applying Popham remedies, -- clove-chewing, roasted raisins, and disfiguring bread poultices; Bill Harmon had received no reply from Mr. Hamilton, and when Mother Carey went to her room that evening she felt conscious of a lassitude, and a sense of anxiety, deeper than for months. As Gilbert went by to his own room, he glanced in at her door, finding it slightly ajar. She sat before her dressing table, her long hair flowing over her shoulders, her head bent over her two hands. His father's picture was in its accustomed place, and he heard her say as she looked at it: "Oh, my dear, my dear! I am so careworn, so troubled, so discouraged! Gilbert needs you, and so do I, more than tongue can tell!" The voice was so low that it was almost a whisper, but it reached Gilbert's ears, and there was a sob strangled in it that touched his heart.

The boy tiptoed softly into his room and sat down on his bed in the moonlight.

"Dear old Mater!" he thought. "It's no go! I've got to give up Eastover and college and all and settle down into a country bumpkin! No fellow could see his mother look like that, and speak like that, and go his own gait; he's just got to go hers!"

Meantime Mrs. Carey had put out the lamp and lay quietly thinking. The last words that floated through her mind as she sank to sleep were those of a half-forgotten verse, learned, she could not say how many years before: -- 

You can glad your child or grieve it! You can trust it or deceive it; When all's done Beneath God's sun You can only love and leave it.



XXIII

Nearing Shiny Wall


Another person presumably on the way to Shiny Wall and Peacepool, but putting small energy into the journey, was that mass of positively glaring virtues, Julia Carey. More than one fairy must have been forgotten when Julia's christening party came off. No heart-to-heart talk in the twilight had thus far produced any obvious effect. She had never, even when very young, experienced a desire to sit at the feet of superior wisdom, always greatly preferring a chair of her own. She seldom did wrong, in her own opinion, because the moment she entertained an idea it at once became right, her vanity serving as a pair of blinders to keep her from seeing the truth. The doctors did not permit any one to write to poor Allan Carey, so that Julia's heart could not be softened by continual communication with her invalid father, who, with Gladys Ferguson, constituted the only tribunal she was willing to recognize. Her consciousness of superiority to the conditions that surrounded her, her love of luxury, the silken selfishness with which she squirmed out of unpleasant duties, these made her an unlikable and undesirable housemate, and that these faults could exist with what Nancy called her "everlasting stained-glass attitude" made it difficult for Mother Carey to maintain a harmonious family circle. It was an outburst of Nancy's impetuous temper that Mrs. Carey had always secretly dreaded, but after all it was poor Kathleen who precipitated an unforgettable scene which left an influence behind it for many months.

The morning after Mother Carey's interview with Gilbert she looked up as her door was pushed open, and beheld Julia, white and rigid with temper, standing on the threshold.

"What is the matter, child?" exclaimed her aunt, laying down her work in alarm.

Close behind Julia came Kathleen, her face swollen with tears, her expression full of unutterable woe.

Julia's lips opened almost automatically as she said slowly and with bitter emphasis, "Aunt Margaret, is it true, as Kathleen says, that my father has all your money and some of Uncle Peter's?"

Something snapped in Mother Carey! One glance at Kathleen showed only too well that she had committed the almost unpardonable sin of telling Julia what had been carefully and tenderly kept from her. Before she could answer Kathleen had swept past Julia and flung herself on the floor near her mother.

"Oh, mother, I can't say anything that will ever make you understand. Julia knows, she knows in her heart, what she said that provoked me! She does nothing but grumble about the work, and how few dresses we have, and what a drudge she is, and what common neighbors we have, and how Miss Tewksbury would pity her if she knew all, and how Uncle Allan would suffer if he could see his daughter living such a life! And this morning my head ached and my tooth ached and I was cross, and all at once something leaped out of my mouth!"

"Tell her what you said," urged Julia inexorably.

Sobs choked Kathleen's voice. "I said -- I said -- oh! how can I tell it! I said, if her father hadn't lost so much of my father's and my mother's money we shouldn't have been so poor, any of us."

"Kathleen, how could you!" cried her mother.

If Julia wished to precipitate a tempest she had succeeded, and her face showed a certain sedate triumph.

"Oh! mother! don't give me up; don't give me up!" wailed Kathleen. "It wasn't me that said it, it was somebody else that I didn't know lived inside of me. I don't expect you to forgive it or forget it, Julia, but if you'll only try, just a little bit, I'll show you how sorry I feel. I'd cut myself and make it bleed, I'd go to prison, if I could get back to where I was before I said it! Oh! what shall I do, mother, if you look at me like that again or say 'How could you!'"

There was no doubting Kathleen's remorse; even Julia saw that.

"Did she tell the truth, Aunt Margaret?" she repeated.

"Come here, Julia, and sit by me. It is true that your Uncle Peter and I have both put money into your father's business, and it is true that he has not been able to give it back to us, and perhaps may never do so. There is just enough left to pay your poor father's living expenses, but we trust his honor; we are as sorry for him as we can be, and we love him dearly. Kathleen meant nothing but that your father has been unfortunate and we all have to abide by the consequences; but I am amazed that my daughter should have so forgotten herself as to speak of it to you!" (Renewed sobs from the prostrate Kathleen).

"Especially," said Julia, "when, as Gladys Ferguson says, I haven't anybody in the world but you, to turn to in my trouble. I am a fatherless girl" (her voice quivered here), "and I am a guest in your house."

Mrs. Carey's blood rose a little as she looked at poor Kitty's shaken body and streaming eyes, and Julia's unforgiving face. "You are wrong there, Julia. I fail to see why you should not take your full share of our misfortunes, and suffer as much as we, from our too small income. It is not our fault, it is not yours. You are not a privileged guest, you are one of the family. If you are fatherless just now, my children are fatherless forever; yet you have not made one single burden lighter by joining our forces. You have been an outsider, instead of putting yourself loyally into the breach, and working with us heart to heart. I welcomed you with open arms and you have made my life harder, much harder, than it was before your coming. To protect you I have had to discipline my own children continually, and all the time you were putting their tempers to quite unnecessary tests! I am not extenuating Kathleen, but I merely say you have no right to behave as you do. You are thirteen years old, quite old enough to make up your mind whether you wish to be loved by anybody or not; at present you are not!"

Never had the ears of the Paragon heard such disagreeably plain speech. She was not inclined to tears, but moisture began to appear in her eyes and she looked as though a shower were imminent. Aunt Margaret was magnificent in her wrath, and though Julia feared, she admired her. Not to be loved, if that really were to be her lot, rather terrified Julia. She secretly envied Nancy's unconscious gift of drawing people to her instantly; men, women, children, -- dogs and horses, for that matter. She never noticed that Nancy's heart ran out to meet everybody, and that she was overflowing with vitality and joy and sympathy; on the contrary, she considered the tribute of affection paid to Nancy as a part of Nancy's luck. Virtuous, conscientious, intelligent, and well-dressed as she felt herself to be, she emphatically did not wish to be disliked, and it was a complete surprise to her that she had not been a successful Carey chicken.

"Gladys Ferguson always loved me," she expostulated after a brief silence, and there was a quiver in her voice.

"Then either Gladys has a remarkable gift of loving, or else you are a different Julia in her company," remarked Mother Carey, quietly, raising Julia's astonishment and perturbation to an immeasurable height.

"Now, Kathleen," continued Mother Carey, "Mrs. Godfrey has often asked you to spend a week with Elsie, and you can go to Charlestown on the afternoon train. Go away from Julia and forget everything but that you have done wrong and you must find a way to repair it. I hope Julia will learn while you are away to make it easier for you to be courteous and amiable. There is a good deal in the Bible, Julia, about the sin of causing your brother to offend. Between that sin and Kathleen's offence, there is little, in my mind, to choose!"

"Yes, there is!" cried Kathleen. "I am much, much worse than Julia. Father couldn't bear to know that I had hurt Julia's feelings and hurt yours too. I was false to father, and you, and Uncle Allan, and Julia. Nothing can be said for me, nothing! I am so ashamed of myself that I shall never get over it in the world. Oh, Julia, could you shake hands with me, just to show me you know how I despise myself?"

Julia shook hands considerably less like a slug or a limpet than usual, and something very queer and unexpected happened when her hand met poor Kitty's wet, feverish little paw and she heard the quiver in her voice. She suddenly stooped and kissed her cousin, quite without intention. Kathleen returned the salute with grateful, pathetic warmth, and then the two fell on Mother Carey's neck to be kissed and cried over for a full minute.

"I'll go to the doctor and have my ugly tooth pulled out," exclaimed Kathleen, wiping her eyes. "If it hadn't been for that I never could have been so horrible!"

"That would be all very well for once," answered her mother with a tired smile, "but if you pluck out a supposed offending member every time you do something wrong, I fear you will not have many left when you are an old lady!"

"Mother!" said Kathleen, almost under her breath and not daring to look up, "couldn't I stay at home from Charlestown and show you and Julia, here, how sorry I am?"

"Yes, let her, Aunt Margaret, and then I can have a chance to try too," pleaded Julia.

Had the heavens fallen? Had the Paragon, the Pink of Propriety and Perfection, confessed a fault? Had the heart of the smug one, the prig, melted, and did she feel at last her kinship to the Carey chickens? Had she suffered a real grievance, the first amongst numberless deeds of tenderness, and having resented it like an "old beast," forgiven it like a "new" one? It certainly seemed as if Mother Carey that week were at her old trade of making things make themselves. Gilbert, Kathleen, and Julia had all fought their way under the ice-pack and were getting a glimpse of Shiny Wall.



XXIV

A Letter Prom Germany


Mother Carey walked down the village street one morning late in August, while Peter, milk pail in hand, was running by her side and making frequent excursions off the main line of travel. Beulah looked enchanting after a night of rain, and the fields were greener than they had been since haying time. Unless Mr. Hamilton were away from his consular post on a vacation somewhere on the Continent, he should have received, and answered, Bill Harmon's letter before this, she was thinking, as she looked at the quiet beauty of the scene that had so endeared itself to her in a few short months.

Mrs. Popham had finished her morning's work and was already sitting at her drawing-in frame in the open doorway, making a very purple rose with a very scarlet centre.

"Will you come inside, Mis' Carey?" she asked hospitably, "or do you want Lallie Joy to set you a chair on the grass, same as you had last time?"

"I always prefer the grass, Mrs. Popham," smiled Mrs. Carey. "As it's the day for the fishman to come I thought we'd like an extra quart of milk for chowder."

"I only hope he'll make out to come," was Mrs. Popham's curt response. "If I set out to be a fishman, I vow I'd be one! Mr. Tubbs stays to home whenever he's hayin', or his wife's sick, or it's stormy, or the children want to go to the circus!"

Mrs. Carey laughed. "That's true; but as your husband reminded me last week, when Mr. Tubbs disappointed us, his fish is always fresh-caught, and good."

"Oh! of course Mr. Popham would speak up for him!" returned his wife. "I don't see myself as it makes much diff'rence whether his fish is good or bad, if he stays to home with it! Mebbe I look on the dark side a little mite; I can't hardly help it, livin' with Mr. Popham, and he so hopeful."

"He keeps us all very merry at the Yellow House," Mrs. Carey ventured.

"Yes, he would," remarked Mrs. Popham drily, "but you don't git it stiddy; hopefulness at meals, hopefulness evenin's, an' hopefulness nights! -- one everlastin' stiddy stream of hopefulness! He was jest so as a boy; always lookin' on the bright side whether there was any or not. His mother 'n' father got turrible sick of it; so much sunshine in the house made a continual drouth, so old Mis' Popham used to say. For her part, she said, she liked to think that, once in a while, there was a cloud that was a first-class cloud; a thick, black cloud, clean through to the back! She was tired to death lookin' for Ossian's silver linin's! Lallie Joy's real moody like me; I s'pose it's only natural, livin' with a father who never sees anything but good, no matter which way he looks. There's two things I trust I shan't hear any more when I git to heaven, -- that's 'Cheer up Maria!' an' 'It's all for the best!' As for Mr. Popham, he says any place'll be heaven to him so long as I ain't there, callin' 'Hurry up Ossian!' so we have it, back an' forth!"

"It's a wonderful faculty, seeing the good in everything," sighed Mrs. Carey.

"Wonderful tiresome," returned Mrs. Popham, "though I will own up it's Ossian's only fault, and he can't see his own misfortunes any clearer than he can see those of other folks. His new colt run away with him last week and stove the mowin' machine all to pieces. 'Never mind, Maria!' he says, 'it'll make fust-rate gear for a windmill!' He's out in the barn now, fussin' over it; you can hear him singin'. They was all here practicin' for the Methodist concert last, night, an' I didn't sleep a wink, the tunes kep' a-runnin' in my head so! They always git Ossian to sing 'Fly like a youthful hart or roe, over the hills where spices grow,' an' I tell him he's too old; youthful harts an' roes don't fly over the hills wearin' spectacles, I tell him, but he'll go right on singin' it till they have to carry him up on the platform in a wheeled chair!"

"You go to the Congregational church, don't you, Mrs. Popham?" asked Mrs. Carey. "I've seen Lallie and Digby at Sunday-school."

"Yes, Mr. Popham is a Methodist and I'm a Congregationalist, but I say let the children go where they like, so I always take them with me."

Mrs. Carey was just struggling to conceal her amusement at this religious flexibility on Mrs. Popham's part, when she espied Nancy flying down the street, bareheaded, waving a bit of paper in the air.

"Are you 'most ready to come home, Muddy?" she called, without coming any nearer.

"Yes, quite ready, now Lallie has brought the milk. Good morning, Mrs. Popham; the children want me for some new enterprise."

"You give yourself most too much to 'em," expostulated Mrs. Popham; "you don't take no vacations."

"Ah, well, you see 'myself' is all I have to give them," answered Mrs. Carey, taking Peter and going to meet Nancy.

"Mother," said that young person breathlessly, "I must tell you what I didn't tell at the time, for fear of troubling you. I wrote to Mr. Hamilton by the same post that Mr. Harmon did. Bill is so busy and such a poor writer I thought he wouldn't put the matter nicely at all, and I didn't want you, with all your worries, brought into it, so I wrote to the Consul myself, and kept a copy to show you exactly what I said. I have been waiting at the gate for the letters every day for a week, but this morning Gilbert happened to be there and shouted, 'A letter from Germany for you, Nancy!' So all of them are wild with curiosity; Olive and Cyril too, but I wanted you to open and read it first because it may be full of awful blows."

Mrs. Carey sat down on the side of a green bank between the Pophams' corner and the Yellow House and opened the letter, -- with some misgivings, it must be confessed. Nancy sat close beside her and held one edge of the wide sheets, closely filled.

"Why, he has written you a volume, Nancy!" exclaimed Mrs. Carey. "It must be the complete story of his life! How long was yours to him?" "I don't remember; pretty long; because there seemed to be so much to tell, to show him how we loved the house, and why we couldn't spend Cousin Ann's money and move out in a year or two, and a lot about ourselves, to let him see we were nice and agreeable and respectable."

"I'm not sure all that was strictly necessary," commented Mrs. Carey with some trepidation.

This was Lemuel Hamilton's letter, dated from the office of the American Consul in Breslau, Germany.

MY DEAR MISS NANCY, -- As your letter to me was a purely "business" communication I suppose I ought to begin my reply: "Dear Madam, Your esteemed favor was received on the sixth inst. and contents noted," but I shall do nothing of the sort. I think you must have guessed that I have two girls of my own, for you wrote to me just as if we were sitting together side by side, like two friends, not a bit as landlord and tenant.

Mother Carey's eyes twinkled. She well knew Nancy's informal epistolary style, and her facile, instantaneous friendliness!

Every word in your letter interested me, pleased me, touched me. I feel that I know you all, from the dear mother who sits in the centre -- 

"What does he mean by that?"

"I sent him a snap shot of the family."

"Nancy! What for?"

"So that he could see what we were like; so that he'd know we were fit to be lifelong tenants!"

Mrs. Carey turned resignedly to the letter again.

From the dear mother who sits in the centre, to the lovable little Peter who looks as if he were all that you describe him! I was about his age when I went to the Yellow House to spend a few years. Old Granny Hamilton had lived there all her life, and when my mother, who was a widow, was seized with a serious illness she took me home with her for a long visit. She was never well enough to go away, so my early childhood was passed in Beulah, and I only left the village when I was ten years old, and an orphan.

"Oh, dear!" interpolated Nancy. "It seems, lately, as if nobody had both father and mother!"

Granny Hamilton died soon after my mother, and I hardly know who lived in the house for the next thirty years. It was my brother's property, and a succession of families occupied it until it fell to me in my turn. I have no happy memories connected with it, so you can go ahead and make them for yourselves. My only remembrance is of the west bedroom, where my mother lived and died.

"The west bedroom; that isn't the painted one; no, of course it is the one where I sleep," said Mrs. Carey. "The painted one must always have been the guest chamber."

She could only move from bed to chair, and her greatest pleasure was to sit by the sunset window and look at the daisies and buttercups waving in that beautiful sloping stretch of field with the pine woods beyond. After the grass was mown, and that field was always left till the last for her sake, she used to sit there and wait for Queen Anne's lace to come up; its tall stems and delicate white wheels nodding among the grasses.

"Oh! I do like him!" exclaimed Nancy impetuously. "Can't you see him, mother? It's so nice of him to remember that they always mowed the hayfield last for his mother's sake, and so nice of him to think of Queen Anne's lace all these years!"

Now as to business, your Cousin Ann is quite right when she tells you that you ought not to put expensive improvements on another person's property lest you be disturbed in your tenancy. That sort of cousin is always right, whatever she says. Mine was not named Ann; she was Emma, but the principle is the same.

"Nancy!" asked Mrs. Carey, looking away from the letter again, "did you say anything about your Cousin Ann?"

"Yes, some little thing or other; for it was her money that we couldn't spend until we knew we could stay in the house. I didn't describe her, of course, to Mr. Hamilton; I just told him she was very businesslike, and yes, I remember now, I told him you said she was a very fine person; that's about all. But you see how clever he is! he just has 'instinks,' as Mr. Popham says, and you don't have to tell him much about anything."

If you are intending to bring the water from the well into the house and put a large stove in the cellar to warm some of the upper rooms; if you are papering and painting inside, and keeping the place in good condition, you are preserving my property and even adding to its value; so under the circumstances I could not think of accepting any rent in money.

"No rent! Not even the sixty dollars!" exclaimed Nancy.

"Look; that is precisely what he says."

"There never was such a dear since the world began!" cried Nancy joyously. "Oh! do read on; there's a lot more, and the last may contradict the first."

Shall I tell you what more the Careys may do for me, they who have done so much already?

"So much!" quoted Nancy with dramatic emphasis. "Oh, he is a dear!"

My son Tom, when he went down to Beulah before starting for China, visited the house and at my request put away my mother's picture safely. He is a clever boy, and instead of placing the thing in an attic where it might be injured, he tucked it away, -- where do you think, -- in the old brick oven of the room that is now, I suppose, your dining room. It is a capital hiding-place, for there had been no fire there for fifty years, nor ever will be again. I have other portraits of her with me, on this side of the water. Please remove the one I speak of from its wrappings and hang it over the mantel shelf in the west bedroom.

"My bedroom! I shall love to have it there," said Mother Carey.

Then, once a year, on my mother's birthday, -- it is the fourth of July and an easy date to remember, -- will my little friend Miss Nancy, or any of the other Careys, if she is absent, pick a little nosegay of daisies and buttercups (perhaps there will even be a bit of early Queen Anne's lace) and put it in a vase under my mother's picture? That shall be the annual rent paid for the Yellow House to Lemuel Hamilton by the Careys!

Tears of joy sprang to the eyes of emotional Nancy. She rose to her feet and paced the greensward excitedly.

"Oh, mother, I didn't think there could be another such man after knowing father and the Admiral. Isn't it all as wonderful as a fairy story?"

"There's a little more; listen, dear."

As to the term of your occupancy, the Careys may have the Yellow House until the day of my death, unless by some extraordinary chance my son Tom should ever want it as a summer home.

"Oh, dear! there comes the dreadful 'unless'! 'My son Tom' is our only enemy, then!" said Nancy darkly.

"He is in China, at all events," her mother remarked cheerfully.

Tom is the only one who ever had a bit of sentiment about Beulah, and he was always unwilling that the old place should be occupied by strangers. The curious thing about the matter is that you and yours do not seem to be strangers to me and mine. Do you know, dear little Miss Nancy, what brought the tears to my eyes in your letter? The incident of your father's asking what you could do to thank the Yellow House for the happy hour it had given you on that summer day long ago, and the planting of the crimson rambler by the side of the portico. I have sent your picture tying up the rose, -- and it was so charming I was loath to let it go, -- with your letter, and the snap shot of the family group, all out to my son Tom in China. He will know then why I have let the house, to whom, and all the attendant circumstances. Trust him never to disturb you when he sees how you love the old place. The planting of that crimson rambler will fix Tom, for he's a romantic boy.

"The planting of the rose was a heavenly inspiration if it does 'fix Tom!' We'll call Tom the Chinese Enemy. No, we'll call him the Yellow Peril," laughed Nancy in triumph.

I am delighted with the sample of paper you have chosen for the front hall.

"I don't see why you didn't go over to Germany yourself, Nancy, and take a trunk of samples!" cried Mrs. Carey, wiping the tears of merriment from her eyes. "I can't think what the postage on your letter must have been."

"Ten cents," Nancy confessed, "but wasn't it worth it, Muddy? -- Come, read the last few lines, and then we'll run all the way home to tell the others."

Send me anything more, at any time, to give me an idea of the delightful things you are doing. I shall be proud if you honor me with an occasional letter. Pray give my regards to your mother, whom I envy, and all the "stormy petrels," whom I envy too.

Believe me, dear Miss Nancy,

Yours sincerely,

Lemuel Hamilton.


"I can't remember why I told him about Mother Carey's chickens," said Nancy reflectively. "It just seemed to come in naturally. The Yellow Peril must be rather nice, as well as his father, even if he is our enemy. That was clever of him, putting his grandmother in the brick oven!" And here Nancy laughed, and laughed again, thinking how her last remark would sound if overheard by a person unacquainted with the circumstances.

"A delightful, warm, kind, friendly letter," said Mother Carey, folding it with a caressing hand. "I wish your father could have read it."

"He doesn't say a word about his children," and Nancy took the sheets and scanned them again.

"You evidently gave him the history of your whole family, but he confines himself to his own life."

"He mentions 'my son Tom' frequently enough, but there's not a word of Mrs. Hamilton."

"No, but there's no reason there should be, especially!"

"If he loved her he couldn't keep her out," said Nancy shrewdly. "She just isn't in the story at all. Could any of us write a chronicle of any house we ever lived in, and leave you out?"

Mrs. Carey took Nancy's outstretched hands and was pulled up from the greensward. "You have a few 'instinks' yourself, little daughter," she said with a swift pat on the rosy cheek. "Now, Peter, put your marbles in the pocket of your blue jeans, and take the milk pail from under the bushes; we must hurry or there'll be no chowder."

As they neared Garden Fore-and-Aft the group of children rushed out to meet them, Kitty in advance.

"The fish man didn't come," she said, "and it's long past his time, so there's no hope; but Julia and I have the dinner all planned. There wasn't enough of it to go round anyway, so we've asked Olive and Cyril to stay, and we've set the table under the great maple, -- do you care?"

"Not a bit; we'll have a real jollification, because Nancy has some good news to tell you!"

"The dinner isn't quite appropriate for a jollification," Kitty observed anxiously. "Is the news good enough to warrant opening a jar or a can of anything?"

"Open all that doth hap to be closed," cried Nancy, embracing Olive excitedly. "Light the bonfires on the encroaching hills. Set casks a-tilt, and so forth."

"It's the German letter!" said Gilbert at a venture.

"What is the dinner, Kitty?" Mother Carey asked.

"New potatoes and string beans from the aft garden. Stale bread made into milk toast to be served as a course. Then, not that it has anything to do with the case, but just to give a style to the meal, Julia has made a salad out of the newspaper."

Nancy created a diversion by swooning on the grass; a feat which had given her great fame in charades.

"It was only the memory of Julia's last newspaper salad!" she murmured when the usual restoratives had been applied. "Prithee, poppet, what hast dropped into the dish to-day?"

Julia was laughing too much to be wholly intelligible, but read from a scrap in her apron pocket: "'Any fruit in season, cold beans or peas, minced cucumber, English walnuts, a few cubes of cold meat left from dinner, hard boiled eggs in slices, flecks of ripe tomatoes and radishes to perfect the color scheme, a dash of onion juice, dash of paprika, dash of rich cream.' I have left out the okra, the shallot, the estragon, the tarragon, the endive, the hearts of artichoke, the Hungarian peppers and the haricot beans because we hadn't any; -- do you think it will make any difference, Aunt Margaret?"

"It will," said Nancy oracularly, "but all to the good."

"Rather a dull salad I call it," commented Gilbert. "Lacks the snap of the last one. No mention of boned sprats, or snails in aspic, calves' foot jelly, iced humming birds, pickled edelweiss, or any of those things kept habitually in the cellars of families like ours. No dash of Jamaica ginger or Pain-killer or sloe gin or sarsaparilla to give it piquancy. Unless Julia can find a paper that gives more up-to-date advice to its country subscribers, we'll have to transfer her from the kitchen department to the woodshed."

Julia's whole attitude, during this discussion of her recent culinary experiments, was indicative of the change that was slowly taking place in her point of view. The Careys had a large sense of humor, from mother down as far as Peter, who was still in the tadpole stage of it. They chaffed one another on all occasions, for the most part courteously and with entire good nature. Leigh Hunt speaks of the anxiety of certain persons to keep their minds quiet lest any motion be clumsy, and Julia's concern had been of this variety; but four or five months spent in a household where mental operations, if not deep, were incredibly quick, had made her a little more elastic. Mother Carey had always said that if Julia had any sense of humor she would discover for herself what a solemn prig she was, and mend her ways, and it seemed as if this might be true in course of time.

"What'll we do with all the milk?" now demanded Peter, who had carried it all the way from the Pophams', and to whom it appeared therefore of exaggerated importance.

"Angel boy!" cried Nancy, embracing him. "The only practical member of the family! What wouldst thou suggest?"

"Drink it," was the terse reply.

"And so't shall be, my liege! Fetch the beaker, lackey," identifying Cyril with a royal gesture. "Also crystal water from the well, which by the command of our Cousin Ann will speedily flow in a pipe within the castle walls. There are healths to be drunk this day when we assemble under the Hamilton maple, and first and most loyally the health of our American Consul at Breslau, Germany!"



XXV

"Following The Gleam"


If the summer months had brought many changes to the dwellers in the Yellow House and the House of Lords, the autumn was responsible for many more. Cousin Ann's improvements were set in motion and were promised to be in full force before cold weather set in, and the fall term at Beulah Academy had opened with six new, unexpected, and interesting students. Happily for the Careys and happily for Beulah, the old principal, a faithful but uninspired teacher, had been called to Massachusetts to fill a higher position; and only a few days before the beginning of the term, a young college man, Ralph Thurston, fresh from Bowdoin and needing experience, applied for and received the appointment. The thrill of rapture that ran like an electric current through the persons of the feminine students when they beheld Ralph Thurston for the first time, -- dignified, scholarly, unmistakably the gentleman, -- beheld him mount the platform in the assembly room, and knew him for their own, this can better be imagined than described! He was handsome, he was young, he had enough hair (which their principals seldom had possessed), he did not wear spectacles, he had a pleasing voice, and a manner of speaking that sent tremors of delight up and down a thirteen-year-old spine. He had a merry wit and a hearty laugh, but one had only to look at him closely to feel that he had borne burdens and that his attainments had been bought with a price. He was going to be difficult to please, and the girls of all ages drew deep breaths of anticipation and knew that they should study as never before. The vice-principal, a lady of fine attainments, was temporarily in eclipse, and such an astounding love for the classics swept through young Beulah that nobody could understand it. Ralph Thurston taught Latin and Greek himself, but parents did not at first observe the mysterious connection between cause and effect. It was all very young and artless and innocent; helpful and stimulating too, for Thurston was no budding ladies' man, but a thoroughly good fellow, manly enough to attract the boys and hold their interest.

The entrance of the four Careys and two Lords into the list of students had an inspiring effect upon the whole school. So far as scholarship was concerned they were often outstripped by their country neighbors, but the Careys had seen so much of the world that they had a great deal of general culture, and the academy atmosphere was affected by it. Olive, Nancy, and Gilbert went into the highest class; Kathleen, Julia, and Cyril into the one below.

The intimacy of Nancy and Olive was a romantic and ardent one. Olive had never had a real companion in her life; Nancy's friends dotted the universe wherever she had chanced to live. Olive was uncommunicative, shy, and stiff with all but a chosen few; Nancy was at ease in all assemblies. It was Nancy's sympathy and enthusiasm and warmth that attracted Olive Lord, and it was the combination of Olive's genius and her need of love, that held Nancy.

Never were two human creatures more unlike in their ways of thought. Olive had lived in Beulah seven years, and knew scarcely any one because of her father's eccentricities and his indifference to the world; but had you immured Nancy in a convent she would have made a large circle of acquaintances from the window of her cell, before a month passed over her head. She had an ardent interest in her fellow creatures, and whenever they strayed from the strict path of rectitude, she was consumed with a desire to set them straight. If Olive had seen a drunken man lying in a ditch, she would scarcely have looked at him, much less inquired his name. Nancy would have sat by until he recovered himself, if possible, or found somebody to take him to his destination. As for the delightful opportunity of persuading him of his folly, she would have jumped at the chance when she was fifteen or sixteen, but as she grew older she observed a little more reticence in these delicate matters, at least when she was endeavoring to reform her elders. She had succeeded in making young Nat Harmon stop cigarette smoking, but he was privately less convinced of the error of his ways than he was bewitched by Nancy. She promised readily to wear a blue ribbon and sit on the platform in the Baptist Chapel at the Annual Meeting of the Junior Temperance League. On the eve of the affair she even would gladly have made a speech when the president begged her to do so, but the horror-stricken Olive succeeded in stopping her, and her mother firmly stood by Olive.

"Oh! all right; I don't care a bit about it, Muddy," she answered nonchalantly. "Only there is something splendid about rising from a band of blue-ribboned girls and boys and addressing the multitude for a great cause." "What do you know about this great cause, Nancy dear, at your age?"

"Oh, not much! but you don't have to know much if you say it loud and clear to the back settees. I've watched how it goes! It was thrilling when we gave 'Esther the Beautiful Queen' in the Town Hall; when we waved our hands and sang 'Haman! Haman! Long live Haman!' I almost fainted with joy."

"It was very good; I liked it too; but perhaps if you 'faint with joy' whenever your feet touch a platform, it will be more prudent for you to keep away!" and Mother Carey laughed.

"Very well, madam, your will is my law! When you see the youth of Beulah treading the broad road that leadeth to destruction, and looking on the wine when it is red in the cup, remember that you withheld my hand and voice!"

Gilbert and Cyril were much together, particularly after Cyril's standing had been increased in Beulah by the news that Mr. Thurston thought him a remarkable mathematician and perhaps the leading student in his class. Cyril himself, too pale for a country boy of fourteen, narrow-shouldered, silent, and timid, took this unexpected fame with absolute terror, but Olive's pride delighted in it and she positively bloomed, in the knowledge that her brother was appreciated. She herself secretly thought books were rather a mistake when paints and brushes were at hand, and it was no wonder that she did not take high rank, seeing that she painted an hour before school, and all day Saturday, alternating her work on the guest chamber of the Yellow House with her portrait of Nancy for Mother Carey's Christmas present.

Kathleen and Julia had fallen into step and were good companions. Kathleen had never forgotten her own breach of good manners and family loyalty; Julia always remembered the passion of remorse that Kathleen felt, a remorse that had colored her conduct to Julia ever since. Julia was a good plodder, and Mr. Thurston complimented her on the excellence of her Latin recitations, when he had his wits about him and could remember that she existed. He never had any difficulty in remembering Nancy. She was not, it must be confessed, especially admirable as a verbatim et literatim "reciter." Sometimes she forgot entirely what the book had said on a certain topic, but she usually had some original observation of her own to offer by way of compromise. At first Mr. Thurston thought that she was trying to conceal her lack of real knowledge, and dazzle her instructor at the same time, so that he should never discover her ignorance. Later on he found where her weakness and her strength lay. She adapted, invented, modified things naturally, -- embroidered all over her task, so to speak, and delivered it in somewhat different shape from the other girls. (When she was twelve she pricked her finger in sewing and made a blood-stain on the little white mull apron that she was making. The stuff was so delicate that she did not dare to attempt any cleansing process, and she was in a great hurry too, so she embroidered a green four leaf clover over the bloodstain, and all the family exclaimed, "How like Nancy!") Grammar teased Nancy, algebra and geometry routed her, horse, foot, and dragoons. No room for embroidery there! Languages delighted her, map-drawing bored her, and composition intoxicated her, although she was better at improvising than at the real task of setting down her thoughts in black and white. The class chronicles and prophecies and songs and poems would flow to her inevitably, but Kathleen would be the one who would give new grace and charm to them if she were to read them to an audience.

How Beulah Academy beamed, and applauded, and wagged its head in pride on a certain day before Thanksgiving, when there were exercises in the assembly room. Olive had drawn The Landing of the Pilgrims on the largest of the blackboards, and Nancy had written a merry little story that caused great laughter and applause in the youthful audience. Gilbert had taken part in a debate and covered himself with glory, and Kathleen closed the impromptu programme by reciting Tennyson's -- 

O young Mariner, You from the haven Under the sea-cliff, You that are watching The gray Magician With eyes of wonder,... follow the Gleam.

Great the Master, And sweet the Magic, When over the valley, In early summers, Over the mountain, On human faces, And all around me, Moving to melody Floated the Gleam.

O young Mariner, Down to the haven, Call your companion, Launch your vessel And crowd your canvas, And, ere it vanishes Over the margin, After it, follow it, Follow the Gleam.

Kathleen's last year's brown velveteen disclosed bronze slippers and stockings, -- a novelty in Beulah, -- her hair fell in such curls as Beulah had rarely beheld, and her voice was as sweet as a thrush's note; so perhaps it is not strange that the poem set a kind of fashion at the academy, and "following the gleam" became a sort of text by which to study and grow and live.

Thanksgiving Day approached, and everybody was praying for a flurry of snow, just enough to give a zest to turkey and cranberry sauce. On the twentieth it suddenly occurred to Mother Carey that this typical New England feast day would be just the proper time for the housewarming, so the Lord children, the Pophams, and the Harmons were all bidden to come at seven o'clock in the evening. Great preparations ensued. Rows of Jack o' Lanterns decorated the piazza, and the Careys had fewer pumpkin pies in November than their neighbors, in consequence of their extravagant inroads upon the golden treasures of the aft garden. Inside were a few late asters and branches of evergreen, and the illumination suggested that somebody had been lending additional lamps and candles for the occasion. The original equipment of clothes possessed by the Careys on their arrival in Beulah still held good, and looked well by lamplight, so that the toilettes were fully worthy of so important a function.

Olive's picture of Nancy was finished, and she announced the absolute impossibility of keeping it until Christmas, so it reached the Yellow House on Thanksgiving morning. When it was unwrapped by Nancy and displayed for the first time to the family, Mother Carey's lips parted, her eyes opened in wonder, but no words came for an instant, in the bewilderment of her mind. Olive had written the title "Young April" under the picture. Nancy stood on a bit of dandelion-dotted turf, a budding tree in the background, her arm flung over the neck of a Jersey calf. The calf had sat for his portrait long before, but Nancy had been added since May. Olive, by a clever inspiration, had turned Nancy's face away and painted her with the April breeze blowing her hair across her cheek. She was not good at painting features, her art was too crude, but somehow the real thing was there; and the likeness to Nancy, in figure, pose, and hair, was so unmistakable that her mother caught her breath. As for the calf, he, at least, was distinctly in Olive's line, and he was painted with a touch of genius.

"It is better of the calf than it is of you, Nancy," said Gilbert critically.

"Isn't Mr. Bossy lovely?" his sister responded amiably. "Wouldn't he put any professional beauty out of countenance? I am proud to be painted beside him! Do you like it, Muddy dear?"

"Like it?" she exclaimed, "it is wonderful! It must be sent to Boston for criticism, and we must invent some way of persuading Mr. Lord to give Olive the best instruction to be had. This picture is even better than anything she has done in the painted chamber. I shouldn't wonder a bit, Nancy, if little Beulah were to be very proud of Olive in the years to come!"

Nancy was transported at her mother's praise. "I felt it, I knew it! I always said Olive was a genius," she cried, clapping her hands. "Olive is 'following the gleam'! Can't you feel the wind blowing my hair and dress? Don't you see that the calf is chewing his cud and is going to move in just a minute? Olive's animals are always just going to move! -- Oh, Muddy dear! when you see Olive nowadays, smiling and busy and happy, aren't you glad you stretched your wings and took her under them with the rest of us? And don't you think you could make a 'new beast' out of Mr. Henry Lord, or is he too old a beast even for Mother Carey?"



XXVI

A Zoological Father


That was just what Mother Carey was wondering when Nancy spoke, and as the result of several hours' reflection she went out for a walk just before dusk and made her way towards The Cedars with a package under her cloak.

She followed the long lane that led to the house, and knocked at the front door rather timidly. In her own good time Mrs. Bangs answered the knock and admitted Mrs. Carey into the dreariest sitting room she had ever entered.

"I am Mrs. Carey from the Hamilton house," she said to Mrs. Bangs. "Will you ask Mr. Lord if he will see me for a moment?"

Mrs. Bangs was stupefied at the request, for, in her time, scarcely a single caller from the village had crossed the threshold, although there had been occasional visitors from Portland or Boston.

Mrs. Carey waited a few moments, silently regarding the unequalled bareness, ugliness, and cheerlessness of the room. "Olive has a sense of beauty," she thought, "and Olive is sixteen; it is Olive who ought to make this place different from what it is, and she can, unless her father is the stumbling-block in the way."

At this moment the possible stumbling-block, Henry Lord, Ph.D., came in and greeted her civilly. His manner was never genial, for there was neither love in his heart nor warm blood in his veins; but he was courteous, for he was an educated fossil, of good birth and up-bringing. He had been dissecting specimens in his workroom, and he looked capable of dismembering Mother Carey; but bless your heart, she had weapons in her unseen armory that were capable of bringing confusion to his paltry apparatus! -- among others a delicate, slender little sword that pierced deep on occasion.

Henry Lord was of medium height; spare, clean-shaven, thin-lipped, with scanty auburn hair, high forehead, and small keen eyes, especially adapted to the microscope, though ill fitted to use in friendly conversation.

"We are neighbors, Professor Lord, though we have never met," said Mrs. Carey, rising and giving him her hand.

"My children know you better than I," he answered, "and I feel it very kind in you to allow them to call on you so frequently." They had lived at the Yellow House for four months save at meal times, but as their father was unaware of the number and extent of their visits Mrs. Carey thought it useless to speak of them, so she merely said:

"It is a great pleasure to have them with us. My children have left many friends behind them in Massachusetts and elsewhere, and might have been lonely in Beulah; besides, I often think the larger the group (within certain limits), the better chance children have of learning how to live."

"I should certainly not have permitted Olive and Cyril to attend the local academy but for your family," said Professor Lord. "These country schools never have any atmosphere of true scholarliness, and the speech and manners of both teachers and pupils are execrable."

"I dare say that is often the case. If the academies could furnish such teachers as existed fifty years ago; and alas! if we parents could furnish such vigorous, determined, ambitious, self-denying pupils as used to be sent out from country homes, we should have less to complain of. Of course we are peculiarly fortunate here in Beulah."

Mr. Lord looked faintly amused and infinitely superior. "I am afraid, my dear lady," he remarked, "that you have not had long enough experience to comprehend the slenderness of Mr. Philpot's mental equipment."

"Oh, Mr. Philpot resigned nearly three months ago," said Mrs. Carey easily, giving Henry Lord, Ph.D., her first stab, and a look of amusement on her own behalf. "Ralph Thurston, the present principal, is a fine, unusual fellow."

"Really? The children have never mentioned any change, but I regret to say I am absent-minded at meals. The death of my wife left many gaps in the life of the household."

"So that you have to be mother and father in one!" (Stab two: very delicately delivered.)

"I fear I am too much of a student to be called a good family man."

"So I gathered." (Stab three. She wanted to provoke curiosity.)

Mr. Lord looked annoyed. He knew his unpopularity, and did not wish any village gossip to reach the ears of strangers. "You, my dear madam, are capable of appreciating my devotion to my life work, which the neighbors naturally wholly misunderstand," he said.

"I gathered nothing from the neighbors," responded Mrs. Carey, "but a woman has only to know children well to see at a glance what they need. You are so absorbed in authorship just now, that naturally it is a little hard for the young people; but I suppose there are breathing places, 'between books'?"

"There are no breathing places between mine; there will be six volumes, and I am scarcely half through the third, although I have given seven years to the work. Still, I have an excellent housekeeper who attends to all our simple needs. My children are not fitted for society."

"No, not quite." (Stab four). "That is the reason they ought to see a good deal of it, but they are very fine children and very clever."

"I am glad you think so, but they certainly write bad English and have no general knowledge whatsoever."

"Oh, well, that will come, doubtless, when you have more time with them." (Stab five.) "I often think such mysterious things as good speech and culture can never be learned in school. I shouldn't wonder if that were our department, Dr. Lord!" (Stab six.) "However, you will agree, modest parent as you are, that your Olive is a genius?"

"I have never observed it," replied her father. "I cannot, of course, allow her to practice on any musical instrument, because my studies demand quiet, but I don't think she cares for music."

"She draws and paints, however, in the most astonishing way, and she has a passionate energy, and concentration, and devotion to her work that I have never seen coupled with anything but an extraordinary talent. She is destined to go very far, in my opinion."

"Not too far, I hope," remarked Mr. Lord, with an icy smile. "Olive can paint on plush and china as much as she likes, but I am not partial to 'careers' for young women."

"Nor am I; save when the gift is so commanding, so obvious, that it has to be reckoned with; -- but I must not delay my business any longer, nor keep you from your work. We are having a housewarming this evening at seven. Olive and Cyril are there now, helping in the preparations, and I want to know if they may stay to supper, and if you can send for them at half past nine or ten."

"Certainly they may stay, though I should think your supper table could hardly stand the strain."

"Where there are five already, two more make no difference, save in better appetite for all," said Mother Carey, smiling and rising.

"If you will allow me to get my hat and coat I will accompany you to the main road," said Mr. Lord, going to the front hall, and then opening the door for Mrs. Carey. "Let me take your parcel, please."

He did not know in the least why he said it and why he did it. The lady had interfered with his family affairs to a considerable extent, and had made several remarks that would have appeared impertinent, had they not issued from a very winsome, beautiful mouth. Mrs. Ossian Popham or Mrs. Bill Harmon would have been shown the door for saying less, yet here was Henry Lord, Ph.D., ambling down the lane by Mother Carey's side, thinking to himself what a burden she lifted from his shoulders by her unaccountable interest in his unattractive children. He was also thinking how "springy" was the lady's step in her short black dress, how brilliant the chestnut hair looked under the black felt hat, and how white the skin gleamed above the glossy lynx boa. A kind of mucilaginous fluid ran in his veins instead of blood, but Henry Lord, Ph.D., had his assailable side nevertheless, and he felt extraordinarily good natured, almost as if the third volume were finished, with public and publishers clamoring for its appearance.

"I don't know where Olive could have got any such talent as you describe," he said, as they were walking along the lane. "She had some lessons long ago, I remember, and her mother used to talk of her amusing herself with pencil and paint, but I have heard nothing of it for years."

"Ask to see her sketches when you are talking with her about her work some day," suggested Mother Carey. (Stab seven.) "As a matter of fact she probably gets her talent from you."

"From me!" Printed letters fail to register the amazement in Professor Lord's tone.

"Why not, when you consider her specialty?"

"What specialty?"

Really, a slender sword was of no use with this man; a bludgeon was the only instrument, yet it might wound, and she only wanted to prick. Had the creature never seen Olive sketching, nor noted her choice of subjects?

"She paints animals; paints nothing else, if she can help it; though she does fairly well with other things. Is it impossible that your study of zoology -- your thought, your absorption for years and years, in the classification, the structure, the habits of animals -- may have been stamped on your child's mind? She has an ardor equal to your own, only showing itself in a different manner. You may have passed on, in some mysterious way, your knowledge to Olive. She may have unconsciously blended it with some instinct for expression of her own, and it comes out in pictures. Look at this, Professor Lord. Olive gave it to me to-day."

They stood together at the gate leading out into the road, and Mrs. Carey unwrapped the painting and poised it against the top of the gate.

Olive's father looked at it for a moment and then said, "I am no judge of these things, technically or otherwise, but it certainly seems very creditable work for a girl of Olive's age."

"Oh, it is surely more than that! My girl Nancy stands there in the flesh, though her face is hidden. Look at the wind blowing, look at the delightful, the enchanting calf; above all look at the title! Who in the world but a little genius could have composed that sketch, breathing youth in every inch of it, -- and called it 'Young April'! Oh! Professor Lord, I am very bold, because your wife is not living, and it is women who oftenest see these budding tendencies in children; forgive me, but do cherish and develop this talent of Olive's."

The eyes the color of the blue velvet bonnet were turned full upon Henry Lord, Ph.D. They swam in tears and the color came and went in her cheek; she was forty, but it was a lovely cheek still.

"I will think it over," he replied with some embarrassment as he wrapped the picture again and handed it to her. "Meantime I am certainly very much obliged to you. You seem to have an uncommon knowledge of young people. May I ask if you are, or have been, a teacher?" "Oh, no!" Mrs. Carey remarked with a smile, "I am just a mother, -- that's all! Good night."



XXVII

The Carey Housewarming


The housewarming was at its height, and everybody agreed once in every ten minutes that it was probably the most beautiful party that had ever happened in the history of the world.

Water flowed freely through Cousin Ann's expensive pipes, that had been buried so deep in their trenches that the winter frosts could not affect them. Natty Harmon tried the kitchen pump secretly several times during the evening, for the water had to run up hill all the way from the well to the kitchen sink, and he believed this to be a continual miracle that might "give out" at any moment. The stove in the cellar, always alluded to by Gilbert as the "young furnace," had not yet been used, save by way of experiment, but it was believed to be a perfect success. To-night there was no need of extra heat, and there were great ceremonies to be observed in lighting the fires on the hearthstones. They began with the one in the family sitting room; Colonel Wheeler, Ralph Thurston, Mr. and Mrs. Bill Harmon with Natty and Rufus, Mr. and Mrs. Popham with Digby and Lallie Joy, all standing in admiring groups and thrilling with delight at the order of events. Mother Carey sat by the fireplace; little Peter, fairly radiant with excitement, leaning against her knee and waiting for his own great moment, now close at hand.

"When ye come into a house, salute it; and if the house be worthy, let your peace come upon it.

"To all those who may dwell therein from generation to generation may it be a house of God, a gate of heaven.

"For every house is builded by some man, but he that built all things is God, seeing that he giveth to every one of us life and breath and all good things."

Mother Carey spoke these words so simply and naturally, as she looked towards her neighbors one after another, with her hand resting on Peter's curly head, that they hardly knew whether to keep quiet or say Amen.

"Was that the Bible, Osh?" whispered Bill Harmon.

"Don't know; 'most everything she says sounds like the Bible or Shakespeare to me."

In the hush that followed Mother Carey's salutation Gilbert approached with a basket over his arm, and quickly and neatly laid a little fire behind the brass andirons on the hearth. Then Nancy handed Peter a loosely bound sheaf, saying: "To light this fire I give you a torch. In it are herbs of the field for health of the body, a fern leaf for grace, a sprig of elm for peace, one of oak for strength, with evergreen to show that we live forever in the deeds we have done. To these we have added rosemary for remembrance and pansies for thoughts."

Peter crouched on the hearth and lighted the fire in three places, then handed the torch to Kathleen as he crept again into his mother's lap, awed into complete silence by the influence of his own mystic rite. Kathleen waved the torch to and fro as she recited some beautiful lines written for some such purpose as that which called them together to-night.

"Burn, fire, burn! Flicker, flicker, flame! Whose hand above this blaze is lifted Shall be with touch of magic gifted, To warm the hearts of chilly mortals Who stand without these open portals. The touch shall draw them to this fire, Nigher, nigher, By desire. Whoso shall stand on this hearth-stone, Flame-fanned, Shall never, never stand alone. Whose home is dark and drear and old, Whose hearth is cold, This is his own. Flicker, flicker, flicker, flame! Burn, fire, burn!"[1]

[Footnote 1: Florence Converse.]

Next came Olive's turn to help in the ceremonies. Ralph Thurston had found a line of Latin for them in his beloved Horace: Tibi splendet focus (For you the hearth-fire shines). Olive had painted the motto on a long narrow panel of canvas, and, giving it to Mr. Popham, stood by the fireside while he deftly fitted it into the place prepared for it. The family had feared that he would tell a good story when he found himself the centre of attraction, but he was as dumb as Peter, and for the same reason.

"Olive has another lovely gift for the Yellow House," said Mother Carey, rising, "and to carry out the next part of the programme we shall have to go in procession upstairs to my bedroom."

"Guess there wan't many idees to give round to other folks after the Lord made her!" exclaimed Bill Harmon to his wife as they went through the lighted hall.

Gilbert, at the head of the procession, held Mother Hamilton's picture, which had been taken from the old brick oven where "my son Tom" had hidden it. Mother Carey's bedroom, with its bouquets of field flowers on the wall paper, was gaily lighted and ready to receive the gift. Nancy stood on a chair and hung the portrait over the fireplace, saying, "We place this picture here in memory of Agatha, mother of Lemuel Hamilton, owner of the Yellow House. Underneath it we lay a posy of pressed daisies, buttercups, and Queen Anne's lace, the wild flowers she loved best."

Now Olive took away a green garland covering the words "Mater Cara," that she had painted in brown letters just over the bricks of the fireplace. The letters were in old English text, and a riot of buttercups and grasses twined their way amongst them.

"Mater Cara stands for 'mother dear,'" said Nancy, "and thus this room will be full of memories of two dear mothers, an absent and a present one."

Then Kathleen and Gilbert and Julia, Mother Carey and Peter bowed their heads and said in chorus: "O Thou who dwellest in so many homes, possess thyself of this. Thou who settest the solitary in families, bless the life that is sheltered here. Grant that trust and peace and comfort may abide within, and that love and light and usefulness may go out from this house forever. Amen."

There was a moment's silence and then all the party descended the stairs to the dining room.

"Ain't they the greatest?" murmured Lallie Joy, turning to her father, but he had disappeared from the group.

The dining room was a blaze of glory, and great merriment ensued as they took their places at the table. Mother Carey poured coffee, Nancy chocolate, and the others helped serve the sandwiches and cake, doughnuts and tarts.

"Where is Mr. Popham?" asked Nancy at the foot of the table. "We cannot be happy without Mr. Popham."

At that moment the gentleman entered, bearing a huge object concealed by a piece of green felt. Approaching the dining table, he carefully placed the article in the centre and removed the cloth.

It was the Dirty Boy, carefully mended!

The guests naturally had no associations with the Carey Curse, and the Careys themselves were dumb with amazement and despair.

"I've seen this thing layin' in the barn chamber in a thousand pieces all summer!" explained Mr. Popham radiantly. "It wan't none o' my business if the family throwed it away thinkin' it wan't no more good. Thinks I to myself, I never seen anything Osh Popham couldn't mend if he took time enough and glue enough; so I carried this little feller home in a bushel basket one night last month, an' I've spent eleven evenin's puttin' him together! I don't claim he's good 's new, 'cause he ain't; but he's consid'able better'n he was when I found him layin' in the barn chamber!"

"Thank you, Mr. Popham!" said Mrs. Carey, her eyes twinkling as she looked at the laughing children. "It was kind of you to spend so much time in our behalf."

"Well, I says to myself there's nothin' too good for 'em, an' when it comes Thanksgivin' I'll give 'em one thing more to be thankful for!"

"Quit talkin', Pop, will yer?" whispered Digby, nudging his father. "You've kep' us from startin' to eat 'bout five minutes a'ready, an' I'm as holler as a horn!"

It was as cheery, gay, festive, neighborly, and friendly a supper as ever took place in the dining room of the Yellow House, although Governor Weatherby may have had some handsomer banquets in his time. When it was over all made their way into the rosy, bowery, summer parlor. Soon another fire sparkled and snapped on the hearth, and there were songs and poems and choruses and Osh Popham's fiddle, to say nothing of the supreme event of the evening, his rendition of "Fly like a youthful hart or roe, over the hills where spices grow," to Mother Carey's accompaniment. He always slipped up his glasses during this performance and closed his eyes, but neither grey hairs nor "specs" could dim the radiant smile that made him seem about fifteen years old and the junior of both his children.

Mrs. Harmon thought he sang too much, and told her husband privately that if he was a canary bird she should want to keep a table cover over his head most of the time, but he was immensely popular with the rest of his audience.

Last of all the entire company gathered round the old-fashioned piano for a parting hymn. The face of the mahogany shone with delight, and why not, when it was doing everything (almost everything!) within the scope of a piano, and yet the family had enjoyed weeks of good nourishing meals on what had been saved by its exertions. Also, what rational family could mourn the loss of an irregularly shaped instrument standing on three legs and played on one corner? The tall silver candle sticks gleamed in the firelight, the silver dish of polished Baldwins blushed rosier in the glow. Mother Carey played the dear old common metre tune, and the voices rang out in Whittier's hymn. The Careys all sang like thrushes, and even Peter, holding his hymn book upside down, put in little bird notes, always on the key, whenever he caught a familiar strain.

"Once more the liberal year laughs out O'er richer stores than gems or gold; Once more, with harvest-song and shout Is Nature's bloodless triumph told."

"We shut our eyes, the flowers bloom on; We murmur, but the corn-ears fill; We choose the shadow, but the sun That casts it shines behind us still."

"O favors every year made new! O gifts with rain and sunshine sent! The bounty overruns our due, The fulness shames our discontent."



XXVIII

"Tibi Splendet Focus"


There was one watcher of all this, and one listener, outside of the Yellow House, that none of the party suspected, and that was Henry Lord, Ph.D.

When he left Mrs. Carey at the gate at five o'clock, he went back to his own house and ordered his supper to be brought him on a tray in his study. He particularly liked this, always, as it freed him from all responsibility of serving his children, and making an occasional remark; and as a matter of fact everybody was as pleased as he when he ate alone, the occasional meals Olive and Cyril had by themselves being the only ones they ever enjoyed or digested.

He studied and wrote and consulted heavy tomes, and walked up and down the room, and pulled out colored plates from portfolios, all with great satisfaction until he chanced to look at the clock when it struck ten. He had forgotten to send for the children as he had promised Mother Carey! He went out into the hall and called Mrs. Bangs in a stentorian voice. No answer. Irritated, as he always was when crossed in the slightest degree, he went downstairs and found the kitchen empty.

"Her cub of a nephew has been staying to supper with her, guzzling and cramming himself at my expense," he thought, "and now she has walked home with him! It's perfect nonsense to go after a girl of sixteen and a boy of thirteen. As if they couldn't walk along a country road at ten o'clock! Still, it may look odd if some one doesn't go, and I can't lock the house till they come, anyway."

He drew on his great coat, put on his cap, and started down the lane in no good humor. It was a crisp, starlight night and the ground was freezing fast. He walked along, his hands in his pockets, his head bent. As he went through the gate to the main road he glanced up. The Yellow House, a third of a mile distant, was a blaze of light! There must have been a candle or a lamp in every one of its windows, he thought. The ground rose a little where the house stood, and although it could not be seen in summer because of the dense foliage everywhere, the trees were nearly bare now.

"My handsome neighbor is extravagant," he said to himself with a grim smile. "Is the illumination for Thanksgiving, I wonder? Oh, no, I remember she said the party was in the nature of a housewarming."

As he went up the pathway he saw that the shades were up and no curtains drawn anywhere. The Yellow House had no intention of hiding its lights under bushels that evening, of all others; besides, there were no neighbors within a long distance.

Standing on the lowest of the governor's "circ'lar steps" he could see the corner where the group stood singing, with shining faces: -- 

"Once more the liberal year laughs out O'er richer stores than gems or gold."

Mother Carey's fine head rose nobly from her simple black dress, and her throat was as white as the deep lace collar that was her only ornament.

Nancy he knew by sight, and Nancy in a crimson dress was singing her thankful heart out. Who was the dark-haired girl standing by her side, the two with arms round each other's waists, -- his own Olive! He had always thought her unattractive, but her hair was smoothly braided and her eyes all aglow. Cyril stood between Gilbert and Mother Carey. Cyril, he knew, could not carry a tune to save his life, but he seemed to be opening his lips and uttering words all the same. Where was the timid eye, the "hangdog look," the shrinking manner, he so disliked in his son? Great Heavens! the boy laid his hand on Mrs. Carey's shoulder and beat time there gently with a finger, as if a mother's shoulder could be used for any nice, necessary sort of purpose.

If he knocked at the door now, he thought, he should interrupt the party; which was seemingly at its height. He, Henry Lord, Ph.D., certainly had no intention of going in to join it, not with Ossian Popham and Bill Harmon as fellow guests.

He made his way curiously around the outside of the house, looking in at all the windows, and by choosing various positions, seeing as much as he could of the different rooms. Finally he went up on the little back piazza, attracted by the firelight in the family sitting room. There was a noble fire, and once, while he was looking, Digby Popham stole quietly in, braced up the logs with a proprietary air, swept up the hearth, replaced the brass wire screen, and stole out again as quickly as possible, so that he might not miss too much of the party.

"They seem to feel pretty much at home," thought Mr. Lord.

The fire blazed higher and brighter. It lighted up certain words painted in dark green and gold on the white panel under the mantelpiece. He pressed his face quite close to the window, thinking that he must be mistaken in seeing such unconnected letters as T-i-b-i, but gradually they looked clearer to him and he read distinctly "Tibi splendet focus."

"Somebody knows his Horace," thought Henry Lord, Ph.D., as he stumbled off the piazza. "'For you the hearth-fire glows,' I shan't go in; not with that crew; let them wait; and if it gets too late, somebody else will walk home with the children."

"For you the hearth-fire glows."

He picked his way along the side of the house to the front, every window sending out its candle gleam.

"For you the hearth-fire glows."

From dozens of windows the welcome shone. Its gleams and sparkles positively pursued him as he turned his face towards the road and his own dark, cheerless house. Perhaps he had better, on the whole, keep one lamp burning in the lower part after this, to show that the place was inhabited?

"For you the hearth-fire glows."

He had "bricked up" the fireplace in his study and put an air-tight stove in, because it was simply impossible to feed an open fire and write a book at the same time. He didn't know that you could write twice as good a book in half the time with an open fire to help you! He didn't know any single one of the myriad aids that can come to you from such cheery, unexpected sources of grace and inspiration!

"For you the hearth-fire glows."

Would the words never stop ringing in his ears? Perhaps, after all, it would look queer to Mrs. Carey (he cared nothing for Popham or Harmon opinion) if he left the children to get home by themselves. Perhaps -- 

"For You The Hearth-Fire Glows."

Henry Lord, Ph.D., ascended the steps, and plied the knocker. Digby Popham came out of the parlor and opened the front door.

Everybody listened to see who was the late comer at the party.

"Will you kindly tell Miss Olive and Master Cyril Lord that their father has called for them?"

Mr. Lord's cold, severe voice sounded clearly in the parlor, and every word could be distinctly heard.

Gilbert and Nancy were standing together, and Gilbert whispered instantly to his sister: "The old beast has actually called for Olive and Cyril!"

"Hush, Gilly! He must be a 'new beast' or he wouldn't have come at all!" answered Nancy.



XXIX

"Th' Action Fine"


December, January, and February passed with a speed that had something of magic in it. The Careys had known nothing heretofore of the rigors of a State o' Maine winter, but as yet they counted it all joy. They were young and hearty and merry, and the air seemed to give them all new energy. Kathleen's delicate throat gave no trouble for the first time in years; Nancy's cheeks bloomed more like roses than ever; Gilbert, growing broader shouldered and deeper chested daily, simply revelled in skating and coasting; even Julia was forced into an activity wholly alien to her nature, because it was impossible for her to keep warm unless she kept busy.

Mother Carey and Peter used to look from a bedroom window of a clear cold morning and see the gay little procession start for the academy. Over the dazzling snow crust Olive and Cyril Lord would be skimming to meet the Careys, always at the same point at the same hour. There were rough red coats and capes, red mittens, squirrel caps pulled well down over curly and smooth heads; glimpses of red woolen stockings; thick shoes with rubbers over them; great parcels of books in straps. They looked like a flock of cardinal birds, Mother Carey thought, as the upturned faces, all aglow with ruddy color, smiled their morning good-bye. Gilbert had "stoked" the great stove in the cellar full of hard wood logs before he left, and Mrs. Carey and Peter had a busy morning before them with the housework. The family had risen at seven. Julia had swept and dusted; Kathleen had opened the bedroom windows, made the washstands tidy, filled the water pitchers, and changed the towels. Gilbert had carried wood and Peter kindlings, for the fires that had to be laid on the hearths here and there. Mother had cooked the plain breakfast while Nancy put the dining room in order and set the table, and at eight o'clock, when they sat down to plates piled high with slices of brown and white bread, to dishes of eggs or picked-up cod fish, or beans warmed over in the pot, with baked potatoes sometimes, and sometimes milk toast, or Nancy's famous corn muffins, no family of young bears ever displayed such appetites! On Saturday mornings there were griddle cakes and maple syrup from their own trees; for Osh Popham had shown them in the spring how to tap their maples, and collect the great pails of sap to boil down into syrup. Mother Carey and Peter made the beds after the departure of the others for school, and it was pretty to see the sturdy Peter-bird, sometimes in his coat and mittens, standing on the easiest side of the beds and helping his mother to spread the blankets and comforters smooth. His fat legs carried him up and downstairs a dozen times on errands, while his sweet piping voice was lifted in a never ending stream of genial conversation, as he told his mother what he had just done, what he was doing at the present moment, how he was doing it, and what he proposed to do in a minute or two. Then there was a lull from half past ten to half past eleven, shortened sometimes on baking days, when the Peter-bird had his lessons. The old-fashioned kitchen was clean and shining by that time. The stove glistened and the fire snapped and crackled. The sun beamed in at the sink window, doing all he could for the climate in the few hours he was permitted to be on duty in a short New England winter day. Peter sat on a cricket beside his mother's chair and clasped his "Reading without Tears" earnestly and rigidly, believing it to be the key to the universe. Oh! what an hour of happiness to Mother Carey when the boy would lift the very copy of his father's face to her own; when the well-remembered smile and the dear twinkle of the eyes in Peter's face would give her heart a stab of pain that was half joy after all, it was so full to the brim of sweet memories. In that warm still hour, when she was filling the Peter-bird's mind and soul with heavenly learning, how much she learned herself! Love poured from her, through voice and lips and eyes, and in return she drank it in thirstily from the little creature who sat there at her knee, a twig growing just as her bending hand inclined it; all the buds of his nature opening out in the mother-sunshine that surrounded him. Eleven thirty came all too soon. Then before long the kettle would begin to sing, the potatoes to bubble in the saucepan, and Mother Carey's spoon to stir the good things that had long been sizzling quietly in an iron pot. Sometimes it was bits of beef, sometimes mutton, but the result was mostly a toothsome mixture of turnips and carrots and onions in a sea of delicious gravy, with surprises of meat here and there to vary any possible monotony. Once or twice a week dumplings appeared, giving an air of excitement to the meal, and there was a delectable "poor man's stew" learned from Mrs. Popham; the ingredients being strips of parsnip, potatoes cut in quarters, a slice or two of sweet browned pork for a flavor, and a quart of rich milk, mixed with the parsnip juices into an appetizing sauce. The after part of the dinner would be a dish of baked apples with warm gingerbread, or sometimes a deep apple pandowdy, or the baked Indian pudding that was a syrupy, fragrant concoction made of corn meal and butter and molasses baked patiently in the oven for hours.